Waiting Around to Fly (Belgrade, MT) - West Yellowstone, MT

Today’s the day.

It’s Go Time. GFC. Go Fast Campers. You get the picture.

I joined the preorder for a pop-up camper that attaches to my pickup bed in February. 

I have been completely impatient, and people have tolerated it like saints.

There's two young men having a talk at breakfast. Their enthusiasm reminds me of over-caffeinated mornings with Gard at the apartment.

They can't decide if a severed left and right hemisphere, later swapped between two people, would yield a new identity. Probably because they are not scientists, and maybe because they passed philosophy so that their professor didn't have to endure these types of conversations.

They enjoy talking so that everyone can hear them.

One of the middle-aged waitresses coyly tells them, "Every time I come over here, your conversation is so interesting."

They're so high on themselves that they actually thank her.

Cute.

The system isn't working and they are having to write orders on a note pad, like it's 1995. The waitresses are frazzled.
Well, all of them except the 15 year old. She seems fine with it.

We take the slowest route possible back towards Bozeman, waiting for "the call".

It's all fire-roads and fire-burnt forest. Corolla+ (mild lift or skilled driving).

I take the mountain bike out, and bomb some "downhill repeats".
Some piece of my brain still craves the test of training.

People in UTV's look at me like I'm from another planet, which strikes me as ironic... all gear'd up in their Mars rovers.

Still no call.

It's fine. It's still early.

I follow 2 or 3 dead-end roads to what would normally be fantastic views, but I'm surrounded by fantastic views anyway.

Ennis Lake looks like a place to kill an afternoon, and Rodney has been patient with all of this stop and go picture nonsense.

We park in the lot overlooking the beach and after learning that Jason Isbell song that's been burning out sections of both my left and right hemispheres, Rodney and I head down and sit on the shore.

A lady from the family next to us walks over and asks if my dog is kid-friendly.
"Rated G."

Her son has been bawling, and she tells me it's because he wants to meet Rodney.

Easiest day I've made this trip.

After they meet, he stands next to Rodney, holding his collar... and they both look over the water while the boy quietly repeats his mantra "Dog, dog, dog...". 

I take a single, crooked picture of the lake with my real camera and drive to Belgrade.
Mistakes that you embrace build character, or something.

Take more pictures.
Sit in a park. 

Drive to Bozeman.

Don’t buy a guitar, Round 2.

Belgrade.

Take a tour of Belgrade, Round 2. 

(This actually took place over two days, because the camper wasn’t ready)

Stay in a hotel, Round 2. This trip just nearly doubled in price.

Do some laundry. 

Tour Belgrade, Round 3.

Legit taco stand in an old school bus. Or prison bus? It was painted white... 

I'm sure it's a thing they have, but I don't remember seeing any prison busses in Mexico. Maybe they're yellow and I just didn't notice the switch... I'm sure "Friedrich and Immanuel" would love to get in on this.

Beef doesn’t mean ground beef or fajita beef. It’s shredded picadillo. It comes with onion, cilantro and lime. You eat it, and thank the gods for Mexico. Or Cuba. Whichever it’s from.
Probably Spain... this isn’t some kind of tour guide blog.

This is me, expressing a part of my humanity to no one.

And I just want to get to Moab. I’m 3 days late for nothing.

It’s ready. 

GFC guys are awesome, and show me everything, Round 2. 

Wiley pulls up the drawing for their mounts so he can extract the top portion and cut out some spacers to accommodate my bed rail caps. 
An hour later, I’m headed to Moab.

I'm making it sound like Bozeman is the worst. It's not. I could totally live here.

It is all just as "quaint but purposeful" the second and third time around, but I’m not here to appreciate what I’ve already seen. I could have done that in Houston. 

Drive 20-30 min down there and you’re in a figurative different country. You could go a whole week without having to speak English, and you wouldn’t have to try very hard.
Hell, you could go a lifetime.

Throw out Spanish, and you still have maybe a half-million people who would gladly accommodate you in their non-English, native language.

I didn’t leave Houston to remember what the world was like. I left to remember what I’m like in an unfamiliar world.

I can manage supply chains, build a house, or run excel to model whatever. 

I can also sit at the water's edge and appreciate that at some point, I had very few words beyond “dog”... on repeat. And I didn’t get thrown out. 

I’m not as cute as I was then, but I’m a hell of a lot more useful. 

And I can crush it on anything with two wheels... even a Pawn Shop Peugeot.

I don’t see the DAY USE sign near Hebgen Lake.

Rather, I choose not to see.

The view was going to be spectacular!

The Park Ranger let's me know that he chose to see both the sign and my truck. And he chose to wake me up at 1:30am to make me move to a different area... the area with NO CAMPING signs. It's the lesser of two evils in his mind. The view isn't in the same league, though.

I wonder what he was into as a kid?

In "Cops and Robbers", I never wanted to be the "Cop". But, I never wanted to be a "Robber" either.

I just wanted to run away.

Or help my friends escape from jail.