It got me thinking that I may not be the best of storytellers, but I should and shall appreciate all of the stories around me. I get the feeling that I started the assignment earlier from being so naive. That weekend I take off, skipped Friday's classes and took off up north. There I'll meet a friend from high school whose coming down with some buddies from Edmonton. So it'll be like Diana and four of her friends or so. There's a first time for everything. It's a lengthy trip, from Butte to Missoula where there's a large strip of straight interstate road. Many are tempted to fire all their cylinders on a rather safe turf. I took advantage shooting up to 95-97 to pass one or three other cars. It's early, but the sun goes down early and I don't want to drive in the dark long. But I should probably slow down, and unfortunately that thought should have been thunk quicker. A Highpo off the Anaconda exit tracks me down and lights me up, his Charger badass, he caught me fair and square, roll down the window.
"You were going a little fast back there.
I was I'm sorry officer.
I snagged you at 84 so it's your lucky day, we start writing tickets at 85 so I'm going to run some paperwork and you'll be on your way.
Thank you Sir." After that I thought said to myself, 'It's going to be a beautiful trip up to Whitefish' knowing that I ain't speeding nor worrying about racing the sun no more. I get to see my brother when I come to Missoula, and I tell him that I'll be back through come Sunday, we can watch some football then. It's dark now and I have to drive three more hours. Fleeing believing to be back Sunday, but from there veering near Flathead Lake. When I come to Polson I finally can see the lake, and I'll take the one where I can see water. I can't see anything, but I love every minute of it thinking I'm going to live here someday. I may not be able to see much, but there are many houses right near the main road. Their evening lights are twofold reflecting off the water. There's one final pass before entering into Kalispell bounds. Whitefish is a small town fifteen minutes further north. There I find Diana having to be very discreet in my freeloading involvement. I'll stay in her hotel room for the weekend, assuming that I'll be on the floor. It turns out freeloading is easy, but anticipation is difficult to grasp. Diana has traveled down with around fifty people from her university. Our room is on the first floor where I bring my things. There are six girls and now a boy in this room alone. They tell me to brag, but I know that would be a bad idea given what I'm doing. Diana, her roommate Aliyah, and I begin the catch-up phase in the hallway full of mozying Canadians. Most of them are shitfaced. They've been drinking since the morning, like Saturday football games back home. They are also dressed like hipsters. The theme is to travel as a lumberjack, skier, mountain man, hunter, something of that nature. They're hilarious and they want to drink more because beer is so cheap in Montana! Many say 'they're starving, we want to eat food--in America.' I agree with them. Tonight they want more booze, so bar ho! We go out and mingle with some of the people we'll be skiing and eat and drink and be merry. I ask several where they're from, they answer with names I don't know of, usually small towns, suburbs of Edmonton or Calgary, or more rural towns. They ask me the same--from where I came--and I say from school down in Bozeman. All of them besides Diana don't know of the place. The time spent in this displaced perspective makes me feel like the foreigner here. Early the next morning we head up the hill, Big Mountain is how I know it but they renamed it. The foundation of snow was good, give or take. This is my third time skiing this month but hadn't gone two years before New years.
Whew. Think of all the things that are going on around, obvious and not. Those are stories, stories that we may have the fortune of figuring out. I'll finish this story in the morning. Out.
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