Montana in Green

Leaving Yellowstone, I soon enter Montana. I head for a motel in Bozeman, immediately north of Yellowstone. This motel has a spa room open to the guests. A worker of the hotel tells me the spa is not a hot spring, but heated plain water. Even so it is lucky for me. I have never soaked in a bathtub since leaving Japan. I asked if there is a hot spring near Bozeman. The worker answers there is one 15 km in the outskirts of the town. I have asked without any expectation, but this is great news to me. I am a spa fanatic. The hot springs were bubbling up over the earth in Yellowstone. It is no wonder they even have a hot spring in the town near Yellowstone. Immediately I visited there. It is really something. The hot spring place does not have a thermal pool surrounded by the rocks as in Japan, however, it is like a Japanese modern spa house and has nine thermal pools all together, including one 25 m pool. A special device is made for the rest of the pools. The temperature of these pools varies from hot to cold. Moreover, there are even sauna baths. One is wet and the other is dry, and are named, "Amazon Rain Forest" and "Sahara Desert" respectively. The room next to the spa is a fitness club, which is also becoming popular recently in Japan. The admission fee of 700 yen ( US $5.50) for all these is rather less expensive than in Japan. I was very happy, so that I stayed there as long as two and a half hours, although I had never spent this much time in Japan. A hot spring resort is the only thing I miss about Japan.

From the north of Bozeman, pastures and the fields endure.

It comes closer and closer. I am afraid it will nibble my finger in the end. I have lost and give a piece of cracker to the squirrel. It stands up and eats the cracker holding with both hands and then disappears into the woods, smiling at me. I must be pitiful of myself. At last I have become a man, whom even that cautious squirrel can make a fool of. I hope this is an illusion caused by beer. Otherwise, next might come a bear that will rape me tonight. The trees in this campground are much taller than in the south. These trees must be as tall as a ten-story building. Even if I climb to the top of a tree, is it of no use should the enemy be a bear? Or, if I run into the lake over there... The water must be cold for a Japanese like me, although American children were swimming there today. Before everything else, I could be caught before I reached the lake. I hear bears can run faster than Olympic sprinters. In the morning I come out of the tent and I see a deer walking nearby. A crow and a squirrel are scavenging the garbage which flows over the garbage storage. Last night I talked to a bicyclist next to my campsite. He left Alabama and traveled in Canada. He is now going down south in the Rocky Mountains and thinking about riding into Mexico. The roads he takes are all dirt. He has a special map for this. He sets up a tent in a solitary mountain when dusk visits. He has once run across a mountain lion. He is also very cautious of bears. He even has a spray for use against bears. However, no metal box for food storage is found in this campground. Neither an appropriate branch for hanging food can be found. Following his idea we throw our food up on the roof of the rest room. The daily expenditure of this young man, who misses his fiancee in Alabama, is $6 on average. $6 is only enough for food. I have never made this kind of trip. Youth is awesome.

There is Glacier National Park in the northernmost part of Montana, at the border of Canada.

The closer the Park comes, the denser the woods become. A road cuts through the woods and advances forward. What you can see is only green walls hemming both sides of the road. I pay $5 at the west gate of the park. For a while I ride in a meandering valley of trees. Through the break of the wall of trees, I see a blue lake on my left. The road gradually raises its elevation. Mountains! This road has run through the authentic valley. The huge rock mountains scrape in the sky and hang over the road. This is the identity of the Rocky Mountains. There is a mountain blocking like a screen in the front. The road goes up toward it. When I come to the middle height of the screen, I look down the road that I have ridden. It is on the deep bottom of the valley. The road horizontally cutting across the screen is narrow and the railings of the valley side of the road are made by a row of rocks of only 30 - 40 cm in height. Even Americans who speed over 130 km/h naturally slow down to less than 40 km/h and apparently drive dreadfully. I am riding on the valley side lane. I am scared of looking down the deep valley straight down below and I unconsciously pull the motorcycle to the center of the road. The road is winding. A car suddenly appears and heads for me in the oncoming traffic. I am scary of the left side as well as the right side. From the parking in Logan Pass at the top of the cliffy road, you can see the peaks still covered with snow and a waterfall falling vertically on the mountain. On the foot of the pass, you can also see the glacier on Mt. Jackson of 3064 m. Probably because of the global warming, the glacier is reported to be shrinking. The Continental Divide running through Logan Pass divides this national park by separating west flowing streams from east flowing streams. The water falling into the west part flows into the Mississippi and travels a long way from the north end of the States to the Gulf of Mexico in the south.