my Christmas Eve love/hate relationship with Montana

Posted on | December 25, 2003 |

I started my 7.5+ hour drive home from Helena (MT, USA) in a pleasant, amiable mood. My relationship with Montana was strong. I was loving the mountain scenery and the open sky splashed with blues, purples, pinks, and oranges.

In fact, I could say Montana and I were getting along grandly until Billings. See, just past Billings (MT, USA) one has to get off the interstate to stay on the same interstate. This I knew, however, I being on my phone and thus not paying great attention to this small caveat, missed it. I didn’t realize until right after I got off my phone and passed a sign boldly stating, “Bismarck 387 Miles City 115,” that perhaps I was on the wrong road. I patiently waited for a road sign to confirm that I was indeed on I-94 instead of I-90. I had to wait 10 frickin’ miles to confirm. I hated Montana.

Mind you, the confirmation was also the closest off ramp. I got off, and re-entered thinking I had driven maybe 15-20 miles past the interstate junction. I was quite dismayed to find that I had been off course for 39 MILES! I still hated Montana.

I rapidly proceeded, at an undisclosed fair amount above the posted speed limit, back to the junction. It seems the barren landscape was rather devoid of police officers at the time.

I found my way back onto I-90. I, after my 70+ mile detour, needed gas and a trip to the little girls’ room. I mistakenly thought, “oh, there will be something soon.” WRONG. I had forgotten the small fact that I was in eastern Montana. My hate was sustained.

As I was near delusional state and my ears rang from the screams of nature, I passed a wonderful blue sign stating “Rest Area 2 miles.” I loved Montana. It had fairly redeemed itself.

1 mile later: “Rest Area 1 mile.” Then underneath: “CLOSED.” I hated Montana with a great fury.

15 miles later, my extremely low fuel light came on. Oh, Lord, please let me float into Hardin on the sustinence of fuel fumes. And, Montana, I swear, if I run out of gas, I will hate you forever.

12 looonnnnggg miles later, I pulled into Hardin (MT, USA). I raced in the gas station (I’m not kidding, I literally ran). Filled up (and empty at the same time if you know what I mean), I continued on my journey. I made my peace with Montana — somewhat.

150+ miles later, I’m cruising along, willing my SUV toward the Wyoming border. Okay, and maybe I was speeding a little, too. A cop. Great. Lights go on. Even better. Grumble, grumble. Lights go off. Just warning lights? Sweet. I love Montana.

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