Time Marches On

After six long years, I finally got a chance to visit my childhood home of Lakeside, Montana, in the summer of 2000, and things had definitely changed. It all started when my cousin and her fiancé announced their wedding with only about three or four weeks’ notice. The ceremony was to take place aboard the tour boat Far West on scenic Flathead Lake. The boat operated out of a dock in Somers, only a short, yet breathtaking, drive from Lakeside. The first thing I did after hearing the great news was buy about four rolls of film for my camera. Then I went out and got a suit and jacket.

I had wanted to go back for years, but the opportunity never presented itself. My sister, and most of my relatives, for that matter, had been back several times in the intervening years, and my aunt and uncle (who lived in Somers for many years) visited us about once a year. All of them spoke of radical changes taking place in the Flathead Valley since the early 90’s, and I was overwhelmingly intrigued to see what was going on.

Admittedly, I was also a little anxious, for not all of the changes I heard about sounded good. Even when I still lived there, rich out-of-staters were driving up real estate prices— especially near the lakes— and were building on every imaginable lakefront plot. I had heard about a ski resort, golf course, a mini-mall, and houses popping up all over Lakeside and Blacktail Mountain area. I really wasn’t sure what to expect.

But during those strange five late August days, I would see for myself what a major transformation had taken place. After stopping through in Great Falls, where the groom-to-be fixed our car, we took a road to Glacier Park that I had never taken before. I had traveled back and forth across the mountains occasionally over the years, but always on the same general route, Highway 2. It was a wonderful trip, just myself, my good friend, M— (the bride’s brother), and his then-girlfriend, B—, so we could listen to whatever music we wanted without being stuck with non-stop Country-Western. On the way, we made a wrong turn somewhere in Glacier Park, and found ourselves on a stunning stretch of winding mountain road, where we stopped and ate a picnic lunch. It gave me a feeling I still can’t quite put words to, breathing that mountain air again, and as we drove through West Glacier into increasingly familiar territory, I was overwhelmed by waves of memories trying to flood my mind all at once.

During those days, I walked around in a haze that had nothing to do with the smoke from the Montana fires of 2000. We stayed at my aunt’s house, which they were selling, sadly, to move elsewhere. It is a house that exists in my memory as far back as it reaches, into mists of images I was too young to understand. As everyone rushed around me in preparation for the wedding, for me time stood still. I stood in the eye of the storm, and I swear if I hadn’t moved, people and things would have passed right through me. Though we were all rushing to prepare, we managed to squeeze in an afternoon to visit Kalispell, and for me to wander around in Lakeside for a few hours.

It was kinda funny driving around Kalispell, because so little had changed compared to the rest of the surrounding valley, the streets were all the same, and many of the same places could be found on them. Whenever we visited Great Falls, it was always M— who knew his way around, but here we were on my home turf, and he was frequently amazed at how much I still remembered. Two of the strangest experiences of our visit had to do with malls. In the Kalispell Center Mall, I walked into an arcade whose lineup had scarcely changed since the days I bummed Dad for quarters years ago. But when we tried to go to my old personal favorite, Gateway West, we found that the only place still in business was a farm and ranch store. We stumbled upon an unlocked entrance and slipped inside, and it was eerie walking amid the ruins of what was once a very pleasant mall. Unlike most, Gateway West had character. It was not at all what I was expecting: in the face of a huge population boom, Kalispell was still the same small pseudo-city I remembered from my childhood.

I find it strange now, because either security was lax, or we somehow hit on the only unlocked door in the whole place. One might think the largely vacant parking lot would be a tip-off, but I was always the adventurous and persistent type, not one to let reality get in the way of my time-traveling adventure in the Flathead Valley that smoke-shrouded summer. What we entered was basically a ghost town. The entire mall was deserted. Just empty storefronts, dirt, and a lot of old equipment laying around. This was once the place I used to hang out whenever I got the chance to go into town as a kid, and now all that remained of my childhood memories were skylight windows and lonely-looking trees growing at regular intervals down the hall. Most of the opposite end of the hall was denied us, blocked by a big wooden wall announcing some cellular phone center office.

Coming Soon.

I took a lot of pictures that summer because I suspected that what was “coming soon” was the ongoing erasure of every place and thing I remember. A bulldozer has already made a lot of my past disappear. Coming Soon… New California Estates. I walked out of the ruins of Gateway West Mall, feeling for all the world like an archaeologist walking out of a haunted pyramid. In my mind’s eye, I could still see people walking up and down those dusty walkways, shopping bags in their hands, kids trying to drag their hungry parents to the arcade instead of the host of restaurants… could still hear laughter and music and a hundred conversations about anything under the sun… I think I understand now how the Parthenon would feel to some ancient Greek guy if you yanked him out of the past and showed it to him now.

As no one else went with me on my visit to Lakeside, I walked alone. Or so it must have appeared to anyone who saw only me, but not my old friends, unaware that they were watching the shadow of a young man walking around in a lost land. All throughout this journey, I walked around in several places at once, but for one afternoon, I completely disappeared into the mists of time. Starting with my favorite clifftop lookout, I somehow managed to get around to all my old haunts, snapping photos of places and things. It was simultaneously painful and exhilarating, seeing it all again. As I walked up and down the streets, I saw the ghosts of people and things no one else saw, and I remember how happy and pristine and carefree my life was back then. I especially remember those warm autumn days, walking with my best friends, and knowing that summer was over, wanting to have one last adventure before school started again. Of glorious spring afternoons, venturing back out to the places I didn’t get to see much of during the winter. Or long summer days with nothing to do, always thinking up wild ways to stave off boredom, yet keep the days advancing as slowly as possible toward the inevitable next school year. (Though somewhere inside, I now understand that I also wished it would start again, not so much because I was that crazy about school, but for no other reason than that was the only place where I got to see most of my friends most of the time.) Even winter had its own charm, as it was snowy, but not terribly cold, and perfect weather for sledding and building snow forts.

