Axe Murderers and Amish Rebels

My next farm was located in northwest Montana, about an hour north of Missoula. I spent a couple days visiting my sister in Santa Fe before making the trek.

I had never been to Montana before, so my goal was to drive as long as I could the first day to get up there quickly, then take the next day or two exploring the new territory. Normally, I avoid interstate highways on road trips, but time was an issue so I made an exception. I drove a good 14 hours in one stretch, which started to take its toll on me.

At a rest area just north of Denver, I picked up a hitchhiker named Joe. I’m always a little skeptical about hitchers, but this guy had a camera that was nicer than anything I owned—which isn’t saying much—so I figured he wasn’t likely to rob me unless he really wanted an 8-year-old iPod that only works half the time. And he didn’t have an axe, which is a good sign.

Joe was a real friendly guy in his mid-40’s. He was laid off from a welding job when the company was bought out and his truck broke down shortly after that. He refused to let lack of funds or a vehicle stop him from visiting some old friends in the Rocky states, so he resorted to his thumb. He pointed out that he could have taken a bus, but hitching was far more fun. He had hitched up and down the west coast a few times, which he said was pretty easy with all the hippies driving along that route. Out here, however, getting rides was considerably more difficult. Until I picked him up, he had only traveled ten miles in two days. A sympathetic 7-11 clerk let him sleep in a storage shed the past couple nights.

It was on my route, so I drove him all the way to his destination in Casper, Wyoming. Joe grew up in Wyoming and helped keep me awake with lots of stories about baseball-sized hail and ice fishing accidents. He was documenting his trip and wanted to take my picture, so I asked to take one of him, too:

I made it to the Montana border after dropping Joe off and slept in my car at a rest area. The long day of driving was worth it because I got to soak in a good bit of the state at a leisurely pace the next day. When I passed through Butte, I learned they were hosting the National Folk Festival, which began that night. Admission was free (my favorite price) so I spent most of the evening there.

I arrived a couple hours before the first band went on. A few families were setting up blankets and chairs in front of the main stage, so I followed suit, laid out a beach towel and fell asleep on it. When I woke up, about half an hour before the band started, there were a million people around me. I had no idea how huge this festival was!

I watched a bluegrass band, a zydeco band, a Celtic band and—my fav—a honky tonk musician named Dale Watson. I’m a sucker for rockabilly (longtime Elvis fanatic), so that made the night for me. With loads of swing dancers, his tent was by far the liveliest.

Sunsets look different in every state. I always thought New Mexico had the best until I saw what Montana had to offer. They don’t call this big sky country for nothing. Magic hour lasts a long time here, and it’s intense. The entire sky turned a pale burnt orange color and everything and everyone around me was glowing as if they were all made of gold. I think I took more pictures of the sky than I did of the festival.

After the music, I looked for a campground. There were plenty nearby, but they were all full, so I slept in the car again. Believe it or not, those two nights curled up in my back seat were two of the most refreshing nights of sleep I’ve had in weeks. It sucks not being able to stretch out when I want to, but I’m a total insomniac and any chance for a good night of rest is well worth it. Now I know that if I have trouble sleeping on a farm I can always crawl into the car. Ha!

I spent the morning at the Missoula farmer’s market, then made my way up to the farm in St. Ignatius. I arrived just in time for the Amish auction up the road, where I met the farm owners and Anna, an old friend of mine who currently works for them. The auction was a little strange. I lived in Pennsylvania and have had plenty of experiences with Amish culture, but this was quite different. These Amish drink Coke, use digital cameras and cell phones and buy parts from Walmart to build their furniture. I think somebody needs to tell them what it means to be Amish.

At any rate, I got settled into my new cabin at the farm and met the extended family of the farm owners. Today was supposed to be a day off, but rain was threatening to ruin the hundreds of hay bales sitting out in the field. The bale-lifting tractor was misbehaving, so we hitched a trailer to the back of a pickup and went to work running through the field and hurling bales onto the flatbed. It was backbreaking work, and I felt like I had a baptism by fire, but I really enjoyed it. The family recently finished building an outdoor cob oven and treated me to homemade fire-roasted pizza afterward.

Then another amazing Montana sunset hit us. Incidentally, the cabin where I’m staying is facing a long line of ginormous snow-capped mountains. It’s a hell of a sight to say goodnight to, or to wake up and see first thing in the morning.

View from my cabin porch.

So far, so good…