A Fat Man Yells at Me

I left Yellowstone heading East across Wyoming. Not long after leaving the park, I saw this funky log cabin perched high on a hill:

I drove on for about a quarter mile before convincing myself to turn around to take a picture of it. After all, who knows when I’ll ever see something like it again. On the way back, I looked for a good place to pull over and found a little RV park conveniently right below the hill where the cabin stood—perfectly located for a good photo.

I pulled into the RV park’s entrance and saw several funny metal signs that showed a picture of the cabin with a red ghostbusters-like slash through it. No words, just that image. I sat there for a bit, scratching my head and trying to figure out what that sign meant. I used to be a graphic designer, and I know somebody spent a lot of money making these full color metal signs. I wish I got a picture of that sign after what happened next, but here’s a rough Photoshop rendition of what it looked like:

So I took a couple photos of the cabin, then turned my car around to leave. As I was pulling out, a really fat guy with a caterpillar moustache and big plastic glasses ran out and waved me down just before I exited. I rolled down the passenger’s window to see what he wanted and he asked, in a very friendly voice, what I was doing there. I told him I was just turning around and asked if he knew what that funky cabin was on the hill. Still friendly, he said he saw me taking pictures of it. I said yes, I did, adding that I’ve never seen anything like that before.

Then his voice took a darker tone and he asked if I didn’t see the signs posted by the entrance. I told him I did, and asked what they meant since they seemed weird in themselves. Then his formerly jolly face turned into some kind of manifestation of Satan and he started yelling at me, telling me I knew damn well what those signs meant. He went on yelling that I was trespassing, breaking the law, being disrespectful and disturbing everyone in the RV park (I think I saw a total of two RV’s there, parked far off in the distance). I got a word in edgewise and told him I didn’t mean any disrespect and that I really didn’t know what his weird signs meant. He just went on yelling that I did, then asked—at full volume—if I thought all the people in the RV’s wanted me stopping there to take pictures of the hill above them.

That was a strange question to me. I sat there for a moment trying to think of the right way to say that I really didn’t think they’d give a shit. After all, I’ve met a lot of folks in RV’s on this trip and they usually take a zillion photos of everything themselves, even if it’s just a squirrel crossing the road.

As I thought about it, he asked again. Then I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of trying to make peace with the evil fat mat, so I told him I wouldn’t waste any more of his time, gave him a wave and drove off as he yelled after my car.

I will say I’m glad I didn’t squirm and turn into an apologetic wuss like I would have done when I was younger. Nor did I get aggressive and yell back, as I’ve become tempted to do as I’ve gotten older. I’m proud that I’ve learned to stay polite and assertive with difficult people (with some exceptions). Driving away, it really made me wonder what kind of life this guy had. I mean, he lives a few miles past the exit to Yellowstone and probably gets hundreds of tourists driving past his place every day—maybe even thousands during peak season—and I imagine a good percentage of them must pull into his drive to snap a photo of that cabin. His signs are vague at best, so how many times a day does he come out and yell at people for taking pictures? He must have paid some good money for those nice ambiguous signs when all he needed was a piece of plywood painted to say “please do not take pictures here.” I wonder if he gets a kick out of being tough and mean when he can.

That poor lonely evil fat man.

Incidentally, a quick Google search revealed that the cabin was built by one man, Francis Lee Smith, and is made entirely of recycled materials. He spent 18 years building it until he fell from one of the roofs and died in 1992. More info here: http://www.smithmansion.org.

Too bad the fat man didn’t realize he was sitting on a potentially profitable tourist hot spot.

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…