Even though I had been told of it in advance, it was still a shock to see the heavily added-on double-wide trailer I had lived in from the third through eighth grade was completely gone. Vanished without a trace. After all, a year or so after we moved out of the place, my uncle, who was a local firefighter back then, told us there was a fire there. He had been on us to move out of that place for years, always calling it a deathtrap, and frequently reminding Mom how quickly trailers burn down, but even so, this place fared better than most, only burning about halfway. I got to see the remains back in 1994, on my last visit, and it still gave me chills seeing for myself that the fire had indeed started in my old bedroom.

Even so, I could still easily remember where everything used to be. From the long, L-shaped covered porch that wrapped around the front of the place, to the tacked-on living room and garage that formed a “T” at the far end of the trailer, even the fences for the kennels and the near-acre of land slanting down the hill from it, where our Shelties ran around all day. It was a sharp contrast to see how little the neighbors’ house had changed in all those years, all the way down to the swing set and the massive trampoline sitting in the front yard, forlorn reminders that there was no longer anyone left there young enough to play on them.

Next, I decided to take some long-range shots at the place across the street, down the long stretch of dirt road that served as our driveway. Grizzly Yachts, where a retired couple spent many years pursuing their dream of building a 50-foot fishing boat, one of the most important things in the neighborhood that I wanted to photograph, now that it was complete. Naturally, I would also go down for some close-up shots of the Orion, even though no one was around. The lot out front served as a bus stop for all those years, and they had always welcomed the neighborhood kids to hang around, even come inside and hang out by the wood stove on cold winter mornings, and I was so lost in the past that it wasn’t until later that it even occurred to me to question the prudence of simply walking right up, even stepping up the ladder to take some interior shots.

It was in the midst of trying to take the long-range photos, though, that I would realize the one thing that was still there. I kept moving about, trying to get a centered shot of both the building and the boat, but this tree was always positioned in just the right place to force me to stand on either side. I was starting to get rather annoyed, trying to figure out where this tree came from, as I couldn’t remember any such thing… At least until it dawned on me what it truly was. Many years ago, we adopted a tiny pine sapling, planting it in our front yard. Back then, it was barely a foot tall, and in the summer even the grass grew taller than it, so we always had to be careful not to run it over with the lawn mower.

Now it was big enough to obstruct my perfect shot, standing even taller than me. It seemed to drive home just how much time had passed since I left, in a way that artificial constructs like buildings and highway expansion couldn’t quite match. I finally just stood in front of it to take the shot, but that tree stuck with me for the rest of my journey through the past.

The wedding itself was a surprisingly casual affair, and both it and the reception were held aboard a lake touring boat called the Far West. Only the immediate members of the couple’s families were required to wear tuxedoes, and the rest of us got by with simple suit jackets and slacks, as befitted the budget of a cash-strapped college student. People from three different families met each other for the first time, and everybody had a wonderful ride. I even got a few shots of Lakeside and Somers from the middle of the lake, even though everything was bright and hazy from all the smoke. And as half of Montana burned down around us, K— and B— got married.

It was a bittersweet night after the wedding, as we settled into my cousin’s old room, for I knew I would have to leave again, and likely wouldn’t be able to return again for a long time. I loved my life in Lakeside, but we were driven out by ever-increasing prices as wealthy Californians took over the Flathead Valley. After making long-time friends— many of whom have dropped off the radar over the years— I was taken from my home, and forced to live in Havre, of all places. I had to agree with another out-of-town transfer student I met my freshman year, who asked: “Where the hell did all the trees go?” Sadly, back west, I fear people will be asking the same question in another decade or so, for if they keep building over every square foot of the mountains, the advertising photos will be the only trace left of the glorious forests I grew up around. (Ah suburbia, where they chop down all the trees and name streets after them…) It all happened so abruptly, too; one summer afternoon, Mom came home from work and announced “My brother [my other uncle, who was a realtor] has found us a house in Havre,” and about two weeks later, we moved. It is still awkward and bittersweet to think about saying goodbye to everyone at my eighth grade graduation only a couple months before that, as I never dreamed I wouldn’t get to see most of them again, and still haven’t, in all these years.

All these years, I think I resented not really being able to properly say goodbye. There were times where I wondered how my life would have gone if I had stayed over there, or if I really would have liked living among California-style “Beware Of Dog” signs where I once walked free among the woods in the huge gaps between built-over areas. There were so many mysterious and interesting things in the forest near there that probably aren’t anymore. Sometimes, I feel as if my past is being erased one place at a time, as they had also torn down the old school complex, and built a totally new one from the ground up, as if the old place just wasn’t good enough for them. Though it did have a really cool playground, I really miss not being able to go back to the schoolyard where I spent so much of my time, even after I started going to school in Somers. It really all feels more like a past life than the one I’m currently living, especially on those days when nothing feels quite real to me, thin and flat and hollow, and the only one that makes any sense was the one I knew back then.

For so long, I had been haunted and overshadowed by my past, but now that I’ve had a chance to say goodbye, I feel I can finally move forward.