6 am. I just got up to the gentle tinkling of my iPhone alarm. I am not interested in any 2-hour time shift wake-up headaches and, these days, I invariably am too tired to write at night. “These days” meaning in general, not this trip. I had a thought about this last night--while I may not feel as though caregiving is an exhausting treadmill (so far,) I am sure that being in constant charge of someone else who can neither put his own coat on nor find the bathroom himself is having the same effect as being the mother of toddlers. At night, your brain just says “no.”
On the Empire Builder, Mom (who has taken cruises of many stripes,) likened the cabin and dining arrangements to shipboard. While Amtrak does not feed you as bodaciously as a Viking cruiseliner, you never feel--when the next meal time arrives--that you’ve done much to burn off the last fueling. As a result we got to Whitefish well primed for a bed & breakfast experience of the bountiful food sort.
Woody and Betsy, who run the Good Medicine Lodge, believe in breakfast. Yesterday’s offering included individual asparagus quiches, slices of scone, a commodious dish of mixed berries, a sideboard loaded with cereals, juices, milks (including soy,) and an assortment of toastable breads with jams. Plus coffee. There is always espresso, tea and cookies on offer all day. They invite you to sample wine and cheese at 4 if you’re around, and yesterday afternoon set out a platter of raw veggies with dressing.
As it is the lowest of low-season in Montana’s Flathead Valley (skiing is over, summer fun at least a month away,) we are the only guests for now, and we’re feeling a little bad that our food intake capacity is so relatively minimal.
Today we will be exploring Glacier National Park, and--today being Easter, when many stores close--we’ve packed our plentiful dinner leftovers from McGarry’s Roadhouse (across the street,) and will be having cold noodles, wokked veggies, and fish for lunch. Which I hope will not be in the car. Mom is worried about mountain lions.
Yesterday, in the Whitefish train depot’s “Stumptown Museum,” Walter, the venerable museum volunteer who tottered around illuminating various highlights for us, mentioned (after pointing out the taxidermied large cat,) that such felines were more dangerous to hikers than bears. (I know that, being much familiar with goings on in the Boulder area where Jeff’s brother lived for years,) but I am not concerned that we will be jumped by a lion if we stick to the more populous easy circuits, especially in a group of three. I hope that since it is “National Park Day,” or something, and entry is free, that there will be enough other visitors for her not to feel like a strolling kebab.
At the museum, it slipped that yesterday was Walter’s birthday (something, he said, like 21 x 4.) Mom made us sing happy birthday to him. This is so typically Gale, but I’ve learned that resistance is futile and went along.
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