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Inside the Yellowstone Park gate, the road continued along the Madison River, through lush green forests and past tremendous mountains of stone, but a change had occurred. This was sacred land, protected and cherished for what it is, no homes, ranches or businesses altered the landscape. Within 20 minutes of the park entry, I was welcomed to this Shangri La by a moose crossing the road two cars in front of me to join 5 other moose grazing in a slow spot in the river. There were no antlered males in the group, but I got a very close up view when a moose cow, as tall I am, chose to munch on the grass next to my van. Moose warning signs on roads in Maine, Minnesota, Wisconsin, New Hampshire, New York, Western Massachusetts, Glacier Park and Southern Canada kept me scanning the landscape on this journey without success, and now, I find myself in the midst of them as I enter Yellowstone Park. Plumes of steam rising high in the clear air drew me to my next stop, the Lower Geyser Basin, where, climbing out of my van, I spotted a single Bison standing 30 yards from the parking lot. It was as if this was a plant, a tame “Greeting Bison” representing the majesty of this park. Visitors are required to maintain a distance of 25 yards from the wildlife (100 yards from bears and wolves), but even at 25 yards, or what I thought was 25 yards, I felt too close. There is no telling what this wild and powerful beast, with a deceptively sweet face (much like the mocking smile on an alligator’s face), might be thinking, and there have been plenty of Bison gorings to bear this out. 

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Walking the boardwalk through the Lower Geyser Basin, I discovered that the earth, too, has a certain dangerous beauty in Yellowstone. Luminous boiling pools, bubbling mudpots, and fitful geysers link the surface of the earth to its seething core. The mercurial ground is raw and alive here. Signage warns tourists to stay on the boardwalks with pictographs showing that what looks like solid ground is but a thin crust which, if stepped on, could break through, dropping the foolish usurper into the boiling stew below the surface. I wasn’t about to test this, but I did wonder about the bison hoof tracks and dung visible on the fragile ground around the geysers and pools. I asked a ranger about this and she told me that the heavy bison intuitively know where to step, but that bison have broken through the surface, and were swallowed by the unforgiving hole, where the animal cooked until the body decomposed. The boardwalks seemed dangerously close to these angry geysers, but what a thrill to have the opportunity to get up close to the active fountains and pools. One geyser field I visited displayed signs with photos showing the forested hillside that stood on the site before, just 30 years ago,  an earthquake ripped the surface open to reveal its smoldering underbelly. Yellowstone is a living volcano, and even with its clever system of vents and geysers to release pressure, the surface is in flux, subject to earthquake swarms and the explosive thermal force that festers just below the surface. After living in Hawaii with its active volcanoes, and California, with its dynamic faults and earthquakes, I fear and respect the unpredictable forces deep within the earth. 

The drive to my campsite on Yellowstone Lake yielded yet another wildlife sighting, a bull elk with a magnificent rack many times larger than his head, that stopped traffic where he laid, holding his antlered head high, at the edge of the forest next to the road. This sighting led me to the discovery of another danger in the park, motorists who forget the rules of the road when wildlife presents itself. 

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At nearly 7,000 feet in elevation, my campsite in the trees next to Yellowstone Lake promised exceptional star gazing. No moon was visible during my stay in Yellowstone, and a deep black velvet sky served as a perfect backdrop for viewing the starshow. Dark nights are like dark chocolate to me. I crave them. My passion for the dark grew from beach bonfires in Pacific Grove and Carmel. During the 13 years that I lived on Monterey Bay, I often gathered friends for nights singing and reading poetry around a fire on the beach. We sometimes held Threshold Choir practices on the beach, as well. There were no city lights to taint the magic of the night sky and the ocean in view of the beaches where fires were permitted. How those nights fed me! My beloved Threshold Choir sisters, Jill and Suzan, were always by my side in the cold, the wind and the fog, for Solstice celebrations, birthday parties, Threshold Choir practices, and when I retired and was ready to leave Pacific Grove, they were there, with my family and other dear friends, for my going away bonfire party. 

With the majority of my travel nights spent sleeping in parking lots, rest stops and driveways, blocking the glare of passing cars, overhead lighting and street lights forces me to use the insulated black-out panels I made to cover the van windows to create a dark night where there is none. Sadly, campground bathrooms with all night lighting often force me to cover windows, too, and Yellowstone was no exception. Settling in after a starlight walk to the lake on that first night, I discovered that bathroom lighting fouled my night vision from my bed. The next night, I pulled forward into the back-in campsite, a feat that required careful maneuvering and multiple turns back and forth to achieve, in this tight camping space embraced by magnificent trees. With the opportunity to view the unpolluted mountain sky, I was willing to do whatever it took. With the windshield covered, I was able to block the bathroom lights, open curtains, and invite the magic of night into my bedchamber. I slept little in Yellowstone, preferring shooting stars and the dreamy milky way to sleep. How very different our nights have become from the nights of our ancestors, most of us must leave home to experience the glories of the night sky. 

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Compelled not to miss any of the marvels Yellowstone has to offer, I spent the next few days driving to every corner of the park. I walked the geyser fields, joined the crowds “ooing” and “aweing” at Old Faithfull’s grand fountain, lost myself gazing into the effervescent Caribbean blue of the boiling pools that decorate the landscape, saw steaming fissures emerging from rivers and from the banks of Yellowstone Lake, experienced the earthy colors of the bacteria that streaks the earth in the geyser run-off, delighted I the park’s wild rivers, waterfalls, and forests, drove a stretch of the Continental Divide and was mesmerized by infinite craggy mountain views the reach to the horizon. As if the geology were not enough, the abundance of wildlife in the park is startling. Yellowstone, our first National Park, makes you proud to be an American, proud that this country protected this unique landscape for the people, and its animal inhabitants, and worked to reestablish wildlife that was threatened do to loss of habitat and over hunting. The young German couple camping next to me said that that there are no national parks in their country. Having the opportunity to witness wild and free bison and moose, a rutting elk bugling for a mate, bald eagles and beaver dams is something I won’t soon forget. In the park, there is a slogan, “Yellowstone Forever”,  insuring the perpetuity of the park will require vigilance to insure that political interests and greed do not compromise our public lands. 

 

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Moving east along HWY 90, I was struck by the contrast between Butte and my next stop, Bozeman MT. Modern architecture and a gentrified downtown shines with stylish restaurants and craft breweries, this did not look like the other cities I have visited in Montana. Bozeman is home to the University of Montana, which lends a vibrancy to the city. I toured the University’s Museum of the Rockies, where I was an awe-struck kid again, enthralled and dwarfed by the  collection of T-REX, Triceratops and assorted dinosaur skeletons, skulls and bones that fill the museum. Apparently, gold, silver and copper aren’t the only treasures buried in Montana. My day in Bozeman included the indulgence of a soak in the hot springs just out of town.  

