Last weekend, after driving back from Baldface, I had a one hour layover in Bozeman before Pat, Boots and I got in my truck and drove south into a snowstorm. We met Mike, Steph and Scout at a dumpy group of awesome cabins near West Yellowstone. The place we rented reminded me very much of a spot my family stayed when I was 12 on the east side of the Beartooths called Junes, which my mom remembers for the earwigs in the shower. The cabin last weekend didn’t have bugs, but it did have nice views and very mushy double and single beds. It worked out because Mike likes to sleep on the floor, and Scout, the dog, likes to sleep on the bed.
There was also a stovetop, three sinks, and a refrigerator with a sign saying: Does NOT work—do NOT open. I really wanted to open it until Steph mentioned how bad it must smell. (Like our dishwasher at home which I am afraid to open. Nick, my landlord who is a photographer with mad plumbing skills refuses to fix it, so instead we have dishes piled on the counter.)
I turned on the tiny TV and tried to watch an Idaho station but couldn’t handle it. It was Steph’s birthday, so we had a cake. She had to help us sing, because Pat, Mike and I were so off key, and Boots and Scout are dogs so they don’t know the words to ‘Happy Birthday’. I’d forgotten candles, so on the drive down, Pat and I stopped at a roadside bar. It was closed, but it was clear the folks inside were partying. I knocked and they came to the door. We scoured their kitchen for birthday candles and found a big, half-burned candlestick, which they gave me.
Also, I was sick and could hardly breathe while ski touring, having to stop every 200 feet of skinning. The first day, Pat’s GPS logged that we moved for three hours and stopped for three. Kind of exasperating, but we still got to ski some awesome and very sacred feeling powder, in particular one steep, consistent 2400’ run overlooking the Southern Madison Range.