Home of the Trojans

Sometimes, one just needs to properly take a hint to know when to act. After having a too-close encounter with a couple of deer on I-90, seeing the backside of another four-legged critter on the shoulder, and passing over three roadkill blood stain splatters on the pavement in quick succession, I figured it was time to pull off the road and call it a night.

The day had begun in Bellingham, followed by pizza in Ellensburg and gas (the kind that goes into the car) in Moses Lake. I paid $1.919/gallon, by the way. Six hundred miles later, here I am in Drummond, Montana.

The woman in the motel's office saw I was from Juneau and asked, "What do you think about Sarah?" I gave an ambivalent response. 

I walked down to the Wagon Wheel for dinner only to find out the kitchen had closed a half hour before. The young man who greeted me must have sensed my starvation because he checked with the cook, who offered to cook me up a burger and fries. I sat down at the counter and looked around the place. What caught my eye was a small chalkboard above the partially exposed kitchen: Population 332, Elevation 3,948 2/10. The erasable population figure makes sense; I imagine it's easy to count heads in such a small town. But how often does the elevation change?

Oh, the tab? A whopping $4.95.

I walked back down Front Street to the motel as the second train to pass by town since my arrival sounded its whistle. Any wagers as to 1.) how many trains pass through Drummond every night, or 2.) how much sleep I'm going to get tonight?

By this time tomorrow, I should be just shy of Mission. I'll say goodnight for now and thanks again to the folks at the Wagon Wheel.