After a 20 year road trip hiatus the Picklemobile is at it again. It will be traveling halfway across the states to prove its worth in steel. This page is a series of travel journals written by the illustrious authors Jeanne Bruland and Bruce Karhoff documenting our roadtrip across America. They are traveling with Aaron Vanderwerff in a 1976 VW Westfalia (Campervan).
Guiding Questions
To see the answers to our guiding questions and your very own questions visit our FAQ.
If you have been lax in your duties as a friend to keep up with our travels you can look back on the past writings of our staff in the Old Journals section.
To learn more about the participants in this study of Americana and the outdoors read our bios
Recent Journals
If you are interested in what we have been doing for the last few days (although now I think it must be weeks because we have not had a chance to add...), read on:
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After a night spent at Whitefish State Park (and our first showers since leaving Portland), we got up at 6 to head to the Glacier National Park. The views were already spectacular from 20 miles away. The plains give way to craggy monoliths jutting up brutally into the sky. Nearing the mountains, the shapes become more defined Smooth, wooded slopes went halfway up, giving way to exposed rock faces that the science teacher in our group identified as sedimentary. Driving along, the geology of Montana book in my hands, guide to Glacier National Park in Bruce’s lap, we read about he places we were in as we drove along. As the name implies, the spectacular vistas of the park were carved by glaciers millions of years ago, flowing through the mountains. Along the bottoms, the glaciers smoothed wide, u-shaped valleys. At the tops, they wrenched boulders free, carving the rugged formations typical of the Rockies. I’d never thought of geology as a beautiful science, but the stories to explain these incredible formations have a certain mythic quality, an epic worthy of Zeus and his Olympian companions. |
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We entered the park on the western side. A quick trip to the ranger station assured us there would be campsites available that day, and a stop for coffee and muffins assured we would be awake as we turned the van toward Going to the Sun Road, the road we would take to cross the Continental Divide, looming before us like a steadfast fortress, to the east side of the park where our campground lay. That anyone ever traversed this landscape on foot, with no road or path to follow, is amazing; that they were able to build a road there even more so. Much of the road has only a sheer cliff to welcome you were you to let your wheels drift a bit to the right. As we oohed and aahed over the spectacular views, lakes and trees and valleys laid out like Lilliput below, we admonished Aaron to keep his eyes on the road. |  |
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Fortunately there were a number of sites to pull off and admire the view, each vista more startling than the last. First we looked through trees, then climbing higher we looked down over smooth slopes, and finally we overlooked rocky crags below us. Up higher still, we could see some of the glaciers that sit in crevices beneath the peaks. The snow pack, that takes all summer to melt in parts of the park, carves the rock in its own way, creating waterfalls that carve into the rock. Some were visible, others dry by July, but their impact on the stone still evident. The van performed valiantly, even surviving a stretch driving behind an SUV from Texas that frequently stopped on slopes to take pictures out their window. We felt only slightly chagrined as a bicyclist pedaled past us as at an overlook. At Logan Pass, we crossed the continental divide and began our descent. High-pitched pips filled the air as we walked around the visitor center. I looked around for the birds, only to realize they were created by Columbian ground squirrels, small furry rodents standing up on their back legs, rising out of their holes, holding their front legs under their chins as if begging for food. “Peep!” they shouted to each other, “Peep!” standing very still, eyes darting about, scouting for danger. They apparently felt no threat from the humans standing around snapping pictures. |
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We saw a crowd gathered at the end of the parking lot, where we joined to watch a herd of about ten bighorn sheep grazing next to the road. They, too, seemed utterly unconcerned about the strange, two-legged beasts who stood gawking. They munched away contentedly on the grass and tall, green weeds that covered this small patch of flat land before the terrain jutted suddenly upwards in gray crags. On the trip back down the mountains, the air grew hotter and I shed the blanket around my legs, my jacket, then finally my sweatpants and socks. At lower elevations, wildflowers abounded – purples and yellows and oranges carpeting the fields next to crystal blue lakes. On flat ground again, we headed for our campground, still staring up at the peaks where we had been only moments before. |  |
