Made it to Missoula

I wasn’t sure I was going to make it here. But once I did, I could’ve stayed for days in downtown Missoula, Montana.

There's a woman I know who thinks I'm completely out of my mind to travel the way I do; 4-foot-10" female, alone, on the road, going to places I've never been, alone. I know that some of her shock comes from the fact that she admittedly would never in a million years take a trip like that, but when she gasps at me, utterly perplexed, I can't tell whether she's more in awe of how brave I am or how crazy I must be. 

"Your poor mother," she'll say to me, assuming that my mom would feel just as paralyzed by fear as she would, but she doesn't. Probably because my mom knows what it is to travel alone, she knows how qualified I am to I travel alone, that I'm living my dream when I'm traveling alone, and because she has faith that everything will be alright. But this woman I know isn't able to wrap her head around that, at least not yet as a relatively new mother.

"But aren't you scared something could happen to you? You could get kidnapped or robbed or your car could breakdown or—aren't you scared?" I paused for a moment to really consider what she was asking me. And the truth that surfaced was no. I really have no fear about any of those things happening at all. But when I stopped to think about what actually does scare me, I remembered that I do have one looming fear, not necessarily specific to travel, but it does follow me wherever I go. And that's getting sick. Stomach sick. I'm petrified of it in general, but throw the element of being far away from home in the mix, and it's an absolute nightmare come true.

Setting aside the sheer terror aspect for a minute, getting sick on vacation is also terribly inconvenient, particularly when you're hauling from hotel to hotel, across state lines, traveling approximately 200-300 miles between destinations along a predetermined, prepaid route. There's just no time to get stuck in a place for an extra night or two.

With that being said, I do like to remind myself of something my mom always says: everything has an answer. In this case, it means, even if I got sick and stuck smack dab in the middle of rural Iowa, I could always alter the trip and find a way home, if I needed to. Might cost me a kidney, but there's always a way.

However, I haven't fully expressed the magnitude of this "fear of getting sick" or the extent of the role it plays. Getting that kind of sick, doing that unspeakable thing that I'd really rather not even spell out or think about is my biggest fear in life; just ahead of all things medically related. And I worry about this unfortunate occurrence more than I'd deem sane. I go to extreme measures to prevent it or at least placate my mind, by lathering my hands with precious Purell and coating my stomach with chewable Pepto Bismol, Tums, and mints. I like to play it safe by eating Subway sandwiches and avoiding restaurants that have been open less than three months or have less than a four-star rating.

But unfortunately, in every life, a little noro must fall. And despite my best efforts and most desperate bribes to any god-like being that may exist, I became violently ill after eating some takeout pizza at my hotel in Gardiner, Montana – halfway through a 3,500-mile road trip. It was a gruesome ending to an otherwise awesome day of adventure in Yellowstone National Park, and the night's horror stretched well into the wee hours of the morning. After a while, I couldn't tell if I was shaking from being so sick or so terrified that I was sick and all alone, so far from home. It wasn't the worst I'd ever had, but undoubtedly godawful. 

So when 6:00 am rolled around, and the sickness seemed to be subsiding, I called the front desk and begged for a late checkout so that I could finally, maybe get some sleep. I tried not to panic, but I just kept thinking about how the next day was supposed to be one of the longest driving days of my trip. Not to mention, one that I'd been so incredibly excited for. The thought of having to miss a single thing I'd planned was churning my stomach all over again.

After I knocked out for a few hours, I eventually woke up with a weak, empty stomach, and a bit lightheaded too. Ugh. I didn't even want to move. I wished so badly I could just crank that ac 'till kingdom come and burrow under the blankets with I Love Lucy. I wanted cold, wet washcloths on my head and neck, room-service ginger ale and ice chips to chomp on, and maybe some Saltine crackers if I started feeling adventurous after another nap or two. But I knew that none of those things were possible. Or more accurately, I was determined enough to forgo all that self-coddling, and I was ambitious enough to brave the world and carry out the plans I'd been mapping out for months.

I dragged my icky, raggedy self out of bed and back into the bathroom where unspeakable events had taken place only hours before. I gingerly placed myself in the bizarrely shaped shower to test the waters of my wellness and wash away the shame and regret from the night before. I wasn't exactly steady on my feet, so I did most of my shower work sitting in the tub of my defiled hotel room on aptly named Hellroaring Street. Yup, that was actually the street's name. What are the odds? But how the Hellroaring Street was I going to drive through seven counties, across 300+ miles to visit all five towns I'd set out to see? 