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On my way to dinner at a slick brewery buzzing with business, I saw what appears to be the underbelly of Bozeman, drugged out homeless people walking the downtown streets. My overnight stop at the Walmart parking lot in Bozeman appeared to be the permanent “home” for many of the city’s homeless, who set up camp in cars, old school buses and campers. The parking lot was a messy mix of ridiculously expensive new RVs and enormous fifth wheel trailers parked across multiple spaces, and what appeared to be a homeless village where trash and cigarette butts littered the pavement. Customers had to drive through the untidy maze of overnighters to reach the store entry. Out of respect for the businesses that kindly allow sleeping in vehicles in their parking lots, there is an expectation that vehicles will be parked away from customer parking, that they will be gone in the morning, and that they will leave the area clean. This is the way it has been in the parking lots where I have parked over these past many months, and because I am grateful for the opportunity to have a place to park for free overnight, that is the code most overnighters follow. Not so at the Walmart in Bozeman. Knowing in my heart that I am grateful that the homeless (at least the ones with vehicles) have a place to overnight without being hassled, I spent an uncomfortable night in the glaring parking lot lights feeling like I was taking advantage of the offering. The out-of-control parking lot scene explained why most Walmarts no longer permit overnight parking. When I find myself uncomfortable in altered landscapes such as this Walmart parking lot, I often think of the haunting 1982 film, Koyaanisqatsi, where repetitious Phillip Glass’ music is the dramatic background for real life visuals of natural and altered landscapes, examples of how our world is being rendered out of balance. An early morning departure would soon have me breathing deeply, at the peace in the Rockies once again. 

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An hour southeast of Boseman, tall mountains and fragrant forests greeted me with open arms. I drove along the Madison River where fly fishers, waist high in the rushing water, repeatedly performed their etheric dance with slender line, air and water. I had a couple of nights to pass before my campsite in Yellowstone would be available and found a forest service campground on the river where I would have been happy to stay much longer. Venturing into the nearby town of Big Sky (love the poetry in that name), I found it was in the process of being developed into a resort town with a stylish new shopping district they called “Town Center” (as if shopping defines community), surrounded by hundreds of condos in various stages of construction. The ski mountain in Big Sky afforded panoramic views of the Rockies and the surrounding pastoral valleys, which were not lost on the exquisitely crafted vacation homes of the super-rich that peppered the mountainside. If there is to be development, which there will be, it does make sense to build a community where condos and shopping are within walking/biking distance, instead of despoiling an entire mountainside with development. With all this wealth and construction, I could still feel the draw of the mountain town, the spirit of the mountain could not be quenched by those who managed to buy a piece of it. To be fair, ranches and cattle country occupy the valleys between the towering mountains that surround the resort, and a more traditional no-fuss cowboy culture is alive and well not far from the new “Town Center”. 

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My next stop, the cheezy tourist haven of West Yellowstone gave no indication of what to expect once I passed through the West Yellowstone Park Gate. 

My drive from Sandpoint ID to Missoula MT was spectacular. I followed the Lewis and Clark Fork rivers which are framed by rugged mountains with massive rock slides pouring down the faces of the steep slopes. After seeing the result of the rock slide that wiped out an entire town in Crowsnest Pass in the Canadian Rockies, I had cause to be concerned about the slides hovering over ranches, homes and the highways I was driving. Passing so closely to crumbling mountainsides felt a bit like turning your back on the waves, something a west coaster would never do. In Glacier Park, I learned that cycles of freezing and thawing are not the only forces at work that send rocks tumbling downhill, the action of Grizzlies lifting and tossing rocks on mountain ridges in their search for tasty moths and grubs, the scrambling of Big Horn Sheep and Mountain Goats, and even the digging of tiny ground squirrels, can also trigger slides. I am awed by this rugged geography. Southeastern Montana has little resemblance to the flatland prairies of the northern part of the state. 

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In the tiny town of Thompson Falls, I made lunch and ate at a shaded picnic table in front of a bank where I had a view of the Lewis River. To my surprise, two different drivers slowed their cars to smile wave to me. At first, I wondered if it was a case of mistaken identity. Then, I realized that with my van visibly parked next to the table, they had to know I was a traveler, a vagrant. Sometimes I feel “vagrant”, a word I grew up equating with hobos, bums and criminals. I don’t blend, especially in small towns where families have put down roots that go back generations. For my part, I have a difficult time imagining what life would be like in little towns like this, where the population is less than 1,000 hearty souls. The fact that these residents were so friendly caught me off guard. It may be that the wandering lifestyle appeals to those individuals, and that the greeting is their way of letting me know that they know wanderlust, either by experience or by desire, and that the fact that I am living that dream is an inspiration to them. Or maybe, they are just friendly here in Montana. 

Driving across this sun baked land, I felt a bit like a pioneer crossing the country in a covered wagon (except that I was heading south and east, not west). I traveled from Missoula to Helena through mountains and valleys riddled with mines. These mountains hold hidden treasures. Although many are historic mine sites with their treasures long ago depleted, I learned that Montana is currently one of the nation’s top coal producers and coal fuels electricity production in this state. No wind turbines or solar farms here! 

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Many of the small towns I passed through had once been bawdy boom towns until the gold, or silver ran out, but Helena is not one of the boom and bust towns. Helena has the bragging right to  have once claimed more millionaires per capita than any other US city, and the legacy of that time can be seen in the grand civic buildings and mansions that were developed when gold was discovered there in 1864. One mine yielded $19 million over a four year period. The Last Chance Gulch, where the gold was discovered, now serves as the main street in the charming downtown. I came to town to meet up with a high school friend I haven’t seen in 30 years. Thanks to Facebook, we were able to reconnect a few years ago. To my delight, it was as if no time had passed. I parked in Charlie and Lynn’s driveway and Charlie showed me the town. We visited a local sculptor, toured town and enjoyed a beer in a popular brewery where one of Charlie’s photos covers an entire wall. Montana lured him from a tech job in Malibu, California. Until he retired, he worked for another Thousand Oaks High School alumni who has a thriving business in Helena designing and manufacturing equipment for breweries. 

