After the July 4th madness in Noxon, Darin had to leave for San Francisco, leaving me to continue this expedition solo. Having finally admitted that gathering data for 3 chapters on 3 states will take much longer than 5 days, I had no choice but to continue into the dive bar wilderness on my own.
Fearing the inevitable, I procrastinated for a few days in the town of Hope (pop about 35), near Sandpoint in northern Idaho. Near Hope is East Hope, and then Beyond Hope. I sometimes think this book is beyond hope and that all I'll have at the end is a need for a liver transplant. But then I round a corner and find something that gives me hope yet again, and the cycle continues. Here's an example:
On Monday (last Monday - yes I'm way behind on my posting here), I finally mustered up the courage to venture out on my own and headed back in to Montana. Destination: Paradise (pop 184). Great name for the book, small town, close to Missoula, and a bar cheekily named the "Pair a Dice" (dice rolling is a big thing in Montana and Idaho) --- I thought it was a done deal. Until I went into the bar. There I found a few rather down and out looking people playing the Video Poker machines and a female bartender who showed very little interest in helping me identify the town barflies. When I asked if anyone comes in here regularly, she actually said, "I can't give out that information." Who knew bars had confidentiality policies? (Lesson: find a male bartender and show cleavage).
Finally resigning myself to the fact that this was Paradise Lost, I slunk to my car and headed down the highway to my next destination -- St. Regis. Here at the Talking Bird bar, I found a friendly bartender named Jerry and a colorful ex-Navy barfly named Sully who was regaling the bar with a story of a recent boating misadventure with a "Polock". (This was my first hint that I'd left the world of bend-over-backwards-political-correctness and entered a land where words like "nigger" and "Polock" are used in common conversation. I try to look like I haven't just fallen from the 30th story ivory tower window when this happens, but once again it's clear that Dorothy's not in Kansas anymore.) Anyway, with the bar full and lively and happily laughing at Sully's cocktail infused storytelling, I'm sensing that I'm getting closer to that "just right" I'm looking for, but there's a certain je ne sais quoi I still haven't found here. Sully won't let me leave before regaling me with a raunchy joke about a canoe (don't ask), but I finally manage to extract myself out the door and on towards my next destination - Superior.
And there I find it -- the Montana Bar. As soon as I walk in, the friendly bartender, Gaila, asks who I am and where I'm from, knowing full well I'm not "from around here." And then April at the bar is telling me her life story, and James on the barstool next to her is buying us drinks. And then everything is taken up a notch when the owner -- Doug -- shows up. Doug holds court at the corner of the bar, sucking down vodka-on-the-rocks-with-just-a-dash-of-lemon faster than cheap wages can suck American jobs to S.E. Asia. Well, Doug is no fool and keenly recognizes Ms. Newcomer -- and before I know it, I've been summoned down to the corner of the bar, fondly known as "douche bag corner."
Soon the night bartender, Marina, shows up and regales us with a story of how on the 4th of July her friend thought the tampon in her purse was firecracker, then proceeds to place said tampon in her cleavage while James dutifully tries to ignite it with his lighter. Despite the high entertainment value of this scene, I'm trying to get out the door to Missoula for the night, but that ain't happening any time soon -- In the midst of douche bag corner, more free drinks appear (thankfully I'm drinking straight cranberry juice today), and I'm told I can't possibly drive the interstate tonight as all the bears and moose are out running across it at this time of day, and by the way did you know they just let all the convicts out of the local prison? Just stay here in douche bag corner -- it's where you belong! Well, it's nice to feel welcome.
I finally do drag myself away, but only to return a few days later - how could I not! It's then that I'm introduced to Butch and Richard. Butch has lived in Superior most of his life, fought in Vietnam, ran a debarker in a sawmill for many years, and now works at the local jail. Butch doesn't have much to say about the meaning of life, but tells a mean joke about a farmer's daughter (don't ask).
Richard -- I'm told -- is the last of the old school ranchers in Mineral County. He grew up on the ranch, and still runs roughly 200 head of cattle (a head = one cow by the way, in case you are wondering like I was). I think Richard could qualify as one of the nicest, most self deprecating men alive (in contrast to his overbearing, know it all brother, who -- according to bar patrons -- "has spent too much time in California." Those damn Californians.) Richard even took James and me to see his mother's original homestead -- log cabins and all. I won't go into too much detail about Richard's philosophies, as he may well make the book, but suffice to say there's some simple wisdom here -- and, he's got the look!
And then there's owner, Doug, who kindly shared 4 hours of his time with me one morning over his sunrise brew of two kinds of liquor I couldn't -- and didn't really want to -- make out. That man is an inspiration. He may like the drink, but hey, we all have our addictions - whether it's work, bad habits, or just bitching about anything and everything. Doug at least makes no bones about his, and after what he's been through -- I think he's entitled. Doug grew up a ward of the state in a reform school that makes today's prisons look like Canyon Ranch. He's created everything he has in his life with help from no one because -- quite simply -- there was no one. And today he has 3 beautiful daughters, a wonderful wife (friendly bartender Gaila), and more money than God, but he still works, because -- "hell, what else would I do?"
Doug's wisdom runneth over -- so much so that I'm considering making an exception for my Montana chapter and profiling the bar owner in addition to, or instead of the barfly. For anyone who's read the trendy hit "The Secret" (I'm told entire management teams are reading it after Oprah fêted Rhonda Byrne for 2 days) and has come to accept that we create our own reality, Doug delivers the message with refreshingly simple zest: "70% of our wounds are self-inflicted. Until you hear the big pop when your head comes out of your ass and you see what's really going on, you won't get that." Maybe "The Big Pop" will be the next bestseller -- hey, I'd buy it.
Well, I'll leave it at that for now. For more tales on 3rd generation Irish ranchers and a bar with a gold mine in a bedroom and a famous madame, stay tuned ....
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