I decided I was going to take it all one mile at a time. And while I gave myself permission to deviate from my gameplan, I knew that the only thing that would force me to skip anything on my list would be a sudden, side-of-the-road yack attack. So, step one was jamming all of my belongings back into my already-overweight suitcase and wheeling that fat sucker out to my car. Step two was making a second trip for my three other overflowing bags, because in my 29 years, traveling "light" is just not a practice I've learned to embrace.

Lugging those heavy bags, I can remember being overcome by a wave of brattiness. This is unfair. I shouldn't be expected to do this…carry on, carry bags?? All by myself?? They were heavier than me, and I was weak, so so weak. But I did take a moment to notice and appreciate how flat and empty my tummy felt and how my shorts were a little loose around the waist. Sudden weight loss is one of the only good things that can come of being sick like that. The only other good thing that comes of it, for me, is that it proves my ability to live through and rise above the fear I perceive to be so crippling.

I didn't let it cripple me. I hauled my belongings up into the trunk of my car like the tough girl I am and got the hell off of Hellroaring Street once and for all. A few blocks down I picked up some SmartWater for hydration and whatever electrolytes do, Seagrams ginger ale, because it reminds me of recovering at home, Snyders pretzels because there were no Saltines and I re-upped on Tums, gas, and ice for my cooler while I was there too. I was already feeling impressed with myself. And I was kind of in the mood for a smoothie and some souvenirs. So off I went into town in search of those things.

I wandered into a café that looked like it might have the goods to make me a frozen fruit drink, and I was almost immediately repelled by the putrid coffee odor that was contaminating the air. I hate that smell on any given day, but on a sick day, it's brutality was amplified to the highest degree. But the nice young man behind the counter had already greeted me, and I couldn't bare the awkward, guilty feeling that would linger if I'd just booked it and sprinted out the door. So I stayed.

"How ya doing today? What can I get for you?" he asked with a smile, moving quickly and efficiently behind the counter. "Oh, I'm ok, thanks, you guys wouldn't happen to do smoothies here, would you?" "We do…" he rattled off a bunch of ingredients that went into their smoothies, most of which were syrups and ice, none of which were fruit, and my instincts told me that a smoothie like that might not be such a good idea. "Hm, I'm not so sure…thank you, though. I'm trying to play it super safe with what I eat this morning…I was very sick last—" "Oh my god no! You poor thing! What happened?!" he stopped dead in his tracks, dropped the coffee pot in the sink, scanned my face with worried eyes and furrowed brows.

I was a little taken back by this perfect stranger's genuine concern for my unfortunate event, but it was the most pleasant surprise. He instantly felt like a friend. "I don't know, man, I had a blast in Yellowstone all day yesterday, minus a bit of altitude sickness early on, but then I picked up a pizza and brought it back to my room last night for dinner, and within an hour of eating it I got so sick…it was awful." 

"What?! I can't believe this happened to you! I am so so sorry!" He showed concern as though he knew me. He asked questions, shook his head in disbelief, had a really surprising level of sympathy. "Thank god you're ok! Oh my god, that is just…the worst…so scary… I'm really so sorry. You're not alone though, right? You're visiting with friends or family?" Shaking my head, "Nope, it's just me." And with that, the sympathy was kicked up about 20 notches, "Oh my god! You were all by yourself when this happened??? All alone so far from home??? Oh my god, I'm so SO sorry. I can't even imagine...you poor thing! Thank god you're ok!" 

He was so incredibly compassionate, and his sympathy was kind of like a luxury; I didn't need it, but it was really nice to have it. He was actually the first person I'd told about my nightmare of a night. I hadn't texted my mom, dad, boyfriend, brother, friends, anyone about it yet. I wanted to call them so many times throughout the night, but I didn't want to worry them in the thick of it all, especially since there was nothing any of them could really do to help me from over 2,000 miles away. But in their absence, this caring conversation with a perfect stranger was so deeply appreciated.

Sympathy is an interesting thing. Some give it more naturally than others. Some seek it more often than others. I wonder if the folks who don't need much are also less likely to hand it out. Maybe some folks mix and match. I guess I can only definitively speak for myself, and I have been blessed and cursed with the ability to truly feel your pain. If you're suffering in my presence or even if you're masking it, I can feel your pain as though it's my own; acute empathy.

I've been referred to as a "good therapist" by lots of friends throughout my life, but I'm fairly certain that I'd never be able to be an actual therapist. I'd find it too hard not to cry when my client cried, or take all of their baggage home with me and carry it around day in and day out. Or maybe that's a tune I've been singing for so long that I haven't stopped to give myself due credit for not letting my friends' woes weigh me down as much as my own.

