The log cabin syndrome

We thought we’d start our Labor Day getaway with a trip to Lewistown and a visit to the Bear Gulch pictographic site. Montana COVID numbers were low in August, so it took a while to process the discovery that site would nevertheless be closed; that viewing centuries-old Native American art at an outdoor site, 20 miles from town might still constitute a valid risk. And yet, there it was; irrefutable proof that, even in the heart of Montana’s Judith Basin country, we were dealing with a plague like no other. 

Undeterred, Caroline and I reinvented our junket. Instead of inaugurating it car-camping next to Bear Gulch, we’d opt for a night, living it up in the frontier town of Fort Benton, population 1600. Once described as “the finest accommodations available between Chicago and Seattle,” in addition, the 140-year-old Grand Union Hotel overlooks the historic Missouri River waterfront, celebrated in the 1890s as “the bloodiest city block in the west.” We thought, how lucky can you get? Fine dining and historic bloodlust, all in a single venue!

That night we tucked into cuts of Choteau County angus, followed by a stroll along the river. Eventually, we repaired to our third-floor room to drink Tito’s martinis while we watched an especially  violent episode of “Yellowstone,” Kevin Costner’s unique TV vision of the way things go down out West. 

Next morning, we packed and drove west to tour the matchless Rocky Mountain Front. There, bivouacking in the mountains, we’d trade sleeping bags for the Grand Union’s high thread-count sheets and in this way, celebrate Montana’s free-wheeling life style, COVID-19 or not. 

Both tourist attraction and quarter horse country, Choteau (population 1600) is among the more conservative towns in the state. Still, 2020 campaign signage was less prominent than we’d imagined. As journalists, Caroline and I were curious how pandemic recommendations were received in these parts, also, how conspicuous that might make us with our license plates from Missoula, known in rustic venues as “the Gomorrah of Montana.” 

After a detour to view the Freezeout Lake waterfowl, we proceeded to Choteau for a late breakfast at the Log Cabin, a bustling little cafe doing a land rush business. We seated ourselves, ordered coffee and while we waited for our food, assayed the percentage of diners arriving in face masks. The number seemed to be right at fifty percent. Then the arrival of a stone-faced biker couple brought a chill to this amiable place: Clad in black leather vests, they were as hard-looking a pair as I’ve seen. The guy – a solid six feet four – fairly bristled with weapons; a pig-sticker Bowie knife, two Glock pistols holstered behind his back and a derringer strapped to his ankle. It’s fair to say that wherever he went, he would not be out-gunned. And there was one other thing for sure — nobody was going to make this guy wear a mask. 

Mid-afternoon, we left the Log Cabin to find an overnight bivouac on the approach to Teton peak. The campgrounds overflowed with fellow holiday junketeers, but we eventually found a good spot on the banks of Teton Creek. Since the road was bustling with campers, we made camp early, had an extended happy hour, ate sandwiches for dinner and settled in to read our books. I’d managed to forget how tricky it is, crawling in and out of your tent if you’ve had too much to drink but we suffered it gladly. Next morning, we woke to the slam bang of horse trailers, racketing over the trestle crossing Teton Creek upstream.

It was pleasant, waking up in the mountains, but the ground had got much harder since I last spent a night outside. It’s no picnic for a septuagenarian, wrestling himself up out of the dirt but I managed to straighten up enough to pack our gear. We drove down the mountain and made an ignominious bee-line for the first motel we could find. Checking in at 1 p.m., we were the only registered guests and had the pool and hot tub to ourselves. 

Meanwhile, the two-night news fast we’d enjoyed left us starving for CNN. Alas, the update proved so bleak, it numbed us into a troubled nap. We awoke ravenous, then soon found the pandemic we’d been blithely playing tag with finally caught up.

With a capacity of around fifty, we hit the Log Cabin at prime time and the dining room was nearly full. We were seated at a small table, close to the door, a more conspicuous spot than most. We removed our masks when we sat down, but a couple gents across the room took notice. They were heavy set, sun-burned, talking loud, like they’d had some drinks. I took them for ranch hands but Caroline somehow identified them as barley cutters. I didn’t much care for the way they sized us up, but we ordered dinner and talked awhile until Caroline re-donned her mask and headed past their table for the woman’s room. 

“Hey, wait a second, little Lady,” boomed the larger of the two. “Why you got that thing on your face? I thought you came in here to eat.“ 

Caroline ignored him to duck in the bathroom but meantime, all conversation in the place stopped.

Taking advantage of his new celebrity, the ranch hand addressed the dining room at large. “What the heck. It’s all a hoax, ain’t it? It’s like, the biggest godd–n hoax this country’s ever seen.”

The remark seemed to manifest as a huge softball, hanging silently in mid-air. I didn’t want to get into with this guy. But on the other hand, how could I not? 

I sat up and said, politely as I could; “I’ll tell you what, pal. For your sake, I hope the hell you know what you’re talking about. For your sake, I hope what you’re saying turns out true.”

Briefly, I felt the Log Cabin go up for grabs. The prospect that this guy and I would maybe roll round the floor, flickered through my mind. Then suddenly, the moment passed. 

Caroline emerged from the bathroom,  having missed the entire exchange. She arrived back at our table as a chagrined-looking waitress bustled over to offer me a complimentary slice of pie. 

Caroline sat down. “What was that all about?” she said. 

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just defending your honor.”

“Wait,” she said. “Did you actually say something to that guy?”

“Maybe I did.”

“You know, this isn’t funny.”

“You know, I think you’re right.”

It dawned on me then that we were dodging around Montana, hoping for a modestly inconvenienced vacation in what was, essentially, an incipient national crisis. A time in which, by the end of four months, Montana would rocket from 6,000 cumulative cases to 74,000. A time when a minor city-country contretemps in a rustic café seemed infinitely more ominous. And it made me recall the antique Fort Benton signage I’d seen just days before. Posted next to “the bloodiest block in the west” historic site, the sign advises:

“It’s a tough town. Walk in the middle of the street and keep your mouth shut.”