Hamilton, MT: Brewfest, Fire, and the meaning of life through story

Idaho was proving to be much nicer than any other fine state that opened itself up to commercialization and the other--motorized--tourists. One man from Idaho who picked us up in his 1992 Volkswagen Van told us "If anyone asks you if there's anything in Idaho, tell them that there's only potatoes."

And so we did. Well, we will. Idaho seems to still be under the radar for most people trying to tour the Northwest.

Montana, on the other hand, seems to get a little more attention. We made our way into Hamilton Montana hearing about a brew-fest that was happening on the day we were to arrive. Well, mostly we saw posters advertising for it as we were riding towards it that day. We thought it was pretty cool that the town was having a party on the same day we were arriving, let alone a brew-fest. But we think that about every town that happens to have a party on the day we arrive. Mostly it happens to us each friday and/or saturday. It seems like maybe most towns have little fair-like get-togethers on weekends in the summer. I digress.

We arrived in Hamilton with hopes held high. We weren't expecting to do much partying though. Matt is the only one who can drink legally, and even one person has to drop $30 to get a few drinks in him at one of these festivals. So we settled for pasta and ice cream right outside the festival.

Sooner than later we were talking with a lovely couple of people at a pavillion. They were modest folk, perhaps a little less excited to talk to us than those who had already consumed a generous amount of alcohol. There was even one woman who was unhappy because her daughter, who was Matt's age, had just left.

"It's too bad, I could have introduced her to ya'll."

It was too bad. Matt hadn't showered in 5 or 7 days; even alcohol doesn't stop one from sensing a person who hasn't engaged in common social rituals for that amount of time.

So the trio spent their time chatting with anyone who would put up with their company. After a while the couple started to take a liking to the trio.

"You boys aren't like a lot of the "new" kids these days."

"What do you mean by new kids?" Andy always asks good questions, right?

"Well you're very polite and respectful."

"Well thank you."

The way they worded the compliment was unlike I had heard it before--so much so that I was surprised to hear it. And so we proceeded. They told us what it was like to live in Montana; what it was like to have children; what it was like to be them. And we shared about ourselves and about our ride, assuming that they understood mostly about what it was like to be us. They certainly seemed to.

After talking a while we were humbly invited back to the woman's house to sleep. I suppose it was kind of like being picked up at a bar, only without the connotations. In fact, if we were any good at that sort of thing, we might've slept much more peacefully many nights previously.

Nevertheless, a couple hours later we found ourselves fast asleep on her living room floor--bathed and everything.

She was a marvelous woman. In the morning she cooked us a huge breakfast and let us into her life a little bit more. She was beautiful. Wonderfully talented. Perhaps a bit under-appreciated. She was also very generous. I thought of some of the richest religious people we'd met on our trip so far--mostly the ones who'd turned us away--and wished they could meet her.

We finished breakfast and hurried off to church; we went down the street and she went to the town we had passed through the day before.

Church: The one pastor--who happened to be speaking that Sunday--was emotionally disturbed by the lack of effort put forth by the congregation during a youth function recently. He did a lot of yelling. It was quite interesting. He kept mentioning the body of Christ and pointing out how the people in the congregation weren't being very christ-like as they weren't supporting the youth and trying to bring them to christ like they should've.

Talking with some people afterward it seemed like the message--one unlike any other that I had heard to that point--was received well enough. Well. Kind of. We heard that in retrospect the man was likely to look back on his sermon as one that was perhaps a bit emotional. perhaps a bit less thought-through. perhaps a little unlike the other ones he'd given. And maybe he'd be a bit embarrassed about it, though no one would fault him for it, now or in the future. Anyway, that probably doesn't make much sense to anyone that wasn't there. (how detailed are blogs supposed to be anyway?)

As the service came to an end we started talking to people in the rows behind us and in front of us. They probably noticed each of us get up three times during the service and go to the bathroom--we kept passing back and forth a 32 oz. bottle of water. So between getting up to fill it and getting up to go to the bathroom, I don't think the back door of the sanctuary was ever fully closed.

anyway, we met a man and his wife who ran marathons. well, his wife ran marathons. Not to be outdone, the man ran ultra-marathons. With her dad. in other words, he ran 50 miles at a time, often through the woods, in what other individuals would call a race. They got shirts and free drinks and other fancy things. This man also got trophies, but they only go to the top few folks in the race. He was impressive. And so we had no trouble chatting over lunch. After he taught us a lesson, of course:

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Matt asked as lettuce was being cut up for salad and large pieces of hamburger meat were being patted onto a platted to be grilled. The three boys stood around drinking soda.

"No. We'd just like it if you let us serve you right now." He looked Matt in the eye and smiled. It was the second or third time he had asked. Being able to be served must've been a quality that Mary understood better than Martha. Martha was a bit humiliated at the end of that story, if you'll remember. Matt learned it before he was humiliated, don't worry--this story ends pleasantly.

Well, kind of. During dinner a huge forest fire broke out at the top of one of the peaks within eyesight of their living room window.

Later that evening we all attended a bible study--a small group from the church, if you will. We stayed with the family who hosted the small group.

If you're wondering about what people with children talk about when they study the bible, it's a lot like anyone else when they're studying the bible. Except for maybe bible scholars. But they don't seem to get together and eat banana nut bread: they sit by themselves at mahogany desks and write letters via journals back and forth so that the rest of the world can listen in on what they've got to say, if they've got time. If not their pastor tells them one sunday.

And so there we were, sitting around a living room acting like normal religious people. It was quite enjoyable.

Later that evening we found out that instead of getting a new sports car or something slightly irresponsible this man and wife had three daughters during their mid-life crisis. It seemed a lot more productive than most couples we had met until then. It was a second chance at parenting if nothing else.

And after a number of long conversations with the family we went to bed, only to wake up in the morning, eat, and get on our bikes and begin riding again. Refreshed if nothing else.

You see. This is life. Not a lot of exciting, extra-ordinary things happen in anyone's story. In fact, it's rarely the events that make the story. It's the way it's told. So instead of taking in some motivational speaker's ideas about living a better life, why not get better at telling stories.