Across The Front Line Against Terror

  Libby, Montana, United States
Wednesday, October 4, 2006

The Canadian resort town of Fernie (pop. 4,200), lying deep in a fold of the Rocky Mountains in the southeastern corner of British Columbia, has an idyllic setting. On either side of the Elk Valley soar ranges of crag-capped peaks, their lower slopes blanketed in dense forests. In early October deciduous and evergreen species combine to produce a spectacular display of autumnal colour.

Out of season Fernie is a sleepy place, the perfect tonic for someone suffering, as I was, following my exertions on The Cowboy Trail, from the combined effects of dehydration, exhaustion and sunburn. I spent a few lazy days there, dividing my days between writing up my travelogue at the town's fine Victorian library and enjoying panoramic views of the mountains during late afternoon walks along the network of leafy trails that follow the tumbling Elk River. In the evenings I would make use of my hotel's spa facilities and explore the cornucopia of North American television. By Friday morning I was ready for the road again.

Mountain View, Fernie BC

Scenery, stunning though it undoubtedly was, was the last thing on my mind as I negotiated the continuous flow of logging trucks and other heavy traffic travelling west on narrow, winding Inter-Provincial 3. I was driven repeatedly onto the rough stony shoulder where I soon discovered that the new tyre I'd picked up wasn't as bullet proof as I'd hoped. Delayed by a spate of punctures it took the best part of the morning to complete (what should have been an easy) thirty kilometres downhill to the confluence of the Elk and Kootenay valleys. At the small settlement of Elko (pop. 163) I put my frustration to one side and ate lunch at the general store, a place that specialised in the sale of chainsaws, ammunition and fireworks. Hunting trophies adorned the walls and men in camouflage milled around talking of game.

Turning south onto BC 93 to follow the broad flat valley of the Kootenay, I left the juggernauts to continue west on Inter-Provincial 3 and entered a greener gentler landscape. A densely wooded ridge rose to my left while, several miles across the valley to my right, a hazy-blue range of hills stretched along the horizon. Ahead, a flat smooth ribbon of road ran arrow-straight through pine forest, promising rapid progress. Deer grazed along the roadside verges, bolting into the trees on my approach while, overhead, the sun sat high in a cloudless sky. All was well, save for one niggling concern: 'Will they let me in?' With each turn of the wheels my anxiety increased.

Elk River at Fernie BC

A gold-trimmed Stars And Stripes adorned the reception area of U.S. border station at Roosport. Framed portraits of Messieurs Bush and Cheney smiled sinisterly down from their perches on the wall. Elsewhere in the building, officials of Department of Homeland Security were busy checking me out. As the delay continued I tried to put myself in the shoes of the officials: a Belfast boy with half a passport full of Arabic and no return ticket - I was ticking all the wrong boxes. The palms of my hands accumulated sweat as I contemplated the humiliating prospect of a forty-kilometre ride back to Elko. But thankfully I held a trump card, one that would surely cause the authorities, if they were in any way reasonable people, to discount all other factors - I was born on the Fourth of July.

Finally two officials came out and went through a kind of 'good cop, bad cop' routine. A jolly avuncular sort, who bore a striking resemblance to William Shatner, questioned me courteously about my travel plans while a mean-looking guy with a tache and a tattoo flicked slowly through my passport, a page at a time, pausing to glower at me if he found a stamp that aroused his displeasure. I answered all the questions truthfully and threw in a bit of blarney for good measure. When the good guy told me that I was being admitted to the United States I felt like kissing him - but thought better of it. My mug shot and fingerprints were taken and the good guy went off to find the appropriate stamp for my passport. The mean guy was still glowering at me. After a lengthy silence he confided that he was thinking of visiting Australia and sought my opinion of that country. Poisonous snakes sprang to mind but I kept schtum.

I pedalled south through open cattle country into The Land of the Free. A plethora of signs adorned the roadside. 'Welcome to The Tobacco Valley' said one. 'Montana - Big Sky Country' announced another. There were signs promoting real estate, golf courses, country clubs, marinas, casinos, hotels, motels and Jesus. About eight miles down the valley - just north of the town of Eureka (pop. 1,017) - a small shopping mall sat at the junction of two highways.

