Day 17. East Glacier to Cut Bank, 48 miles

Today started rough, emotionally speaking; with the return of cell phone service came the news out of SCOTUS, and I felt angry and powerless and scared for the future. It didn’t help to be in a place where I couldn’t talk to people about it, where I could assume most people don’t share my feelings. That sat heavily with me for much of the morning, still does.

But the wheels roll on eastward. I departed East Glacier with this last look at the town.

And just like that, I’m in the plains. It’s disconcerting how abrupt the transition is: one minute rushing water and dense tree cover and the next wide open skies. All of a sudden I can see the road for miles, see the far horizon, like an opening up of the landscape. It’s a little disorienting after two weeks in the tightly contained mountain world. There go the trees! Full sun by 7:30 a.m., and I’m shedding layers every quarter mile. At first it seems like the traffic will never cease, like I’ll always be listening to the roar and whiz of cars and trucks and campers, but past Browning the traffic fell off sharply: no logging trucks because no trees, no recreational vehicles because no recreation.

The freight trains are my new companion, now that I’m back near the railroad tracks (for the most part—more on that later). I don’t mind them at all; they break up the landscape, and I love seeing all the showcase graffiti on the cars and wondering where it was done. The below isn’t the finest illustration, but I’m not always in the best position to stop.

Quick PSA for those who don’t already know: don’t let anyone tell you the plains are flat. They roll. The road is just straight east here, none of this frivolous going around things. We barrel through and over, and sometimes that means long rolling hills. I can hang with it by now, but that doesn’t mean it ain’t work.

I’m solidly in Blackfeet country, and there a a number of historical markers about their history in this land and with the settlers, as well as about settlement/colonization. (Yes, I’m my father’s daughter, and I stop for every one of them.)

While I was looking at the monument, I saw some horses grazing in the field between the road sign and where I was. I noticed one detach from the others and wondered what was up, but shrug. When I headed back to where I’d leaned my bike, they seemed to take interest, and as I was starting to walk my bike to the path they suddenly got in formation and started trotting/charging at me. I booked, which is not easy to do while hauling a fully-loaded bike up an embankment. My heart was pounding with exertion and adrenaline by the time I got over the cattle grates, at which point the horses settled back to munching grass by the edge of the barbed wire enclosure, still keeping a wary eye on me. It felt … eerie.

The land rolled, and sometimes didn’t for stretches.

And then, after a slow climb up an enormous hill, I was in Cut Bank. My intended home for the evening, Sunset RV Park, looked pretty dismal on arrival, and I was already having a pep talk with myself, but then the owner showed me the rec hall and shower facilities, and I took a closer look at the grounds. Pretty sweet spot for the night after all.

I set up camp and then headed out to the Cut Bank Brewery, which a cyclist at Brownie’s had mentioned and which I’d seen charmingly advertised with an old pick-up truck as I entered town. It was wonderful! I had locally-brewed Mexican lager and a hamburger with fries AND a salad, and listened to 70s and 80s hits in the dark and cool. Perfect.

Back at the campground, I got in a long call with mom and wandered what turned out to be a little nature trail overlooking a hidden river, catching the last golden sun as it set.

Then it was lights out for all of us.