This is Black Robe country. Father DeSmet came here westward from ST Louis and set up a mission among the Blackfeet. He set up many missions along his trek westward. This area, this lake we are visiting is called Priest Lake. It used to be called by one of the Black Robe’s actual name but was changed to reflect a more general tone.
Priest Lake and the Priest River region are jewels set in the panhandle of Idaho. This panhandle region is so seemingly pristine, so “out there” and remote. Broad rivers of emerald hue reflecting a cumulus sky grace the valleys. The mountains here are broad-shouldered but not jutting and craggy so much as the eastern side of the Cascades we just left. They are draped in vestments of cedar, pines of various species, and layers of dense, Irish green growth. It’s a captivating place.
Are now usual approach to finding a great campsite is to wing it...sort of. We head off where we want to go with no reservation, whereas, last winter and earlier we usually reserved spots ahead of time. Folks back in Washington told us that Priest Lake was a great place to camp and hang out, so here we found ourselves. This time, however, the new practice almost backfired on us. Camp after camp was sold out, no spots left to set up camp. Indeed, Lubay, where we ended up, had a sold out sign posted. Diane, not to be deterred, insisted we tour the campground to see for ourselves and lo and behold there really were quite a few empties. We chose a terrific site, once again it seemed to be about a half acre in size. It was heavily wooded all around and privacy was near guaranteed. I resumed my morning campfire routine. We barbecued chicken. I made a cedar walking stick from dead fall. We took in the beach and the only slightly chilled lake was ideal for floating about on our lounger. Perfect.
As it began to rain on our second evening out of our three day stay we decided to leave one day early. It was 250 some odd miles to Glacier, our next stop. Why not carve out some miles so we could get to Glacier and meet up with the Parsons, Dusty and Cindy, at a decent hour on Friday. They are heading to Glacier, too, from camps near the Canadian border. We’ll hang out with them for two or three days in Hungry Horse before they take off for destinations south. Diane will cook up some navy bean soup for us all. We have great times with them and look forward to meeting up with them again. I want to hear about the areas they have been visiting with the idea of heading that way on a return trip some day.
Across the panhandle we ventured towing the Jeep, Quicksilver. Highway 2 is the ticket. This particular highway has to be one of the most beautiful stretches of asphalt man has yet created. Starting in Washington state in leads clear across that state, through the panhandle of Idaho, entering Montana’s western border and leading straight to Hungry Horse. Its entirety is flush with breathtaking and mouth-gaping scenery, uncrowded, unhurried, and inspiring. Purposeful, smallish communities form in the valleys of the ranges here, some dedicated to the lumber trade, others to a mercurial tourist trade, but each with a seeming reason to be there. No haphazard urban sprawl occurs here. I guessed at the time that 1 out of every 10 vehicles is a log truck. Destination...we figure that out as we go.
I knew that Highway 2 took us all the way to our next planned destination in Hungry Horse. Why we decided to plug into Google maps is a dumb-headed mystery. We didn’t need it. Force of habit, I suppose. So, for nearly four hours everything went perfectly, just like we didn’t plan it. Beautiful scene after beautiful scene unfolded before us as we drove carefully along US 2. Suddenly, a few miles east of Libby, Montana, the ubiquitous voice from Google said we should take the next right. “What?” I replied. I knew we should stay on 2. Diane said, we better do as it says, maybe it would be a shortcut. Google seems to always chart the shortest route. Maybe there was trouble up the road and Google was taking us around it. Off the two lane highway we turned, down a forest service road, paved...sort of. It was really about a lane and a half of semi-solid black top, broken up with pot holes and dips and humps, but drivable. However, the further down this road we traversed, the narrower it became. Traffic was very sparse so it seemed like no big deal. It was a really pretty stretch of road with a pristine creek running quickly alongside so ...what the heck, let’s just enjoy the ride.
Twenty miles into this unneeded detour things began to deteriorate. The sign said we could rejoin Highway 2 in 8 miles, make a left turn. The road bed itself improved. A sign announced that it had been the subject of the American Reinvestment Act that the Obama administration had initiated. It became smooth as silk. However, the road began to follow a steep uphill route clinging precariously to the side of a mountain. It grew more narrow with each passing half mile. Drop offs of hundreds of feet off the passenger side began to appear. No shoulder or room for error was left. Being as I was towing the Jeep, if someone came the other way I could not back up. We were screwed big-time. Prayers were offered up by us both under our breaths.
Then it happened. Swinging down the road around a sharp bend came a pickup truck towing a boat. He had as much business being there as I did...none. Her was probably as nervous as I was at this point. I didn’t see him potentially as a back up candidate and I knew I couldn’t either. Lord have mercy on us both. But, it appeared! There it was...a slight shoulder, just barely enough for me to hug so he could possibly get by. It seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Diane, being in the passenger seat on the side of the RV that hung precariously near the edge of the precipice was beside her herself. I don’t blame her. Inside, under my faux manly exterior of stern composure, I was, too. Somehow, by God’s great mercy or by a Guardian Angel’s lead we passed each other without a nick, me sitting dead still on the quaking shoulder while the pickup inched, and I mean inched, by us. Looking back on this eventful section of road, I have to say it challenged every bit of RV driving skill I amassed during the past year and a half. Every bit of it. Diane was still shaking as we pulled into Logan State Park on the glass-like Middle Thompson Lake, 45 miles from Hungry Horse. Lesson learned...never trust it all to Google Maps. Keep a real map close at hand just to be sure. Before we begin each day Diane and I recite a little prayer. “ Lord, take us where you want us to go, and thank you so much for your gifts and graces on our trip, we appreciate everything you do for us so much.” I’m certain he took us down that Forest Service road for good reason.