Day 25: Dillon, Montana

It was like that when I got there

I arrived in Dillon humbled, exhausted, and wet, with little desire other than rest. Hopefully I can be forgiven for learning as little as I did about the place. Population three thousand something, apparent agricultural center for grain and feed, minor historical interest, center of town displaced by outlying services that cater to Interstate 15. I spent most of my time there lazing in my motel room, occasionally prowling out for diners and supermarkets.


A bit of local history that I learned nothing about

I checked into the (presumably) locally owned Sundowner Motel, much cheaper than the nearby franchise hotels. The closest source of food was a taco bus parked permanently in the motel's parking lot. The interior of the white painted school bus had been converted to a restaurant, with benches lining the front half and a kitchen in back. It was run by a couple. In between orders, the husband moved to the front of the bus to watch the Beijing Olympics on a television installed there, while the pregnant wife remained hidden in the kitchen. In the brief glimpses I had of her, I couldn't tell if her one dropping eyelid was blackened, infected, or simply deformed.


Fulfill all your wishes with my taco flavored kisses

About the most interesting thing I encountered in Dillon was one of the staff at the Sundowner. Though the motel offered internet access, I found that their router's wireless signal didn't reach my room. Using my laptop, I traced the signal roughly to its source; there were many concrete walls between it and my room. Since blogging was a priority, I would have to change rooms... or motels.

I checked in at the office, where I was helped by a woman with a bouffant orange hairdo. She spoke with a trace of a southern accent, and talked as long as possible on each breath, causing odd punctuations with each sharp intake that would flatten her nose and draw down her upper lip.

I identified myself as a travel writer, having chosen it as the simplest shorthand to describe my need. She showed an immediate interest and asked who I wrote for. I explained that I was working independently, which led to a revelation about her own work as a sort of travel writer. Apparently she'd worked in the service industry most of her life, and kept a collection of tips describing how to get the best deals from hotels. Her daughter had urged her to go to print, and she'd had one article published so far, writing as Penelope Wanderluster. In the end, she was able to find a room that suited me, and I remained at the Sundowner.


Grain and feed. Feed and grain.

I bicycled around the streets of Dillon, enjoying its easy, level roads. Dillon rests in another high mountain valley where you can see forever, and I wondered what it must be like to live at the top of the world, beneath such an open, endless sky. I wondered if it effected the group mind of the community. Did it make them feel free, or insulated? Did their children grow up strong and unafraid, or remote and bigoted? Or did it make any difference at all?


At the top of the world