From Jackson, Wyoming, we might have driven through Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. But instead I choose a route through Idaho.
Reason: With summer underway, the roads are chock-a-block with slow-moving mobile homes; we want motion, not gridlock and tollbooths.
So it’s the backroads, through Driggs and Ashton, where a giant revolving root beer float beams us into Frostop…
…for the tastiest grilled ham and cheese and tater tots I ever ate, washed down with root beer.
Battered and buttered. (And soda’d.)
Or, to coin a new word: rood (road food), a.k.a. free radical heaven.
Heading north through Harriman State Park, the engine light on the dashboard lights up orange.
“Not a big deal,” says Andrew. “Usually a computer glitch or something minor.”
I consult the manual. It, also, does not express alarm.
But when we pass a service station with a full-on mechanic’s garage in Island Park, I decide to swing in, check it out.
A wiry, mustachioed mechanic checks the oil—and concludes the engine needs some, really bad. He pours a quart—and watches in amazement as it immediately drips onto the ground, forming a sizable puddle.
“That’s not good,” he growls.
It propels Andrew into a state of panic. “Ohmigod! This could be serious!”
When Andrew gets nervous, he goes manic, so he just keeps blabbering as I try to elicit information from the mechanic.
“Andrew,” I hiss. “You have more to gain from listening than running your mouth off. Give the expert a chance to tell us what he thinks.”
“I don’t even want to start the engine,” says the mechanic. “I’ll wheel under it, take a look.”
He slides beneath the Clubhouse on Wheels (COW), takes a good look, twists around, then wheels himself out and jumps to his feet. “It’s your lucky day, boys. Loose oil filter.”
I just had it serviced six weeks ago,” I say.
“Where?”
“The Chevrolet dealer where I bought it.”
The mechanic shakes his head. “They fucked up. Could-a been catastrophic. Another couple minutes and your engine would have cracked. I tightened the filter. Now let’s make sure that’s really what it is.” He grabs a couple quarts of oil, pours one in and crouches down for a good view. No leaking. He pours another quart. And another. “Yup. Your lucky day. If you’d needed an oil pan, you’d be here a few days.” He checks and rechecks the oil gauge. “Good to go.”
Thus, battered, buttered and oiled, we continue rolling north toward Montana.
Our destination is Livingston, because that’s where, three months earlier, a friend in Palm Springs advised me to see the real Montana. But on this day, Livingston is quiet and drab. And its only historic hotel—Murray’s—is sold out to a wedding party.
I’m hit with a new idea: Double-back through Bozeman and head for Butte, an old copper mining town. I’m thinking it must be like Jerome, Arizona, of which I had fond memories from a road trip two months before.
And there isn’t much time because we are fast approaching 5:33, the magic moment by which I desire to be settled somewhere for a cocktail and the promise of fine cuisine.
From a distance, Butte looks appealing.
That quickly changes upon entering.