Part Four: Americana
I. See You Never, Bob
The rain from yesterday had turned the trail into a slippery, sticky mud pit, made even worse by the passage of pack mules. I carefully navigated the edges, trying to balance on clumps of grass and solid patches of earth, dodging the worst of the muddy pits. Despite the effort, a sharp, throbbing pain was starting to build in my right knee. The exhaustion was starting to weigh on me, and all I could think about was finally reaching the asphalt road and getting a brief taste of civilization. I had high hopes that the weekend ahead would offer a chance to rest and recover.
As I neared the trailhead, I crossed paths with several groups of weekend hikers headed in the opposite direction. That gave me hope—maybe I’d have a better shot at hitching a ride than I originally expected. Benchmark was notorious for being a difficult spot to get a lift. You could always pay a local, but I had decided to take my chances and rely on the kindness of strangers.
When I arrived at the trailhead, the parking lot was packed, but the only signs of life were the parked vehicles—no hikers or drivers in sight. Undeterred, I started walking along the asphalt road, knowing that anyone driving in this direction would likely pass through Augusta. After a couple of miles, a mother deer and her two fawns suddenly appeared on the road before me as I trudged on. They paused a few times, eyeing me warily to ensure I wasn’t a threat. I silently hoped they wouldn’t mistake my camera for a weapon. Soon after, I finally heard the satisfying, roaring sound of an approaching vehicle. A truck. I stuck out my thumb, mustering up the biggest, most sincere smile I could manage, though I knew I probably looked ridiculous—muddy, exhausted, and smelling like a week in the wilderness. But hey, who knows!
The truck slowed and pulled over. I moved toward the door and greeted the driver, “Howdy! Are you headed to Augusta?”
The woman behind the wheel smiled. “I can take you halfway there, to an intersection. You’ll have a better shot at getting a ride from there.”
That sounded perfect. Without hesitation, I tossed my gear in the back and climbed into the passenger seat.
“My name’s Sarah,” she said with a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you.”
She explained that she was shuttling trucks down to another trailhead for clients on a backpacking weekend adventure. True to her word, she dropped me off at the intersection, and just as she drove off, another car appeared out of nowhere and pulled over. I couldn’t believe my luck. The driver was a woman named Alexandra, and she was hauling her horses back to Augusta, where she lived with her husband. As we drove, she shared her dream of crossing the country on horseback. I couldn’t help but admire the ambition behind her idea, and I wholeheartedly encouraged her. Her passion was contagious. As we cruised down the road, the endless green plains of Montana stretched out before me, dotted with grazing cattle. A wave of longing washed over me. For a moment, I imagined myself as a cowboy, living out a life of freedom and wide-open spaces. Maybe, just maybe, I could still sneak a bit of that dream into this current life.
I got dropped off in the small town of Augusta, Montana, and after checking into the motel’s campground, I found my way to the diner. Inside, the air smelled of sizzling bacon and hot coffee. I loved that smell. I slid into one of the chairs and ordered lunch with a cup of Joe. When the latter arrived, I wrapped my hands around the mug, feeling the heat seeping into my skin. The first sip hit my tongue—rough, strong, and bold. It wasn’t the finest brew, no fancy beans or silky smooth blends. Just a plain old cup of Joe from a diner in a cowboy town. But in that specific moment, it was the most comforting thing in the world. Warmth spread through me, not just from the coffee, but from the simple pleasure of it. It felt like home, and after six rough days in the Bob, it was all I needed.
II. Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys
Bits of dry earth fell to the laundromat floor as I pulled my socks off. Small cuts and bruises dotted my skin, while my calves were stained with a deep tan and layers of dirt, contrasting against the pale white of my feet. I grunted as I peeled off every one of my clothes, feeling like an older version of myself. After changing into my rain gear, I tossed my dirty clothes into the washing machine and settled in to wait. Suddenly, through the window, I spotted a familiar sight—three figures heading straight for the laundromat: Tom, “Lennon,” and his wife, “Grazer.” Tom had been nursing a sore foot, so he’d skipped the end of his trek through Glacier National Park and joined “Lennon” and “Grazer,” who I had briefly met in St. Mary’s and East Glacier. Together, they’d been one day ahead of me the entire way. I bolted outside to meet them, a surge of excitement running through me. It was funny—we didn’t really know each other, yet there was an instant connection like we had all been through the same wild journey together.
That evening, we headed to the local country bar. The place was alive with energy, filled with cowboys and cowgirls. We drank, we danced, and for a few hours, the world seemed smaller and simpler. Tomorrow, the annual parade and rodeo would begin, and I was eager for it. It felt like a perfect way to celebrate the end of one adventure and the start of another.
The next morning, I wandered through the small town of Augusta. There wasn’t much to it, but it was enough—just the right amount. A humble grocery store, a few local bars and restaurants, an antique shop tucked away in a corner. It was the kind of place where life moved at a slower pace, where simplicity still had a place. And that felt good. There was a kind of quiet pride in this town, a character that came from being far removed from the world of corporate sprawl. It was the sort of place you could breathe easy. The parade kicked off in the early afternoon. Tom, “Lennon,” “Grazer,” and I stood along the roadside, watching as vintage cars rumbled by, fire trucks flashed their lights, veterans proudly marched, and horses trotted down the street.
The following day, we made our way to the local arena for the main event of the weekend: the Annual Augusta American Legion Rodeo. The stands were packed with cowboy hats and faces full of anticipation. The atmosphere was light, almost childlike as if the whole town had gathered for one big celebration of freedom and good fun. The air was filled with the spirit of tradition, and for a moment, it felt like the world had hit pause. The past and present intertwined in a colorful display of Americana. When the national anthem began, we all stood and removed our hats. A little girl stepped up to the microphone. She had been diagnosed with cancer, and despite everything she’d been through, she sang with such grace and heart. The weight of the moment settled over the crowd, myself included. Time seemed to stretch, each note carrying a quiet reverence, until her last word hung in the air. A sudden wave of applause erupted, powerful and emotional.
Just as the sound of clapping filled the arena, a massive bomber aircraft soared overhead, its engines shaking the air. The roar of its power reverberated through every bone in my body. I stood there, fighting back tears. Though I was French by birth, at that moment, I felt a deep, undeniable connection to this country—one that had given me so much over the years and continued to do so. It wasn’t perfect, no country is, but it was one that made you feel welcome and proud, one that urged you to grow, to be the best version of yourself.
And then there was the cowboy spirit—a symbol of something older, more enduring. A way of life built on respect, hard work, and a love for the land. It was in the blood of this place, this culture, that I felt a part of something bigger than myself. Something timeless.
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Comments 1
Flossing and drinking a beer – that’s me alright!