The next stop, Butte Montana, would not be so grand. A Threshold Choir visit called me to this active copper mining town. In the shadow of the Continental Divide, a massive copper and zinc mine dominates the landscape and the economy of this city of 33,000. It is impossible to describe the scale of the excavation where the copper mountain once stood. The crater is now actively blasted and chiseled by bulldozers and other heavy mining equipment, a process that has replaced the dangerous and soul numbing work of tunneling under the mountain. Entering Butte, I could see nothing but the massive scar where the copper rich mountain once stood, and the city sized pit where the earth’s skin has been removed to expose raw soil streaked red, orange and yellow with precious minerals. This is the second humongous pit in town, the first was closed, and since filled with water to become a toxic lake that is a superfund cleanup area. Past its prime now, the mines in this town provided 41% of the nation’s copper when it was needed to wire the country for electricity. Many of the successful miners from Butte built their mansions in nearby Helena, not in the working town of Butte. Learning from the past, newer methods of extracting minerals from the mountain are touted as not so toxic, but heavy metals in the air and water are issues of concern for the townspeople, and I had to wonder about the white substance that looked like spilled paint washing down the roads when it rained. 

The director of the Threshold Singers in Butte graciously arranged a get together with the Threshold singers for my visit, even though they had taken the month of August off. Ana, with her bright red hair and stylish asymmetrical do, is a force. She is a hospice volunteer coordinator, trainer and chaplain, a mother of four trans-racial adopted kids (she explained that this means that the parents and kids are of different races), and the founder and director of the Threshold Singers in Butte. After a long work day, she hosted the choir at her home and prepared dinner for us. We sang together and I shared songs and stories from my trip about other choirs. 

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I stayed two nights in Butte, long enough to be won over by its hard working citizens. The “company town” houses are modest, with some dating back to the late 1800’s. I attended “Thursday Night Music” in the streets of the historic downtown, where veterans and active military were honored before the band, FOG (Friggin’ Old Guys) took the stage. All ages packed the streets, enjoying each other’s company, drinking beer and dancing to the Rock and Roll music. Despite the fact that Butte now has a college teaching high tech mining techniques, being here felt a bit like stepping back in time to a working town where the townspeople share the same values. A 90 foot statute of Mother Mary overlooking the town from the highest mountaintop is testament to the largely Catholic population here. Ana is proud of the town’s union history, she told me that Butte is a blue blip in an otherwise red state. Besides drawing immigrants from around the world to work in the mines, Butte is famous for being the “Gibraltar of Unionism” because of the relentless battles to successfully organize workers that took place here between the 1890’s and 1930’s. 

As of Aug 15, it has been one year since I gave up my apartment in Pacific Grove. I started the Threshold Choir journey on 10/7/18, after spending a month in Ireland and some time with my son and daughter-in-law in Oregon. Since I started this trip, I have traveled through 32 states, driven 25,000 miles and sung with 48 Threshold Choirs. 

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I arrived in Sandpoint, Idaho, on August 14. Sandpoint is a sparkling gem. With a population under 10,000, a hip downtown, and a pristine glacial lake with 111 miles of coastline (with beaches) surrounded by 3 mountain ranges, it is a paradise for outdoors enthusiasts, especially for those who appreciate the long winters. What good fortune that my sister-in-law, Perky, chose this idyllic location as her home 40 years ago, and since my last visit, a Threshold Choir has been established in town. Perky, has always welcomed me as family, despite the fact that I divorced her brother, my first husband, in 1973. My visit included a brilliant day playing at the lake with Perky and my grandniece and grandnephew, and a dinner with the whole family which included Perky’s beautiful grown sons and daughter-in-law and their precious little kids. There is nothing quite as satisfying as breaking bread with those you love. Shared meals are such a welcome treat on this trip. 

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I was inspired by the Sandpoint Threshold Choir and the practice I attended. As happens so often with my choir visits, I found a kindred spirit and lovely new friend in the choir. In a deep and insightful conversation with Marilyn, and her musician husband, Dave, we discussed the way singing, and making music together, bonds us. All my life, I have been blessed by deep and meaningful friendships that have developed through singing together in comunity. Adding the service aspect, and the privilege of being present for the dying, adds another level to the bonds that form among Threshold Choir singers. Dave talked about the connection that results from the vibrational aspect of making music together. He spoke to how the unique vibrations that musicians create together are felt in the body, not the brain. Dave’s statement that, “Music as a way to communicate energy”, made Marilyn and I think about how we communicate love when we sing at bedsides. I was also reminded of the absolute thrill I feel singing in unison (singing the same notes without harmonies) with my Threshold Choir sisters when the notes magically lock to create a vibration that rings like a bell.  

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I have always thought that part of the reason I feel so bonded with those I sing with in community choirs, Threshold Choirs and in the voice classes I have taken, has something to do with the risk we take singing out loud and being heard. Learning music and making  mistakes in front of each other makes us vulnerable. In choir situations and vocal classes, we are vulnerable together. A performer invests copious amounts of time perfecting their performance to reduce the risk of making a mistake in front of an audience and be exposed to criticism. When we are learning music, we make mistakes and we depend on our teachers and peers for critique that can help us improve. Insensitive criticism of our voices can wound us so deeply that many live an entire lifetime without the joy of singing because they were told they couldn’t sing. 

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My heart is full as I leave Sandpoint. It was a perfect visit, and once again, I dodged the bullet of running into my 2^nd husband, who purchased a home in Sandpoint a number of years ago (what are the odds that my “wasband” from Maui would settle in the same little town that is the home of the sister of my first husband?). Jim and I found Maui was too small for the two of us after our nasty divorce, and Sandpoint is even smaller. 

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It was hard to leave Fernie in the magnificent Canadian Rockies, and the hardy all-season sports enthusiasts who live and play there. By the time I left, there was smoke in the air, fire season had begun. Until I smelled the smoke, I hadn’t appreciated how clear the mountain air had been up to that moment. Smoke from massive fires in Canada, Washington and Oregon inundated the entire Northwest with smoke over the last few summers, the clear air this summer is a precious commodity. The weather predictions for higher than usual temperatures as we move into the driest part of the year is a frightening recipe for wildfires. 

As my 8/11 birthday arrived, I was looking forward to my tradition of celebrating with the glories of the Perseids Meteor Shower. This year, the sky was cloudy on my birthday, so I settled for going to the movies to see the Lion King, eating some chocolate cake, and spending the night in a brightly lit Walmart parking lot in Cranbrook, BC, with a dozen other RVers. Canada is very hospitable to travelers, and I certainly appreciate the opportunity to overnight in roadside pullouts, rest stops and parking lots, which makes the cost of occasional campground nights affordable. I’m well equipped for dry camping (no hook ups or electrical to plug into), it’s free, but it is isolating. Campers seek privacy in those public spaces, closing their shades to the bright lights and the outside world. As a woman traveling alone, I consider it wise to retreat to my “cocoon” and not advertise that I am alone when I am parked in public spaces. Closed curtains are also required when I am parked in the driveways, or on residential streets, at the homes of those I visit, because neighbors may consider my presence an intrusion on their privacy. The cost of  “free” camping places is not having a view of the night sky, a steep price. 

