I was driving home from work last week and saw a sign that reminded me of the week we spent in
Hamilton back in June, the first time I've been to that part of Montana since the mid-eighties. I didn't
realize the entire Bitterroot valley had become a suburb of Missoula, a prime
example of 'If you love something plop a McMansion down in the middle of it,
then pave it, landscape it and fence it until it looks just like where you came
from, only with mountains.' And don't forget the big stone gate and No
Trespassing signs.
Not that this should come as a
surprise. Americans have been spoiling the really good spots for generations. I
remember when I was a little kid, California was the promised land. Sun! Sand!
Your very own lemon tree in the back yard! Every kid dreamed of growing up and moving
to the west coast. And then they all did, and California became one massive
freeway traffic jam, and all the Californians packed up and moved elsewhere. Which
explains why, in the nineties, one of the most popular bumper stickers in
Portland read: Welcome to Oregon. Enjoy
your visit. Then GO HOME.
Eventually, all the places with ski
slopes and oceans were completely overrun, and the people who originally lived
there got fed up and moved to other, more remote places like the most desirable
bits of Montana and Idaho and Wyoming, and the natives of those places were
forced to move to what was left of Montana, Idaho and Wyoming. Or, Lord help
them, North Dakota. Oddly, no one seems to be flocking to Nebraska or Kansas,
but I suppose even that day may come.
After five days in the tangle of
commerce and upper middle class complacency that was once one of the most
verdant agricultural valleys in the state, I have never been happier to set my
feet back on Glacier County soil. Nary a Prius nor a transplanted east coast
yuppy lawyer in sight, except those passing through on their way to Glacier
National Park.
I suppose I should be concerned
that they'll fall in love with our million dollar views and we'll be next in
this tag team match of Movin' On In, but I'm having a hard time working up much
of a lather. From what I've seen, folks who have the money to plant their
custom-built, luxuriously rustic homes anywhere they want generally choose
locations where the nearest commercial airport is less than half a day's drive,
and they can't see their breath on an average of two hundred and ninety-five
mornings out of three hundred and sixty-five, not counting the really cold
years.
I also figure it's not a
coincidence that the east slope of the Rockies has remained relatively
unscathed. Our interminable west wind may play hell with hairstyles, the local
McDonald's sign and my sanity, but it does a stellar job of knocking back
swarms of mosquitoes and movie stars.
Now if it could just relocate a few gophers.