I withdrew some greenbacks from an ATM machine, ordered a sandwich from a fast food joint and sat down to watch the evening's show: a classic American stereotype was about to come true. Out in the parking lot a man of considerable girth squeezed himself out from behind the wheel of a newly arrived Sports Utility Vehicle and waddled across the parking lot. A few seconds later another gas-guzzler drew up and disgorged his female counterpart. Two hundred and fifty pounds of 'big beautiful woman' lumbered into KFC. I looked on aghast as the procession of corpulence continued. Behemoth followed behemoth across the lot -half a dozen giants within the space of ten minutes. Huge pants bulged over pasty flesh and flabby breasts - some of them male - flopped around under flimsy T-shirts. Soon the colonel's place was backed up to the door. Then, the daddy of them all - three hundred pounds plus of all-American male - emerged from a pick-up and hauled himself across the tarmac, huffing and puffing every step of the way. I grabbed my sub and skedaddled before the sun disappeared.

Turning southwest I raced along Montana 37 as it traced a course over grazing pastures, then up and across the darkening flanks of a wooded range of hills. Seven miles in, the road dropped sharply and the sign for a campground appeared. After pausing briefly to pay a fee, I coasted down a steep track through pine forest to emerge on the shore of a large body of water. I stood on the lakeshore in the fading light and gazed across at a deep-blue, mile-distant ridge. Ripples of water lapped softly on the stones at my feet -all else remained majestically still.

Later that evening I ventured into the nearby village of Rexford (pop. 151). The neon glow of a Budweiser sign drew me to a converted log-barn on the edge of town. Inside the bar, sepia photographs of lumberjacks lined the walls. I shuffled my way to the counter through a noisy Friday night crowd, feeling beardless and out of place. A less than obliging barmaid demanded ID before she would serve me a beer. A powerfully built guy, who was stood next to me knocking back Wild Turkey at an alarming rate, noticed that I talked funny and had a passport - a rarity in these parts. He introduced himself with a bone-crunching handshake and asked where I was from. Upon being informed that I was Irish he surprised me somewhat by demanding to know whether I'd come to 'blow up the dam'. After I'd assured him that my dam-busting days were over, he offered me some chewing tobacco and bragged about his love of fighting.

Later, while I was chatting to a woman who was curious as to why anyone would cycle, her worse half - a drunk with a long beard, bloodshot eyes and several missing teeth - came over and began muttering aggressively. I took this as my cue to leave and drank up swiftly. As I walked back to camp along the darkened highway it seemed as if every star in the heavens was visible. I could see why they called it 'Big Sky Country'.

Next morning, as I was loading up the bike, a woman with greying straggly hair and a forehead full of worry lines came over from a nearby trailer and presented me with some soft drinks for the day's ride. Debbie introduced first herself and then her 'therapy dog', a small terrier sporting a dog-jacket onto which a patch emblazoned 'US Navy Veteran' had been sewn. Politeness dictated that I enquire further. Debbie, it transpired, had taken part in Operation Desert Storm - the 1991 US-led campaign to expel Iraqi forces from Kuwait - and suffered from 'Gulf War Syndrome' a debilitating illness that affects the nervous system, among other things. Debbie had had a rough time of it. I thanked her for her kindness and hit the road.

With no settlements before Libby, some 60 miles away, I was heading into the wilds again - but I wasn't unduly concerned. My map showed the green line of Highway 37 running in tandem with the blue shoreline of serpentine Lake Koocanusa as it wound its way south-west through a deep section of the Kootenay valley. But maps can give a misleading impression - especially when combined with wishful thinking - and I soon found that the highway, rather than clinging tight to the water's edge as I'd hoped, followed a winding course of its own, clambering, for most of its length, over steep wooded hillsides and dropping only occasionally to embrace the lakeshore.

Looking North Along Lake Koocanusa MT

I climbed then coasted, coasted then climbed, climbed then coasted again. Aside from deer scrabbling around in the undergrowth or the odd motorcyclist out for a weekend cruise the road was largely my own. Pausing at a lookout, my gaze followed the course of the broad crescent of aquamarine below as it curved gently around the gorge before disappearing betwixt steep-sided, tree-green slopes leaving mists of evaporation in its wake. Branches rustled in the breeze and pine-scented air filled my lungs. Truly I had discovered a land of the free.

It was mid-afternoon when I stopped at a small stony beach to assuage my hunger, having covered a modest twenty miles. A pair of chipmunks - cavorting around on the rocks - provided company and entertainment as I munched my way through lunch. I took leave of my newfound friends and got back into the saddle. Climbing again I found, to my dismay, that the meal had done next to nothing for me. I felt devoid of energy and struggled to complete even modest ascents without pausing for a breather on the way up. I soldiered on for another few miles, breaks becoming ever more frequent. The lake's waters stretched off into the distance only to curve out of sight beyond a wooded point - no hint of a dam ahead. Higher up, a thin black ribbon of tarmac tracked across pine-covered slopes. The long slow decline of the sun continued inexorably.

Back in Calgary, I'd made a trade-off: expedition cookery meant front wheel panniers, a burden - and expense - I'd opted not to bear. The twenty-dollar alcohol stove I carried was cheap and compact but limited in its capabilities. Bear-phobia had dissuaded me from using it at the campground the previous evening. For the past twenty-fours hours I'd been getting by on sandwiches and cereal bars, a diet that was totally inadequate for the energy my body was expending - it was no wonder I was struggling. I stopped by the roadside to heat the contents of a can of chilli, which I hastily gobbled down. A modicum of fuel in the tank, I limped on.

Lake Koocanusa MT

After forty exhausting miles, just as the sun struck the ridgeline opposite, a hoarding announced: 'Marina & Campground'. Drawing closer the magic words 'Restaurant' and 'Bar' appeared too - it was an absolute godsend. As I sailed down through the trees lining the long entrance drive, I fantasised about the meal I was about to eat. Down by the marina large shiny pick-up trucks pulled large shiny boats up a slipway on large shiny trailers while, on terrace of the nearby bar, happy looking middle-aged men showed each other large shiny fish.

The proprietor of the establishment, a man with a particularly dreadful blond mullet hairstyle, had an interesting snippet of information for me. After 9/11 the federal authorities had closed the road across Libby Dam as a counter-terrorist measure. The dam was Number 29 on Al-Qaeda's hit list, he continued earnestly. I went off to set up my tent wondering who or what was Number 28 on the hit list and why he, she or it was deemed to be more worthy of destruction than Libby Dam.

Libby Dam MT

The following morning, after a large breakfast, I hit the road again, bound for the bright lights of Libby. After a couple of miles the dam came into view, its silvery wall and pair of squat towers mirrored on the smooth surface of the lake below. I drew up in the viewing area to find that, as promised, a chain-link fence barred vehicular access to the road across the dam - by diktat of the Department of Homeland Security. Passing up on trek along the wall to the visitor's centre on the other side, I paused to read some informational notices.

During the nineteenth century boats transported lumber and minerals to the railhead at Libby from mines and mills further up the Kootenay River. Later the railroad was extended up the valley and a number of settlements were established. Following the construction of Libby Dam in 1970 these townships - with the exception of Rexford - disappeared under the waters of Lake Koocanusa - the name is an amalgam of Kootenay, Canada and USA. Highway 37 had been blasted out of the hillside at around the same time.

Kootenai River near Libby MT

Below the dam the highway dropped sharply for a couple of kilometres before levelling out. I coasted contentedly alongside the resurrected river as it rolled peaceably through its gorge: horses roamed grassy water meadows; anglers stood mid-stream fishing for trout; and, in the woods above, unseen huntsmen blasted away at their prey.

'Remember me?' - A bearded, bleary-eyed countenance emerged from the passenger-side window of a passing car. I'd met Jim at the campground the night before and we'd chatted awhile. In his mid-thirties, he was a military reservist who'd recently returned from a long stint in Iraq. He liked being out in the woods because the army couldn't recall him - at home he lived in fear of the telephone. I'd said that I might join him for a beer in his cabin but in the event my long-anticipated date with a large juicy steak had come between us. Jim's sister guided the car slowly alongside and a mobile conversation ensued. They were on their way to Yellowstone for more relaxation therapy - and phone dodging. As the car pulled off into the distance, Jim continued to hang from the window, beating a manic tattoo on the door panel. He looked a broken and haunted man.

ENDS