I don’t like closed curtains. I read that 2/3 of the nation cannot see the milky way due to light pollution. I often think about how different life must have been before electricity, when the night sky inspired mankind with myth and magic, enabled navigation of the world’s seas and was the motivation for discoveries about the universe. Much of the lure of camping is being outdoors and close to the night sky. Living in urban areas under the glare of street lights, tames our wild and magical thinking, lulling us into an artificial security. The dark thrills me and wakes that wild nature. For one who has lived so long in the glare of artificial lighting, a sky twinkling with stars is liberating. On the nights when I’m parked under an open sky, I would rather watch the sky than sleep. 

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The sky began to clear when I reached Idaho and I had hopes that the County Fairgrounds overnight digs in Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho, would be a good viewing spot on the peak night of the meteor shower, 8/12, and the early morning hours of 8/13. The nearly full moon threatened to interfere with star gazing, and I found that it did, as I checked the sky every hour or so. I did see one very bright shooter, so the sleepless night was not in vain. Staying on the fairgrounds, gave me the perfect vantage point for observing preparations for the Boundary County Fair. Horses, swine, cows, goats, sheep, rabbits and chickens, all had to be in their places and judged before the fair opened on Wednesday, 8/14. The fairgrounds was a busy place on Tuesday, with 4H families taking up residence so the kids could look after their animals. Walking through the fairgrounds, it was heartwarming to see responsible 4H kids bonded with their animals and with each other, with parents fully supporting the activity. For me, this is the best of rural American culture.

Following the Kootenai River 5 miles upstream from the fairgrounds, the expansive Kootenai National Wildlife Preserve called to me. I followed trails through the wetlands and climbed the mountain trail to a Myrtle Falls. Photos of moose, eagles, mountain lions and bears were posted at the ranger station, but all eluded me. I admit that being without bear spray, it was a bit of a relief not to see bear ravaged rotting trees where termite feasting had taken place, like I saw along the Fairy Creek trail in Fernie.

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On the road to the Wildlife Preserve, a Sportsman’s Access ( a free campground) offering an outhouse, boat ramp and swimming beach became my daytime hangout. This would have been the ideal place to overnight, were it not for “Creepy Guy”. Far be it for me to criticize someone who lives in their vehicle, and I have no problem with the fact that he claimed the best level riverfront camping site and had set up what looked to be a permanent camp, but there was something off about this guy. I spent many daylight hours swimming and preparing meals at the campground over the three days I was in town, and walked by his truck many times. I was close enough to see that he sat with a large book in front of him, a book with faded looking pages. It was my intention to say hello, and offer him some of the books I have finished reading. I also considered asking if he needed supplies, since I wasn’t sure if his truck was operational. Each time I walked by, I tried making eye contact, but he did not look up from his book. It occurred to me that the book in front of him was probably a bible. The lack of eye contact, his unkempt appearance, and the fact that I did not see him change position from where he sat behind the wheel of his pickup truck during the many hours I spent at the site over 3 days, I did not feel comfortable camping alone next to him in this secluded campground. I hoped another camper would show up, but it didn’t happen. The place was popular with locals in the daytime, swimming and launching boats, but they didn’t stay the night. I usually seek places to sleep where there is at least one other camper, but not this camper. I opted for the safety of the nights in the busy fairgrounds, the lights, and the night noises of the nearby train track and grain elevator during my stay in Bonner’s Ferry. 

After nearly 3 weeks of camping and boondocking, my next stop was Sandpoint, Idaho. In Sandpoint, I would have time with my sister-in-law and be able to connect with the Threshold Choir there. By this time, I was feeling the need to connect with my people. In between visits with choirs, friends, and family, the “days without words” can become weighty. I love exploring new places, swimming in mountain lakes and hiking, and I have my writing, music, books, podcasts and onboard art supplies to inspire me when I’m on my own, but sometimes I need to see a friendly face, share a meal and dive into deeper conversations. The balance is critical.  

I managed to reserve 2 nights in a campground about 5 miles from the entry to Waterton Park. After driving through green mountain passes with astounding views of the Rockies, past the sacred Chief Mountain and crossing the Canadian Boundary to reach to Waterton, it was a disappointment to find the campground, just a few miles from the park entry, hot and dry in flat grasslands. The last two weeks have been marked by daytime temperatures in the 90’s, and without shade in the campground I skedaddled to the park. In Canada, I could not use my lifetime Senior US National Park Pass that I purchased for $5.00 (they cost $80 now) that gives me free admission to National Parks and half price camping. The entry to Waterton National Park is $17 Canadian per car, less than the $35 per car visitors without a pass pay to enter Glacier. Due to Federal cutbacks, National Park entry fees in the US increased by about $10 on 1/1/19, and some are scheduled to increase again in 2020. Not all National Parks charge an entry fee, and some parks charge as much as $55 to enter. Big thanks to my friend Bunney who encouraged me to buy a pass when I turned 65.  

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A disastrous fire had ripped through Waterton National Park in 2017 burning close to 50,000 acres of forest in the park, with fire so hot that it destroyed major roads that are still closed. Venturing only about 12 miles into the park, I saw burned trees where there was once forest, and shinning lakes with lovely swimming beaches surrounded by the charming (and very expensive) tourist town of Waterton. I also had the chance to see the Blackfeet “Fancy Shawl” and “Prairie Chicken” dances performed by a father and daughter team for the Blackfeet Cultural Center located in Waterton. I had been planning a night out on the town, but had to search high and low to find a less than posh restaurant with a hamburger for less than $30 Canadian  ($23 US). An evening dip into one of the many lakes in the park made it all worthwhile. I returned to the park the next 2 mornings, preparing breakfast and swimming at a picnic area outside of the town where I had an entire lake to myself.  Keeping an eye out for bears kept me close to the van.  

