Driving at Night

Summer is over, autumn is here - the road tells the story. Gone are the tourists of the season that crowded the highways of the west; the mini vans, the SUVs, the stations wagons. Some cars and pickups (both beat-up and new) with local license plates remain, along with cargo vans and semi tractor trailers. This is the North Country. Construction, begun at the height of the summer, is in mop-up stages, but single lane traffic has little effect on one car, all alone. I pass through countless zones with minor difficulty; a moments delay, if any.

Goodbye to population, hello wilderness. The grid pattern roads and farms of Minnesota and eastern North Dakota give way to the hilly "Badlands" topography of western ND and Montana. The interstate begins to twist and turn, passing tiny hamlets and dry creek beds as it grips the shores of the Yellowstone River. Radio stations that had strong signals a short time ago, disappear into static and no replacement can be found. Through a foggy patch of cirrus clouds, the crescent moon pokes through, illuminating the cockpit of my stuffed car. Its light siloulettes the conifers standing tall on the top of the surrounding hills, giving boundary to the night.

110 miles, 90 minutes to go

Off ramps pass, some occupied, some not. These nameless exits lead to empty roads, few or no houses in sight, that in turn provide passage to ranches deep in the interior of the hills where Montana has gone to retire. Its residents are home now, nestled under blankets, bellies full, skin warm, bodies tired, minds fading.

50 miles, 40 minutes to go

A short stop at a rest area finds a surprise; silence. Trucks parked, drivers and engines sleep. A well lit but unoccupied rest station stands as a sentry for the traveler of the northern crossing. The wind is dead, and the desolate highway emits no sound. An engine starts, a truck awakes. A return to the car brings music that contrasts the peacefulness outside. I turn it off and quietly depart.

Arrival

Like an oasis, the horizon comes alive with the lights of civilization. The white bluffs and buttes the locals call rimrock encase the city brighten with the reflection; beyond them is wilderness. The river, too, reflects the city. Pair of deer approach the neon abyss, look down, sigh, and turn away into the night.

Billings, MT, 10:30pm, Mountain Time October 2000