Rush to Return to Land of Big Sky

They say that memories can become exaggerated in size, that a house or mountain or stream can turn out to be less grand than you recall.

That is not true of the Montana sky.

In September, when I went back, the vast blue dome seemed bigger than ever, the horizons staked farther out, the clouds billowing to incredible heights above the spine of the Rockies.

The monumental saga “The Big Sky” was written about this land by A.B. Guthrie Jr., whose pals called him Bud. I went to college with his outrageous, heart-of-gold daughter, Helen. She was called Gus.

It was Gus who phoned, on a summer day of searing winds, to announce that it was high time I returned to Montana and visit Twin Lakes, the spread on the eastern slope of the Rockies where she spends summers, a place where her dad used to write.

“I’ll meet you at 2:15 p.m. Friday at the Antler Bar in Choteau,” Gus announced. “You can follow me to the cabin. Hell, no, you’d never find it on your own. Besides I have to come into town to buy provisions. I’ve invited a bunch of the paleos to a party on Sunday.”

Antler Bar? Provisions? Paleos?

She always did speak her own language, this child of the West who spent years in the South and could out-drawl and out-swear the best. I was too curious to stay away.

Our plane landed in Great Falls not long after noon. There were no mobs in the spiffy terminal, nor lines at the rental car counter. My notions of space and time and crowding did not match the scene.

The state population is not much more than 800,000, according to the last census, fewer than six people per square mile. That count took away one of Montana’s two congressional seats. Soon, one person will represent what is geographically the fourth-largest state, an area almost the size of California.

“We don’t have rush hours in Montana,” a rancher told me, “we have rush minutes .”

The drive to Choteau was a breeze, zipping along a two-lane macadam through Fairfield, the self-proclaimed malt barley capital, a town with Anheuser-Busch signs on fences and grain elevators. Black-eyed susans and brown cattails grew by the road.

The glint of sun on distant metal roofs gave away the Hutterite communities, a Mennonite sect famed in Montana for their fresh vegetables, their cabbage and sweet corn.

The main street of Choteau (Pop. 1,750) was lined with cottonwoods, their wispy white fluffs mounding up at the curb. I parked in the shade in front of the Antler Bar.

“Howdy,” called the raven-haired bartender, as she pulled a draught beer. A man in a trucker’s cap nodded in my direction. Above the long bar were lots of antlers: deer, elk, moose and . . . rabbit?

“Nah,” said the bartender with a grin. “That’s a jackalope. You’re not from around here, are you?”

Gus, laughing and shouting a welcome, swept in the backdoor before I became too enmeshed in the legends of Western creatures that are half-jackrabbit and half-antelope.

A cold beer, a spree at Rex’s supermarket (next to the Antler) and we were off.

About five miles north of town, Gus left the highway, turned sharply to the west and took aim at the mountains. To the south was a grizzly bear preserve, and beyond, a dinosaur dig where paleontologists from the Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman--Gus’ beloved paleos --were closing camp and covering their tracks until spring. To the north was Glacier National Park and Canada.

Gus’ driveway turned out to be 16 miles long, winding along the clear waters of the Teton River. A deer stepped out of the woods as we whizzed past. Pheasants marched on parade. A sign pointed to the Rocky Mountain High winter sports area and the 7 Lazy P Guest Ranch.

The Guthrie cabin hunkers at the edge of a lake, nestled among aspen whose gray-green leaves rustle like newspapers being wadded for a fire. Chokecherries hung on the bushes. “That’ll bring the damned grizzlies around,” Gus moaned. She was still miffed because the bears had mauled some of her brother’s sheep.

“Hell, grizzlies are vegetarians,” she said. “They don’t eat the sheep. They just play with them. They toss them around like a (blankety-blank) game of keep-away.”

We entered by the kitchen door, as you do in this part of the country, and unloaded groceries, dog food and suitcases. We were greeted by the yaps of two dachshunds--Henry Miller (bold and silver-haired) and Tulip (tiptoe-shy and brown).

From the wide window you could see the curl of Ear Mountain, a peak that figured prominently in the writings of Bud Guthrie. We sat at a round table and talked about the man Gus called father, and then about college chums. She complained because the phone lines were out again, which meant too much isolation.

Gus began cooking a huge ranch supper--roast beef, browned potatoes, gravy, baked onions with cheese, corn on the cob, beets, salad and a couple of cakes, chocolate and German chocolate. She chortled at the thought of California cuisine and unleashed tofu-and-yogurt jokes.

After dinner, she pulled out a ukulele and began singing rowdy tunes and then “Springtime in the Rockies.” A log fire snapped in the hearth. I realized that I was home again, and it was comfortable.

“Damned (blankety-blank) comfortable,” said Gus.