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My next scheduled stop is Sand Point ,Idaho, a beautiful town on a lake in northern Idaho where I will sing with the Threshold Choir on 8/17 and get a chance to visit my amazing sister-in-law, Perky. With 2 weeks to get there, I am in the enviable position of following my fancy while I head in the general direction of Idaho. I moved much faster during the first 8 months of my trip, rushing to make practice dates with the 40 choirs I planned my route around. I slowed down in the month of June, returning to New York state to sing with Lisa Littlebird and avoid tornados. I have visited 9 Threshold Choirs since July, but with no choirs along the northern route between Minnesota and Northern Idaho, my focus has changed. I am now on a mission seeking beauty. I entered a Rocky Mountain wonderland once I reached Glacier Park and I am now grooving in the Canadian Rockies. After driving through the Crowsnest Pass and investigating the largest rockslide in Canada, and passing through mountain coal mining towns, I found the delightful ski resort at Mt. Fernie. 

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Nestled in the Rockies with the spectacular “Three Sisters” mountains in sight of the hip little town of Fernie, I have planted myself in this summer mountain biker’s paradise. With a fast growing population of something like 10,000, it appears that all the residents are young, strong and beautiful. I have never seen helmeted little kids on mountain bikes, but in this town they crowd the sidewalks ushered around town by their tattooed baby mamas, also on mountain bikes. Either the residents are all of child bearing age, or there is something in the water, I have never seen so many babies and young children outside an amusement park. The summer streets are busy with helmeted locals who get around by mountain bike. Vegetarian restaurants, Brew Pubs, sidewalk cafes, art galleries and sporting goods stores dominate the historic downtown, but a funky vibe prevails, catering more to locals than tourists. I feel at home here, even though I don’t exactly blend. 

Besides incredible mountain views, the Elk river runs through town, and I found a pull out along the highway where I have been spending nights next to the river. I bathe in the river every afternoon, but I did sneak into the State Park showers yesterday morning to wash my hair. I took an evening  painting class at the art center where the “water colors” we used were tinctures the instructor made from boiling plants that are invasive species in the area. How hip is that? I got the art class singing a call and repeat song with words by Leonard Cohen, “Forget your perfect offering, Ring the bells that you can ring, That’s how the light gets in”.  I also attended the Wapiti Music Festival at one of the many parks in town and danced to the music of bands with names like “Fake Shark” and “Mountain Sound”. The festival offered the $45 daily entry to seniors for $5, which they can probably pull off because there are so few of us in this town. Loving this place, no telling when I will leave. 

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Driving the “High Road” west across northern Montana was almost like driving across Texas. For 2 days I passed through golden wheat fields and yellowing grasslands being sucked dry by the sun. Summer heat rippled across the highway, masquerading as water in the dips of the road on this gently rolling land. Tiny mirage towns built around grain elevators, silos and train tracks flashed by with no businesses offering services for travelers and no reason to slow down. Small towns with services also offer a dinosaur museum, apparently dinosaur bones have been found all over Montana. 

I was able to find an RV park on the Blackfeet Reservation with an opening for the night, the one and only open campsite in the Glacier National Park area. I had managed to secure a site inside the park for the next night. I probably wouldn’t have stayed at Running Wolf Campground had I seen the sad little prairie town where the campground is located. Entering Browning, traffic was slowed by two dazed Native American men wandering in the middle of the road near the abandoned coffee stand fashioned in the shape of a teepee. With no trees in site, and no escape from the punishing heat, a desperate black horse leaned into the side of an abandoned building to take advantage of the little bit of shade created by the roof eve. Most of the small mobile homes and wooden houses scattered in and around the reservation town suffered peeling paint, missing windows and old tires anchoring tarps on the roofs, but the view of the jagged Rocky Mountains meeting the plains 20 miles west of town was magnificent. I made a stop at Teeples IGA grocery store, and was disappointed to see jacked up prices and a lack of selection (unless you are shopping for Kool-Aid, which is offered in an outstanding selection of packaging, sizes and flavors). I was the only customer at the market who was not Native American, and not known by name to the other customers and staff. I was an outsider, and feeling it. The RV Park was fine. It was located a safe distance from downtown, at the end of a dirt road past acres of horse stables, with a haunting view of the distant mountain tops and a clean bathroom. 

The reservation land reaches all the way to the park boundary where the massive stone walls of Glacier Park abruptly rise from the plains. The commanding glacier carved mountains of the park glow with a “Yosemite” grandeur. There is a rawness to this landscape that is a continual work in progress as fire, wind, rain, freezing temperatures and landslides chip away at the massive rocks. Turquoise glacial lakes, some 300 feet deep, reflect the magnificence of the scene around them. This is a place where the power of the elements is visible, and perhaps we come to be reminded that the forces shaping this world are out of our control. The fact that few glaciers remain in the park surely adds to the excitement of seeing these remnants of a begone era while it is still possible. I had arrived during the peak of the summer season, when the place was mobbed with happy hikers, mountain bikers and families with kids, all reveling in the wonder.

After circling a few times, I found a parking spot in the Glacier NP Visitor Center parking lot, and invested a couple of hours learning about the park, the animals that inhabit the park, and the native people who lost this land in a misunderstanding at the signing of a treaty in 1896. At the time of the treaty, the US was motivated by a desire to obtain the mineral rights to the area that is now National Park land. To the Blackfeet Nation, this was a loss of ceremonial lands, and access to herbs and medicinal plants, and the lakes, streams and big game that do not exist in the grasslands around the park where the reservation was created. The snaggle toothed ridges that stand sentry over the park that are known to us as the Continental Divide, form the Backbone of the World to the First Nation people.

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When I found out that free hikers’ shuttles service the winding Going-to-the-Sun-Road that crosses the park, I spent the rest of the day “joy riding” to get the lay of the land and take a break from driving. From the shuttle, glimpses of 3 of the 24 remaining glaciers can be seen. In my lifetime, all of the shrinking glaciers in the park will disappear and/or be declassification due to melting. The shuttle is also a good way to see wildlife. I missed the mama Grizzly with 3 cubs seen next to the road that morning, but did get a good look at a big horned sheep grassing near one of the shuttle stops. The park is geared towards hikers, with scores of well-maintained trails leading to hidden glaciers, waterfalls, lakes and peaks, and shuttle stops at the trailheads. I watched, admittedly with some guilt, as flushed and sweaty hikers gratefully boarded the air conditioned afternoon shuttle following their all day hikes traversing steep mountains that start at high elevations and can climb 1,000 feet. The High Line trail, the most popular hike in the park, climbs to the crest of the Continental Divide. Carrying bear spray is a requirement on any of these trails. Respect. Me, I was exhausted after taking a couple of 3 mile hikes classified as “Less Strenuous” that climb only 300 feet. On the hike to St Mary’s Falls, where I caught a glimpse of a distant moose, I was shamed by families and loads of kids who passed me on the trail, making the trek look easy.  