Either way, I most definitely hand out and keep my hands out for sympathetic gestures of all kinds. I have a few friends who are really good at that — listening to me drone on about what a trooper I was, not fainting or crying while having blood drawn, and the anxiety of having to wait 83 minutes in a germ-infested waiting room for my dreaded doctor appointment in the first place. I can just hear my friend Manda saying, "But anyone would've been losing their mind in that situation. You poor thing. That sounds so awful. I'm so proud of you." And I can just hear myself so genuinely replying, "Thank you so much. Your sympathy honestly means the world to me." Because somehow, just hearing her say those words and having her listen and understand and validate my discomfort is the most comforting thing I could ask for. It somehow alleviates any remnants of suffering, making it all feel like a thing of the past.

I imagine that Mike, the perfect Montanan stranger, originally from Massachusetts, must've encountered the occasional tough time, while he was so far away from all that was familiar. I wish I'd thought to ask him how he adjusted to his relocation, but instead, I just asked him if he'd been to any of the towns I was heading to on my way upstate. He recommended stopping in all of them and braced me for having the time of my life when I eventually got to Glacier National Park. "That place is…something else…something really, really special. I wish I could go with you—I love it there so much. No matter how much time you spend there, it won't be enough." 

So off I went to discover new and exciting places in hopes that my sickness had fully subsided. And it had. I drove 300 miles from Gardiner, Montana, just three miles north of the Wyoming border, to Missoula, Montana, just a little bit past the state's midway mark, and I stopped in those five towns I'd set out to see along the way. First was Livingston: a vibrant little city I learned about from watching an episode of Anthony Bourdain's Parts Unknown. It was one of his favorite cities in the U.S., and it didn't take long for me to understand why. I will definitely return to Livingston someday, and not on a Sunday because too many local businesses were closed that day. 

Next stop was Bozeman: the perfect in-between of urbanite living and Main-Street-USA charm. I only spent a few hours there, but that was all it took for me to add it to my list of towns I could totally live in. Butte followed Bozeman, but I didn't feel safe enough to get out of my car there. Again Sunday must not have been an ideal day for passing through, because the streets were barren — only a few tumbleweeds of trash were roaming around. And most businesses were closed — at least all but the Party Palace, which was a dark, corner bar with highly intoxicated, very tough-looking dudes arguing outside. I decided to just snap a few shots of the beautiful old buildings from my car and return some other day of the week because Butte has some rich, fascinating history behind it. And it was another one of Anthony Bourdain's recommendations. He dined at the Bronx Supper Club during his stay and loved it.

Philipsburg, Montana was next on my list. I don't know if I'd add it to my list of places I could totally live, but driving on this rollercoaster of a road into that town felt a lot like coming home. It felt curiously familiar to me, and I'd never been within 500 miles of it before. Some sources call it a ghost town, but it's got a population of just over 900 and a bustling little business district that I just fell in love with. I strolled around the town for hours, totally engrossed in its colorful shops. This town was voted one of the Prettiest Painted Places in America. 

Montana Gems of Philipsburg is a great place to stop and shop for geodes, crystals, and famous Montanan sapphires. They even have a giant horse's trough-type structure on the side of their building, for sifting through rocks to find gems of your own. I thought this was just the coolest thing in the world and even though I arrived too late in the day to sift with the kids, I ordered a bag of their gem gravel when I got back home, and I've been enjoying some prospecting of my own ever since.

Finally, just as the sun began to set around 9:30 pm, I arrived at my final destination for the evening; Missoula, Montana. I had a hotel booked on the outskirts of town, and since I was running on the fumes of my 2-hour nap and the six pretzel sticks I'd eaten, I decided to have my first real meal of the day (a plain-Jane Subway sandwich in bed) then sleep like the dead. The next morning I woke up feeling brand new and eager to explore downtown Missoula. That's where I snapped the shot above. Missoula is a vibrant city full of fun possibilities. The kind of place that could probably make my list of places to totally live or retire in.

I walked around that morning in awe of the gorgeous, perfect-weather day, the cityscape and mountainous landscape that watches over it, but mostly I was in awe of myself. I hope to never ever ever EVER get sick again while traveling, but if I do, I know I'll be ok because I proved to myself that I can do it. Endure, recover, survive, then thrive. I guess it's part of the reason I travel the way I do, and it's the difference between having adventures and taking vacations. The hardships that occur on an adventure make the wins and joys that much more victorious. It's that "I earned this" feeling, I got myself here, I overcame struggles — so now let me bask in the beauty of me and all that surrounds me.