Comedy and Friendship from Strangers

This was written yesterday, but I had no Internet or cell phone coverage in Glacier Park.  They really should upgrade these national treasures, or at least put a Starbucks in them!

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Someone said to me at a party once, 'Oh, yeah, you're a comedian? Then how come you're not funny now?' And I just wanted to say, 'Well, I'm just going to take this conversation we're having and then repeat that to strangers, and then that's the joke. You're the joke later.'

--Mike Birbiglia

So this gay couple, two Miami Jews, and a couple of gray-haired ladies are sitting around a campfire drinking whiskey…wait.  This sounds like the start of a bad joke.  It isn’t really, but there is a story about all of them.  First, though, here’s my story from today.

I woke up this morning at about 5:30am.  I wasn’t trying to wake up that early: it just happened because that is when it started getting light out.  I had left some of the shades off my windows, so the light breaking into my van roused me from sleep.  It actually worked out nicely, though, because I wanted to get an early start on the day and head to Glacier Park.  I was planning to take Route 2 which Google told me would take about 5 hours—a bit longer than driving on Interstate 90, but a much more scenic trip.  I got a shower, ate a few Minneolas for breakfast, disconnected the hookups from my van, and was on the road a little before 7:00am. 

I headed north away from CDA on Highway 95.  I drove over a low-bridge that passed nearly on the surface of Lake Pend Oreille, giggled to myself as I went through Bonner’s Ferry (my immature mind read the name as rhyming with “owners” rather than “honors”), and headed east on Route 2 into Montana.  After about two hours into the drive, I caught glimpses a rather large, fast moving river down a forested ravine off to the left of the highway.  I saw a sign that said “Scenic Overlook” with an arrow pointing in its direction, so on a whim I pulled off to a small gravel parking area alongside the road.  My original intent was to just take a picture or two of the river coming through the trees, but as I got out of my van I noticed a large blue sign with a white arrow.  Above the arrow it said “Swinging Bridge / Kootenai Falls / Picnic Area.”  

Now that's a swinging bridge!

“A swinging bridge sounds pretty cool,” I thought to myself.  There is a small swinging bridge back home in The Village in Arroyo Grande which is kind of fun to bounce across, so I thought I’d check out this swinging bridge in Montana.  I followed a little path through the wooded picnic area and across a large metal bridge that took me over some railroad tracks.  At the end of the train bridge, another blue and white sign indicated that the swinging bridge was to the left and that Kootenai Falls was to the right.  I headed to the left which took me to a narrow trail that was fraught with roots and rocks. Since I had become a professional trail runner in Washington, I started jogging down the dirt path, excited to see the bridge that was waiting up ahead for me.

After about 10 minutes, I found myself standing beneath a bridge that was definitely swinging across the Kootenai River.  It crossed maybe 50 feet above a gorge that was nearly 200 feet wide.  There was a small tower on each side of the cliffs above the river, and cables stretched between the towers.  The bridge sat on top of the cables with wooden planks for a floor and wire-mesh sides that came up a bit over four feet high.  A sign at the foot of the bridge indicated that it had a weight limit of only five people at a time.  Being that I was only one person, I figured it would hold me.  I went up a dozen or so steps that led to the end of the bridge and stood at the edge of it for a moment, taking in the views across the river.  The vantage point from the edge of the bridge made it look a bit more intimidating to cross than it had looked from the bottom.  Standing at the edge it looked much narrower; the cables looked much thinner; the wooden floorboards looked like they were certainly too heavy for the cables, and being able to see the river through the wire-mesh sides made it look just a tad bit more rickety.  After taking a first few tentative steps out onto it, I was acutely aware that this bridge was indeed swinging. 

Can you see Meryl Streep there?