I was able to finagle a second night at St. Mary’s Campground, just inside the east entry of the Park. Unfortunately, my campsite was next to a busy bathroom with nighttime lighting that interfered with star viewing. Fortunately, I was not camped next to the showers, where a line of a dozen or so dusty exhausted hikers wait for their turn to shower until well after 10:00 PM every evening. When I asked if there was a third night available at the campground, the ranger referred me to the Rising Sun Campground up the road. He told me that I should be able to get a spot at this “first come, first served” campground if I got there before 7:00 AM. For the first time in weeks, I set my alarm, and arriving at 6:50, I was eighth in line at the campground entry. The woman in the 5^thcar in the line told me she arrived at 5:30 AM. 

The line of cars grew to 20 or more as we waited for the ranger with the clipboard to tell us what was next. At 7:30 she asked that we gather in a circle for an orientation. I was in! Along with the campground rules, she explained that this is the park campground most frequented by wild animals. There are plenty of Grizzlies and Black Bears in this park, and there are fines, and confiscations, in store for any camper who leaves food, cooking utensils, or anything else with a scent considered yummy by bears unattended outside their “hard sided” vehicle. The phrase, “A fed bear is a dead bear” is frequently used by park staff to explain how serious this is. The ranger went on to say that when she got to this part of her talk the morning before, a large male grizzly passed 30 feet behind her, on cue, and continued his amble through the campground. Darn, I missed another grizzly sighting! The ranger explained that the relocation of 3 black bears that had been hanging around the campground last week, had opened the territory for new bears to move in. It was a concern that this massive grizzly appeared to have taken advantage of the opening. Hearing this gave me hope that this grizzly would visit thee camp again.

The rustic campground was nestled against a mountain with lush vegetation and lots of space between campsites. Patches of pink fireweed blossoms lit up the hillsides where the 2015 fire that burned much of the east side of the park, was stopped at the edge of this campground. Pulling into my very private campsite, well away from bathroom lights, I opened the van door to a raspberry bush offering tangy ripe raspberries for the picking. A beautiful clear stream, St. Mary’s Lake, the shuttle stop, a restaurant and the General Store were all within walking distance of the campground. I had landed in campground heaven!

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During my stay, I found the shuttles very convenient, and as I explored the park in air conditioned comfort, I  peppered the drivers with questions. They are a diverse and knowledgeable lot, and many of drivers are from the Blackfeet Nation, living on the reservation. One of the native drivers and I discovered that we shared a history of working for FEMA. He fights forest fires when he isn’t driving park shuttles. The shuttles run only during the short tourist season, from May to September, weather permitting. He didn’t mind the 12 hour schedule, and often worked 6 days a week, confiding that it was a lot easier than fighting fires. Other shuttle drivers I talked to had commutes that are longer than the 40 minute drive to Browning, making their days even longer.

“Tom” (an English version of the longer native tongue name that the other drivers called him) told me it was his day to be in charge of crowd control at the Visitor Center shuttle stop where I was the only passenger waiting for a ride back to my campsite. Because it took 45 minutes for my shuttle to appear, we had a chance to chat. He shared that First Nation people have free access to all US national parks. When I commented that the drivers must enjoy being the heroes who rescue grateful hikers at the end of the trails, he told me that not all of the riders are grateful. When I asked about that, he told me that just the day before, a bigoted passenger entering the bus made an offensive comment when he saw that the driver was a Native American. Tom said that he told the man to get off the bus, and radioed the other drivers not to pick him up, either. He also told me that he stopped for the man after 2 passes by the shuttle stop where the he waited for almost 2 hours. He said that before letting the guy onto the bus, he asked him if he understood why he was kicked off and why no other drivers picked him up. The man understood and apologized for the comment he made. The story made me proud of Tom’s action and inspired me not to hesitate to take a stand against hateful language when I hear it.   

I had been hearing from the shuttle drivers that a big male grizzly had been seen in the meadow near my campground. On my last night in the park, I drove around a bit after dark, which is supposed to be the best time to see bears, but I could see only stars in the darkness. Then, as I prepared to leave the park, I heard that ole’ man grizzly was back in the meadow. I had to park nearly a mile away and walk along the road to reach the meadow because so many spectators were parked on the shoulder of the road. Being without the protection of my van with a grizzly nearby may have been foolhardy, but I was determined to see him before I left the area. When I reached a place where I could see the bear about 300 yards from the road, a family watching from the bed of their pick up invited me to climb in. With binoculars at this vantage point, I had an excellent view of the massive hump-backed bear with powerful shoulders and bleached looking fur on his face and chest as he retreated from the meadow into denser vegetation.

Check, Grizzly Bear seen before I left the park. Following this good luck, I decided to turn left on HWY 89 to continue north to Waterton National Park, where Glacier Park continues on the Canadian side of the boundary (Canadian for border) to see what I could see. 

I have been struck by the lack of trees on the plains. On these hot days of long drives, I scan the horizon for a shady respite where Wanda and I can cool down. Forests have graced much of the land I have passed through on this trip, and I have discovered the absence of trees is unsettling. It is a relief when I see small pockets of riparian trees and shrubs shading the uncommon  rivers and streams, or spot a few struggling trees flanking solitary farmhouses in the fields. Most of the houses on the prairie that I have driven passed sit baking in isolation surrounded by miles of grassland with no protection from the relentless sun in this nearly 100° heat. Winter has to be even more demanding in these parts, where temperatures can drop to 40°below. The weathered remains of small pioneer cabins also dot the landscape, with no sign of trees, or any other support that would have made living out here easier (like the phone and electric lines that service the current residents of the prairie). Besides a lack trees for protection from the elements, I’m baffled by how prairie folk survive without wood for building their homes, for fuel, for fencing, and for everything else we depend on from this essential resource. Besides all of that, I grieve the loss of the comfort that trees could provide to these hard working family farmers and ranchers. It hurts my heart to think of people living without the poetry of trees flowering in the spring, growing and changing seasons, or trees for fruit, climbing, picnics in a shaded yard, tire swings, or the marvel of nesting songbirds.  

Having no place to spend the night, I checked out a couple of Bureau of Land Management (BLM) free campsites along my route, but found them treeless, hot and dry. My “Allstays” App is my guiding light to overnight possibilities, among other essentials like gas stations and RV dump sites. At the end of the day, after passing on unappealing campsites, a drive-by of an unsuitable Casino parking lot, and stopping for a dip in 2 reservoirs, I settled on a BLM campsite on a reservoir, seven miles off the highway. Once I turned onto the dirt road, I was committed, sight unseen. Only wheat fields were visible as far as the eye can see, but no matter what I found at the end of the road, it was 7:00 PM, and time to stop driving, hunker down and prepare dinner. 

