July 20. Paradise Valley, MT, to Glacier National Park, MT. The next morning I got back on the bike and rode away. Clay had to catch a flight back to New York and try to convince Jen to move out to Montana for good. He was already up packing and cleaning when I got downstairs. We didn't take too long with goodbyes. Just hugged and said good luck and then I was out of there, heading due north up the Paradise Valley towards Livingston. At Livingston I jogged east on the I-90 to hook up with MT 89, a road that runs due north up towards Great Falls. It starts out running through an arid high valley. The Big Belt Mountains rise up in the West. The land in the valley is flat, dry, and sunbaked. The road is straight as an arrow. The sky was cloudless. 

I rode on for another hour through that lonely valley and my spirits lifted by the mile. I was reaching that point in any long trip where you feel maximum energy. I was strong, accustomed to riding, and happy alone. During the day at least. All I had to worry about was finding a good river to swim in. The Little Belt Mountains run east-west just south of the Missouri River. They grew in front of me as I headed north towards White Sulphur Springs. I stopped there for gas. It's not much of a town, just the only one around. There are a few oil fields right outside of it and I guess they keep it in business along with the resort that houses the springs. 

Some of you might be wondering if Indians are Native Americans these days, then why are their reservations called Indian Reservations. It's a good question. The first in what should be a series of questions. The answer is that the way our country treats the natives is a lesson in opposites. Friendship has been a part of our war on them since the very beginning, so have disease, confusion, and diplomacy. 

I decided to go into the park and claim a campsite first. There were about ten cars in the line and I sat there astraddle the bike looking across the glacial lake and sucking on car exhaust. I was tired and the water was calling to me. My face itched and my ass was sore. The weed still ran strong in me, accentuating the feeling that the exhaust from the GMC Yukon in front of me was filling my lungs with motor oil. I had the Evel Knievel urge to rev the bike up high and shoot it out from under me like a rocket into the back of that fat black suburban truck. 

The sun was low and had filled the sky with pink. I was alone on the road heading north and the cool air licked at my bones. Riding with one beer in me and the weight off of the bike felt good, and I rubbed my own thigh just to touch someone, half thinking Kate's thigh would appear in place of my own. I passed another finger-shaped glacial lake. The mountains got smaller. I saw a few of the double-wide trailer houses that make the Rez what it is, a temporary nod to the white standard of settlement, a nod with a twenty-year mortgage on a building that will only last ten years.