The small swinging bridge in Arroyo Grande is so short and protected by trees that it really doesn’t swing unless you jump or bounce on it.   This bridge, though, was exposed and high over a river that seemed to be a major thoroughfare for the wind.  Heavy gusts made the bridge sway back and forth, and as I got a few steps further out my hands instinctively gripped the tops of the feeble looking sides.  Each footstep felt tenuous, as I could feel my feet swinging beneath me every time they made contact with the wooden planks on the bottom of the bridge.  It felt like I was walking on a boat on a wavy ocean, where each time you plant you foot, the floor has moved just a little bit from where you expect it to be.  My mind played visions of Loony Tunes cartoons in my head—the ones where Coyote is chasing Roadrunner across a bridge and Roadrunner makes it to the other side, cuts the cables, and one-by-one the planks fall out of midair as Coyote tries to rush back across before the bridge falls from underneath his feet.  I got halfway across and paused, looking over the sides, my eyes following the path of the water into the distance.  The view calmed my mind briefly and distracted it from any fears of the bridge collapsing, leaving me to fall below (complete with the whistling sound and the little curly white lines left in the air above me, just like in the cartoons).   I continued on, a bit more secure in my steps, and made it to the tower to the other side where the boards were planted firmly and non-movingly into the solid earth.  At that point, the bridge and I had gained a little bit of trust for each other:  I promised to walk across without jumping like on the Arroyo Grande swinging bridge, and it promised not to collapse beneath my feet.  I walked back and forth a few times, the initial thrill diminishing with each time across.  By the end, it was simply another swinging bridge, and I thought to myself how easily it is to adapt to things that at first seem fearsome.  All it takes sometimes is a little bit of examination and exploration to chase the cartoon worries away and to become reassured and confident.   

Come across the bridge with me!

After I had tired of the swinging bridge, I followed the path back to the bottom of the railroad bridge and continued on to Kootenai Falls.  All the way along the path I heard the crashing, churning water of the river echoing off the sides of the valley and rising up to the tops of the trees.  It was a constant, rumbling growl that sounded more like it was coming from some piece of heavy machinery with lots of turning gears, rather than just from water rolling over rocks and stones.  After several minutes, the trail led to an opening where I was able to see the falls.  They were not that impressive in height, as they really were only a few feet tall, but they were quite wide and stepped with many layers.  I took a few pictures and then scampered back across the trail, the sound of the water urging me to race the current of the river back to the train bridge.  I made it back to my van, climbed in, and started the engine.  The short hike, the bridge, and the river had energized me somehow, and I felt just a little bit more alive as I got back on to Route 2 to continue on to Glacier Park.   (I found out later that the Kootenai River and the swinging bridge were a filming location for the movie “The River Wild” with Meryl Streep.)

When I arrived at Glacier, I realized that they didn’t technically “open” until the next day.  Online it said that Apgar Campground was open for “primitive camping only” until May 1^st.  What I didn’t realize was that “primitive camping” meant that they had the small picnic area open, and you could stay in your camper/tent/car overnight, but that all the bathrooms and facilities were closed.  The picnic area is not much more than a small parking lot with some tables around the edges.  It is, however, right on the edge of Lake McDonald so it does have some nice scenery.   There were about 4 or 5 other groups of people who had set up camp in various spots, so I backed my van up next to a picnic table and figured it would do for the night.  As the afternoon progressed, more groups of people came, and by about 7pm, the lot was nearly full with perhaps 15 different groups of campers.  At one point, another Roadtrek van had circled through the lot twice and I noticed they were eyeing the parking spot next to mine. 

Behind my camparking site at Lake McDonald

They slowed down and looked at it, and I could tell that the man and the woman inside were debating whether they should pull in or not.  I motioned to them that it would be ok, and so they pulled in and parked.  A short, stout lady jumped out and walked up to me, smiling.  She was wearing a tan photographer’s vest with lots of zippered pockets and overly large sunglasses.  Her short hair was brown, but appeared as if she had attempted to dye it red at one point as it had un-natural looking tinges of orange.   She looked at my Roadtrek van, pointed her thumb over her shoulder at a Roadtrek van that was parked on the opposite side of the lot, and in a typical loud, nasally Jewish accent (I know this because my mother's side of my family is Jewish) she exclaimed “Wow! Is there some kind of convention going on here that I didn’t know about?”  She followed this with a high-pitched, screeching laugh. Her husband appeared from the driver’s side door and walked out, looking concerned and worried.  He looked like he could have been Woody Allen’s twin brother. He was thin, had short gray-and-black peppered hair, and he also was wearing large, square glasses that he kept pushing up his nose every few minutes.  He began talking about the campsite.  I wasn’t sure if he was talking to anyone in particular or just making observations out loud:  “Oh yes, I guess this will work out,”  “Look at that fantastic lake!” “Now which of these tables do we get to use?” He had the same nasally Jewish accent in his voice as the lady did.  As he was talking, he walked back to his van and brought out a stout bulldog on a leash.  The dog waddled in circles around him as the man walked over to me, trying not to trip on the leash that the dog was incessantly wrapping about his legs.  With just a simple “Hi! How’s it going?” from me, both he and his wife began telling me about their trip: how the are from Miami, how they got their Roadtrek in December and that it is absolutely loaded with everything, about the snow they saw in Wyoming, how they spent so much on their RV that they’ve just been camping in Walmart Parking lots because there’s no way they’re paying $30 just to park their van, how they have a son whose wife is from South Africa and is just a “bitch on wheels,” how their son’s wife has ruined their family, about their daughter that is dating a man covered with tattoos, about the fishing rod that they brought along but have never used, about how much money they spent on dinner for their grandson’s birthday (and how unappreciative their son’s wife was about it!)….  All the while they were both talking at exactly the same time.  One would start telling a story, and the other would say, “Honey, he’s not interested in hearing about our problems!  