Conscious of the storm clouds in the distance, and the rutted dirt road, I chose a camping spot on high ground, with a view of the water on three sides. The sprawling reservoir was spectacular, even with no trees in sight. To my delight, and concern, I was the only person for miles around, with no cell phone reception. I pulled out my binoculars and watched birds foraging for their evening meal. It was just me, a pair of storks, a few graceful terns extracting fish from the mirror-calm water, some noisy geese and an army of hungry mosquitos. I have to wonder how the little vampires find the blood they need to survive when there are no campers or other mammals around. Perhaps that explains why they are furiously throwing themselves at my windows, kamikaze style, determined to get to me. I doused myself with repellent to do a walk about and inspect the area, but quickly gave up trying to keep the buggers off of me and retreated to the protection of the van. 

While enjoying a Cajun vege-burger and fresh corn on the cob, I spotted a young man running along the water’s edge (presumably to keep mosquitos off) and a vehicle parked a good distance from me. After dark, Tate and his mother, Dana, knocked on my window. They told me their car was stuck in the mud and they asked if I could give them a ride up the hill in the morning. Now this put me in a dilemma. Of course, I wanted to do whatever I could to help these folks, and I wanted to find out more about them, but talking required an open window, and the mosquitos were pouring in with every word we exchanged. I swatted and fanned at them as we conversed, but it was of no use, mosquitoes were winning the battle claiming the van for all-night feasting. It did not occur to me to climb out into the mosquito night to chat with them. The situation forced me to cut the conversation short. I agreed not to leave in the morning without them, and they hiked back to their vehicle to pass the night. Later, I regretted that I had not offered them food, water and extra bedding, but there was nothing I could do about that now, I was not going to hike the half mile to their SUV in dark and muddy mosquito territory. I admit to being a mosquito whimp. In Minnesota, one evening when I hesitated to make the mosquito infested crossing from John and Lulu’s house through the garden jungle to my van parked on the street, John had to tell me to, “Buck up”. Maybe you will think better of me when you know that the pretty little California beach town that I called home for the past 14 years is pretty much pest free, unless you consider the migrating Monarchs pests. No one in Butterfly Town, has screens on their windows. I guess that makes me spoiled, and absolutely willing to stay indoors as night falls in hungry mosquito country. 

It turned out to be a long night. In addition to mosquitos, there was the storm. Driving that day, I had heard on the radio that there was a high risk of fires ignited by lightning with the current weather conditions, and I could see lightning and storm clouds headed this way. I felt compelled to stay awake, on fire patrol, knowing my mud stuck friends would need Wanda and I for escape if a prairie fire should start. For hours, the slow moving storm pummeled the area with lightning, with occasional strikes lighting a jagged path downward to the fields. Ominously, not a drop of rain fell. I would have fled the area were it not for my commitment to the mud stuck family. Instead, I prepared the van for a quick take off in case of disaster. I also said a little prayer, asking not to be struck by lightning and calling on my new fortune cookie mantra, “I’m not afraid of storms, I’m learning to sail my ship”.

It was after 4:00 AM when the storm passed, stars appeared and I felt it was safe to close my eyes. The good news was that with no rain, the road was passable in the morning and Wanda and I did not join the ranks of the mud stuck. The not so mosquitoey morning gave me a chance to offer my new friends coffee, yogurt and blueberries, and learn that they are from Port Townsend, WA, and that Tate is camping with mom during summer break from college in Minnesota. Despite my mosquito driven rudeness, the night before, friendly Dana offered me her address and extended an invitation to visit her in Port Townsend. We said goodbye a few miles up the road where they asked to be dropped off on a hilltop with cell reception. I continued west expecting to reach Glacier NP by afternoon, with no idea where I would spend the night.

I crossed into Mountain Time today, where flat prairie land gave way to the Badlands of North Dakota. Seeing country that is completely new to me is a thrill. I was not anxious to leave the shinning lake country of Minnesota, but before leaving the state, I had the opportunity to lunch with a giant roadside Paul Bunyan statue, which seemed a fitting goodbye to Minnesota.

 My first night on this leg of the trip was spent partying at a Harvest Host Winery near Fargo, ND. I arrived at 5:00, and even though it was closing time, I was welcomed by the winery owners Lisa and Greg Cook, and a friendly crowd of locals who were visiting area wineries as part of a wine passport weekend. Greg, who has a PHD in chemistry from Stanford, loves experimenting with different grapes, fruits, and, as the vegan viticulturalist proudly announced, vegetable wines. Cold country grape wines lean towards sweet, but I found their dryer offerings delightful, and was particularly impressed with the Dry Rhubarb. After sharing the purpose of my travels, a song was requested, and I was able to lead the group in the chorus of my favorite Laurence Cole song, Trees Grow Slow. Around 7:00, another winemaker and a Harvest Host couple joined the party, Greg set out big bowls of what he called Egyptian street food, and we feasted. 

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The next night, spent in a State Park overlooking the Missouri River, was quieter. Within the park, a Mandan Indian village has been reconstructed, with round huts, similar to yurts, that were wisely covered with an insulting layer of mud. A museum at the park showed old photos of the clever Mandans using bison scapulae for scraping and plowing tools. Continuing west along HWY 94, my next stop was Theodore Roosevelt State Park. Along the way, I stopped to take in western novelist, Louis Lamour’s home town, Jamestown, ND, where the National Bison Museum and the largest buffalo statute in the world are located. When I was preparing to leave town, the sky darkened and there was talk of tornados in the Subway where I was lunching. My tornado antenna immediately went up, and the young man at the counter put me at ease saying that the only tornado known to touch down in Jamestown landed in front of the buffalo statue, where, he was told by his mom, it was frightened away by the powerful protector of the town. No tornados have dared touch down here since.  

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As I drove west, the North Dakota topography transitioned from flat corn fields and prairie clear to the horizon in any direction, to rolling hills, to buttes and curious cone shaped hills, to the dramatic gorges and spires of North Dakota’s Badlands. When I parked at the Theodore Roosevelt National Park Visitor Center to take in the Painted Canyon, I was greeted by an old friend, the pungent fragrance of sage, so familiar from the arid inland valleys of California where I grew up. The canyon is breathtaking, carved layers of pastel rock and lush green canyons. 

