Distinctly Montana Magazine

D I S T I N C T L Y M O N T A N A M A G A Z I N E • S U M M E R 2 0 2 0 28 "We'll just hitch," Meg said, when I'd asked how we'd reach our campsite. Hitchhiking is different here in the United States, I explained. I've hitched in Montana in certain situations: to the ski hill and back, up the Beartooth Pass for backcountry laps, and back from boating take- outs on the Madison. But it's not something people from Three Forks do regularly, outside of these parameters. Meg has been bumming rides since Smith Rock, Oregon. In a week, she'll thumb to Canada for a mountaineering trip in the Bugaboos, and I'll return to Bozeman. At 26, a few years younger than I am, Meg is a dumpster diver, veteran alpinist and trad climber, and ultrarunner. She's also an environmental lawyer. She grew up on a commune near the Coromandel of New Zealand, where hitchhiking is no big deal. • • • I meet Meg at a coffee shop in Missoula for a slice of cherry pie. Fortified, we head out in the rain to stand on the on-ramp. The first guy we thumb stops. Meg and I nod at each other, and I feel a knot ease in my stomach. This rain is nothing—we've run miles down slick mountain trails in worse. Eddie, heading home from a shift at Target, drops us off outside of Lolo, where he thinks we'll be able to find a ride onwards. It's the kind of rain where, every now and then, you hear a great rush of water as though someone angry is dumping buckets. Now, no one stops. Meg and I stand roadside for over an hour. We're on Highway 93 and need to cover 20 miles, plus a few more on a service road to our campsite. We plan to hike and explore running trails in Lolo National Forest for the next week. We've got groceries and a 24-rack of a hei- nous beer only a Kiwi would buy called Keystone Light, also known as the Beer of Chill. Holding my thumb out and being ignored feels worse than being in the rain. I'm thinking, How can you all let us stand here? Then again, I don't often pick up hitchhikers, apart from fellow recreators, for safety reasons and also because I don't want to. I prefer driving alone. These folks don't want to pick up two drenched women, and that's fine. We wait outside Lolo for two more hours. My pack is semi-waterproof, but my sneakers are soaked. My hair's wet. I am not feeling chill, and Meg has put on the face she uses when she's digging deep at the tail end of a gut-busting run. • • • Hitchhiking is certainly not unheard of in the Paradise Valley, despite the fact that we've built our lives on self-sufficiency and our isolated vehicles, with services like Uber and Lyft filling in the gaps. Makes sense, when you think about the long-held Montana values of helping your neighbors and contributing to your community. This spirit of interconnectedness is what makes Montana special. Night falls. We're sitting on wet packs. It's a vulnerable feeling, asking the world for something and being witnessed not quite re- ceiving it. Serves me right for not picking people up. I've broken the karmic chain. Meg and I don't talk. Hitching seems to imply to others that you're not like them. You're a different kind of person. Less savory, maybe, or for whatever reason an outsider. You become aware of how exposed you are. Especially as a woman. Even more so, I bet, if you don't appear to be white, able-bodied, cisgendered, or straight. Finally, a dented black Tundra slows and pulls off the road ahead of us, as if they weren't sure until the last moment that they wanted to stop. • • • M Y CAR NEEDED A NEW CLUTCH AT THE LAST MINUTE. Rather than wasting a few days with my favorite climbing partner, Meg Buddle, I left it behind and snagged a ride to Missoula with friends of friends to meet up with her. This was June 2019, when the only pandemics I'd experienced were sealed inside my television screen, with the option to fast-forward or turn them off. Hitciking in Montana A bygone era? by MARIA ANDERSON

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