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With the van’s muffler falling off, Aaron and I headed out of the Park to find a place to get it welded. The only town of any size in the area was Browning, so we headed east. Leaving Glacier, we found ourselves in the Great Plains. We soon crossed into the Blackfeet Reservation, but other than a campground offering teepees for your sleeping enjoyment, it looked like a lot of Montana – rolling hills, like gentle waves on a calm lake, covered with grasses and cattle grazing. Barbed wire fences along the side of the road were the only signs of human development for miles. 40,000 buffalo once roamed these stretches, providing sustenance and resources for the peoples who once lived across these expanses, who now call only this small corner of the state we were crossing home. I noticed on the map that Browning was also home to the Museum of the Plains Indian, a small consolation for our having left the spectacular mountain peaks behind for a simple repair. Driving into town, the evidence of human occupation was clear. Old, weathered, rusty metal trailers sat near the road, old car bodies, wheels and other parts strewn around. Some homes had horses tied up behind them, an occasional flower pot or other sign of life giving glimpses of beauty, but mostly presenting the impression of the lack of money, desolation and hopelessness often associated with the First Nations of this continent. We found a repair shop by following a white, plywood sign on the main road, reading “Auto Repair” in stenciled black letters, an arrow underneath pointing to a side road. After being told they couldn’t work on it until four, and that this was the only shop in town that could do the welding, we headed off to the museum |
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The center did nothing to improve my vision of the state of the Blackfeet nation. Built in the 60s, it seemed a monument to the empathetic, white, liberal view of Native America – complex societies reduced down to arts and crafts and a few ceremonies. On display were numerous artistic items – clothing, bowls, toys and other carved and beaded items – and a few dioramas depicting the buffalo hunt and several religious ceremonies, clay figurines painstakingly arranged decades ago in scenes like someone’s junior high history project. The video told the story of the Plains peoples from the 1500s, when horses were first traded north by tribes in contact with the Spanish, to their final defeat and banishment to the reservations, including the one on which we sat. The video ended with a look to the future, pictures of members of the Plains tribes in different occupations, one foot in their culture and traditions, the other in modern U.S. society, an example for all of us in these confusing times. Stepping outside, this example seemed a bit premature. Worn cement buildings lined the road, paint peeling to reveal the layers underneath. Driving to a park to eat lunch, the only buildings looking in good repair were the post office and a Subway Sandwiches. The only business with a full parking lot was the Public Assistance building. |  |
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Back at the auto repair shop, a contrasting vision to this bleak exterior began to emerge. We took our seats on the worn vinyl chairs, a dull brown with chromo reminiscent of a 70s dentist’s waiting room. As we sat, several people came in to pick up their cars. Each stopped to chat with the owner of the shop – one recommending her daughter to be their new receptionist, one discussing his son’s business. They obviously knew each other, and I was aware that, despite the shiny waiting room, my mechanic only knows my name because he reads it out of the appointment book. After a few minutes, I walked to the auto supply store to get oil for an oil change. I piled the six bottles on the counter and was helped by a 12-year-old girl. When I paid with a credit card, she called out, “Auntie!” and said something in a language I took to be that of the Blackfeet nation. Returning to wait for the van, the 8-year-old granddaughter of the owner was there. She sat shyly next to me at first, holding her doll in her lap, its plastic skin only slightly lighter than her own sienna shade, the doll’s hair thick, straight and black like her own. “Do you know what my doll likes to do?” she asked. Over the next 45 minutes, until the car was ready, we fixed her doll’s hair and I learned that her doll was scared of fireworks, but she liked them; that they both liked riding horses, although once she was bucked off and got hurt; that her favorite food was macaroni and cheese and her doll’s spaghetti; that she had new kittens at her house. In short, quiet sentences she painted a picture of reservation life for me very different from my impression upon seeing the dilapidated buildings and museum visions of a glorious past. Muffler securely in place and new oil lubricating the engine, we drove out of town past the same dilapidated buildings and rusty car parts. Somehow the picture didn’t seem as bleak as it had before, my vision having shifted beyond the surface pictures to see a tiny glimpse of the complex tapestry of this community.
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