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Medora, the small town at the entry gate of Theodore Roosevelt National Park, is a remade historic town, much in the same way that Cannery Row is a historic town rebuilt for tourists. Wealthy Harold Schaffer started by replacing the shuttered hotel in 1964, and continued to buy land and open new “old” businesses. He also started the Medora Musical. I just had to see this, despite the steep price. Over 1,000 people filled the dramatic amphitheater to see the extravaganza on this Monday night, and the producers are proud that it hasn’t changed much since 1964. Mr. Schaffer fashioned an old fashioned variety show that would showcase his “small town USA” values. He designed a program with singing (with many mentions of Jesus) and dancing, cowboys, western costumes, a gospel segment, historical skits, jokes, a magician, a band and a grand finale that includes fireworks, an American flag projected on the canyon walls, and horse riders, of course. The singing and dancing were marvelous, with plenty of young enthusiastic talent. I am still baffled by the appearance of 2 majestic multipronge antlered Elk on a hilltop, in view of the amphitheater crowd as we took our seats, that vanished as soon as the show started. Was that part of the choreography?

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I camped in a national forest campground 7 miles west of Medora that night, paying only $6 for a level campsite on the prairie with an inspirational night sky and a flush toilet and shower, to boot. As it turned out, the flat grasslands resumed just outside Medora, and would continue all the way to Glacier National Park in Montana.

I had another close call with a tornado. Ninety miles north of Minneapolis, the area I passed through had been hammered by a tornado 48 hours earlier. I was headed to a Walmart parking lot, close to an early morning repair appointment in Rice Lake, when I began to see trees blown over. On one stretch along HWY 53,  I saw trees lying on the roofs of at least 20 homes, and just as dark was settling in, I caught sight of an RV lying on its side in a shallow lake. Massive trees along both sides of the road were downed, many snapped in half with the tops landing on  houses, fences and power lines. Flashing lights on power company trucks signaled that scores of repairs were still in progress. I learned that a tornado ripped through the area south of Rice Lake on Friday night, knocking out power for 30,000 people in the area. A hotel night, and an invitation to stay in Minneapolis, kept me out of harm’s way. A message in a fortune cookie today is just the inspiration I need for the next phase of my trip venturing through the plains of North Dakota and Montana, it said, “You’re Not Afraid of Storms, for You’re Learning to Sail Your Ship”.

The wheel bearing replacement and system check I paid $600 for in Rice Lake did nothing to eliminate the noise that is tormenting me in the front end of the van. At least I have a new wheel bearing. This expensive shop, chosen because they were big enough to work on my van and I didn’t have to wait 2 weeks for an appointment, was not a good choice, but I take solace in the idea that my new wheel bearing could save me from worse problems in the future. After paying the shop, I continued north through Duluth to Grand Rapids, in northern Minnesota, land of magnificent gardens, clear water lakes, vicious mosquitos and the Lovely Loon Threshold Choir. 

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This is mosquito country, and my windshield was spattered with mosquito stew by the time I reached Lulu’s home in Coleraine, a town of 1,000 inhabitants, 6 miles east of Grand Rapids, MN. This county is proud to be the motherland of the Mississippi River, and the Grand Rapids library is built on its banks. Lulu’s house was not hard to spot in this traditional neighborhood where modest homes with manicured lawns uniformly line tree shaded streets. A calliope of color exploding in Lulu’s yard confirmed I was in the right place. And the yard is so like the effervescent Lulu, known to me from time spent together at TC International Gatherings, and online and on phone conferences as part of  Lisa Littlebird’s Songleader Flight School. We also share a mutual friend in the amazing river raft guide, Val Wolf, who was Lulu’s roommate in Napa Valley. Lulu is more at home in free spirited California than here in this conservative small town, where her pollinator garden, in lieu of a lawn, earned her a warning from the city this summer. 

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Traveling in Minnesota in the bloom of summer, I find it difficult to envision this northern land  covered with snow and ice. There are signs, like markings for cross country ski and snowboard trails, and the outdoor hockey field next to the school, and some beefy looking homes, and even a church, built of logs, that hint of a winter wonderland. At this time of year, sun tanned families can be seen picnicking, swimming, fishing, utilizing pontoon boats as floating patios on the bountiful lakes, and gathering at the ice cream shop in the evenings following little league baseball games.  

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Not feeling confident that Wanda was ready for the journey across the northern plains, the Badlands, or the mountain passes of Glacier National Park, where I am headed, I found a garage in Grand Rapids that could look at it. Waiting for the appointment gave me 5 days in Coleraine, where I painted the town with Lulu and her kind husband, John. They hosted me to a taste of true small town Americana. Summer in Coleraine is bursting with activity, and we attended the weekly community hot dog dinner in the park, a City Band performance and pie social in the Methodist Church yard, and a lakefront family pot luck and campout at a friend’s house on a lake that included singing around the campfire. This is also the land of wild rice, and harvest time is approaching. At the potluck, I talked to a “ricer” who gathers wild rice growing in the lakes by canoe. I learned that it takes two people to pull the grass over the boat and shake it so the rice falls off. He brought in 1,200 lbs. of rice last year, and explained that only 50% of the harvest remains after processing, which, split between the harvesters, left just enough for a one year supply distributed among family members. 

Lulu took me with her to sing to a Hospice patient who was actively dying. The woman’s eyes were closed and she did not speak during the sing, but we sensed that she was aware we were there. Lulu led 20 minutes of singing that included humming some of the verses and allowing each song to resonate in sweet silence. I believe I saw the woman try to open her eyes, which she did not have the strength to accomplish. They say that hearing is the last sense to leave us, and that even patients in a comma can hear conversations at their bedsides. When a patient is sleeping or not responsive, we trust the power of the music to comfort them and let them know that they are not alone. I like to think that we sing in their dreams. Threshold Choir singers do not feel the need for the kind of recognition that performers seek. We come and go quietly, satisfied in the knowledge that the music we share will deliver whatever magic it is meant to bring that patient.   

I also joined the Lovely Loons at one of their TC practices. This is the only TC choir in Minnesota, and they have a 4 hour drive to their closest neighbor TC choir in Menomonie, WI. The lonely Lovely Loons rolled out the welcome carpet for me, and their summer visitor, who sings with the Villages TC in Florida during the winter. Lulu, quick to embrace new ideas, was thrilled to have outside input, and at this practice she initiated some of the new ideas I shared from choirs I have visited. The 5 member Lovely Loons choir in this very small, and somewhat isolated town, is dedicated, has a tenacious leader and enjoys great support from the community.

I reclaimed the van at the end of the day on Friday, paid another $550 for the new rear brakes, and left for territory unknow on Saturday morning. Lulu sent me off with a gas contribution and zucchini muffins, warm from the oven.  I’m on the road again.  

Contributions for repairs and gas are much appreciated: https://paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej