The Lake

We finished our exploration of Yellowstone National Park and it was time to decide whether or not we would track up to northwestern Montana and explore Glacier National Park. Frankly, I was physically tired of all the driving and schedule keeping and now anxious to find a home, but this journey wasn’t all about me. I asked Sean to make the judgment call.

“What do you think?” I asked, “I am kind of spent.”
Sean looked at the map and thought for a while, “It might be a year or more until we make it out this way again. Those glaciers are melting, so…I say let’s go,” and he flipped the map shut and started driving. I started a movie for the kids and mentally prepared myself for another full day in the van.

All afternoon we pushed on. We tried to grab a bite in Missoula but it was around 8:30 p.m. and all the restaurants downtown had restrictions with serving children after a certain hour. We walked down street after street holding our large line of toddler’s hands, pre-school hands, kindergarten hands, and so on. A drunken young dude applauded us for successfully crossing an intersection. (Something I highly doubt he could have done himself.) I looked around the ground for something to whip at his stupid, laughing head but refrained from chucking an empty whisky bottle I spotted near the curb. It was difficult to explain stupidity to our children as they were asking questions about liquor laws and why people act the way they do. I felt especially bad for Riley, who was all dressed up for a night on the town and no one would have her.

We ended up eating dinner in our trailer at a casino’s dirt parking lot. Riley wore a face of disappointment as she chewed her sandwich. Her father gently commented how beautiful she looked and how so many people missed out on her company. I touched her arm and gave her a smile. It was time to gather ourselves back into the van and move on. We had a lot of distance to cover.

I hate driving at night for two main reasons: You cannot see the terrain and secondly, the campgrounds are closed after 10pm so that means we would be camping in another truck stop or a Wal-Mart parking lot. The only benefit then is that the children are asleep and not fighting with each other out of boredom.

We traveled through a few Indian reservations and I pondered how their outlook was on the white people nowadays. Some of these reservations were in gorgeous parts of the country, some were in the middle of nowhere with just dirt. We were passing through a reservation with a flat land area surrounded by mountains. It was dark. Only the moonlight aided our sight. We needed gas and a station was marked nearby off the road. No lights were on but there were a few locals pumping gas.

“Strange,” I said quietly.
“Are they open?” Sean thought out loud, “ATM or credit card, I guess,” and he hopped outside.

The other patrons silently pumped their gas. It was not the place or the right time for small talk. Whoever was out this late or at this location was likely to have a story and I knew I didn’t want to hear it. We pumped our gas and returned back on the road.

The road lay before us, flat and black. The moon just a sliver, but bright. A brilliant canvas of stars shone and if you stood outside stargazing long enough, you could see the depths of space rotate in slow motion. We came upon a town, small and dispersed. A large, meandering lake suddenly appeared with small orbs of light dotted here and there along its dark shores. The silhouettes of mountains rose up around it and the moon cast its light upon the ripples of water. Some homes of slumber could be viewed down close to shore, some windows aglow, but quiet of motion. The road followed the western side and it twisted and followed every cove. I put my window down to take in the alluring site. The night air cool and moist with the smell of wild flowers and field grasses.

Familiar feelings of intimacy, sacredness and tranquility. This lake, so alluring and beguiling, I wanted to know it more and forget the rest of our journey. My feelings were strong about staying; I felt like I had come home. All my creativity came rushing to my fingertips. I needed to express the lake in music, in painting, in holding the earth through pottery. I needed this lake to be a part of me. I needed this lake to carry me. Somehow, I knew this place, somehow I knew I had been here before…

For over forty miles we drove along Flatwater Lake. We continued on for another hour and ended up camping at a local Wal-Mart parking lot. We carried our sleeping children one by one into the camper and tucked them in for the night.

I lied down next to my already sleeping husband. His long dark hair smelled musky and sweet. I watched his shoulder rise and fall as he slept. I touched the warmth of his back. He turned and embraced me. Every cove of his body became mine. I can never know the full man that is my husband. I can never fully anticipate the things he will set out to do or how he will do them. It will take more than a lifetime to know him, so I take it day by day.

I lied there still thinking of the lake while admiring the shadows of his face. It was in that moment when I realized how I knew that lake.

That lake was my husband.