It was about 60 degrees out, but there was still snow left

By the way, let me tell you about how the dealer was trying to screw us into buying a warranty we didn’t need.”  It went on like this for at least an hour.  It really was quite entertaining.  I got to know their entire family history and conflicts, their employment history (he owns a court reporting company and has 5 employees, she is a real estate photographer for high-end houses and condos), their health problems (he has what he thinks is a sinus infection and she gets terribly ill from cheese), all the items they’ve bought and never used, and about how much money they’ve saved on their trip so far compared to staying in hotels.  Yes, these people were indeed Jewish.  I saw little bits of reflections of my relatives in them.

Later on in the evening, Amy and Kathy, two ladies in their 60’s who were parked just on the other side of the Goldsteins (not their real name—I’m just guessing) brought some firewood out of their van and asked if anyone would like to join them for a campfire.  I offered to help them get the fire started, and Mortie and Mabel (again, not their real names) said that it sounded like fun.  (Amy and Kathy had not yet heard Mortie and Mabel’s entire history, so it was a new audience for her.  I totally understand this myself.)  We got the fire going and sat around chatting.  As we talked, Amy asked if anyone would like some Cinnamon Jack.  When Mabel asked what that was, Amy said that she wasn’t sure, but that it was some kind of liqueur that was cinnamon flavored.  She poured a bit into a plastic cup and handed it to Mabel.  Mabel took a sip, her eyes lit up, and she said “Oh wow!  That’s strong stuff!  If I drink this I’m going to pass out!”  Mortie asked to try it, and Mabel insisted that he definitely shouldn’t, as it would give him a terrible headache since he is so sensitive to alcohol and caffeine.   

As we were sitting and chatting and listening to the details about all the fancy and expensive things in Mortie and Mabel’s van, two young guys who were camped on the other side of me bounded up, both of them dressed in nearly identical hiking gear and with LED headlamps on.   Alex, a tall thin kid of about 25 years old, had talked to me a little earlier in the day when I pulled out my solar panels.  He had long blonde hair that swept across his face, and large black earrings in both ears.  He was interested in the solar panels because he was looking for a way to be as gentle to the Earth as possible, and he particularly resented the horrible oil corporations. 

Lake McDonald makes a mirror in the morning

His partner was a little more heavyset, had shaggy brown hair that hung in loose curls down to his shoulders, a thin beard and moustache, and extremely long eyelashes.  He spoke with a bit of a lisp and introduced himself as “BJ” (I am not making this up).  As they came up to the campfire, BJ squealed “Oh, a fire looks soooo fun right now! Can we join you?”  His little LED headlamp bobbed up and down in the dark as he talked.  Kathy shielded her eyes from the LED headlamps with her hand, smiled, and said that of course they were welcome to join us.   Alex had noticed Kathy’s hand go up, and he exclaimed “Oops! Our lights!” and, almost in unison, both Alex and BJ reached up and pushed little buttons on their headlamps that turned them to a soft red beam, rather than a harsh white one. 

So there we all were:  Amy and Kathy providing fire and Cinnamon Jack for everyone, the Goldsteins praising their van and lamenting their children, Alex and BJ exclaiming how corporations were causing the ills of the world, and me—desperately trying to remember details of the whole night so I could write about these people later. 

It really was an fun evening, though.  For all the comedy that I put into the scene, this was perhaps one of the friendliest nights I’ve had on this trip.  Here we were—a group of 7 people with completely different backgrounds and beliefs, and in completely different stages of life.  Yet the simple fact that all of us happened to be in the same park at the same time, sitting around a campfire, was enough to bring everyone together for congenial conversation.  For a few hours there really were no differences between all of us.  The fact that we were really just “camping” in a parking lot with no bathrooms and no services didn’t matter one bit.  It was simply an enjoyable way to pass the evening with people who could be called friends.   And, of course, fodder for me to create stories from later.

The immaturity in me took over and I just had to have a picture of this city name