Enga mellom fjella

To Helena-and-back-again

To Helena-and-back-again:

At 9 MontanaTime on a Saturday morning we leave to the splash of water, sand and salt on the windshield, out of fluid to keep it clean; the crawl along the highway to Drummond to buy the blue elixir; one entrance in; one exit out. The grey cover of rain breaks up into clouds and patches of blue. At the turnoff at Garrison and the pint-size general store: mail boxes and a modern toilet. Two bags of candy (orange slices, burnt peanuts).

Up Highway 12, Myrtle spots a dead carcass, elk maybe, but I keep my eyes on the road, a winding two lane, treacherous in spots. We pass construction and reach the heights of MacDonald Pass (6,320) but don't stop as we are running late for the opera. The valley opens up before us, a blue bowl above snow covered mountains and we swoop down into town and find where we are going without getting lost; the Civic Center with it's minaret guides us. I change shoes and leave my phone in the car. The building is new and our tickets are waiting. The pimpled youth and the fragrance of popcorn is a memory, all-too-familiar.

We are transported to Scotland where Edgardo and Lucia are wailing their undying love to each other as we enter the dark and find seats at the front ... too far forward for comfort, tilting our heads back to see the big screen. The broadcast comes live from The Met in New York.

The angst of the opera is worse than teenagers in heat. Some young Montanans have papers they carry, obviously for a class that they take. They cackle outside. Inside, more interviews of coifed artists and a view from backstage. In the half light I scribble notes for a poem.

After the scene blooms in red-on-white wedding dress and everyone's dead, we find our way to The Parrot for chili (with real chunks of meat) and fudge sundaes. I choose cherry chocolate chip. Myrt keeps to 'white' ice-cream, as she says. We are sitting at the bar listening to music from the old jukebox. Dozens of elephants and parrots adorn this hole-in-the-wall. The front cases are filled with candy and I spot marzipan, bon-bons and wafers; Myrt buys some cream filled chocolate.

I wander up Last Chance Gulch, take pictures of the old buildings that grew up where gold once was panned. The cornices and brickwork exhibit the era of artisans that no-longer exists, or whose existence is no longer cherished.

On Saturday, the place is empty. Few stores are open and I can't find a post-card to buy and send. Myrt takes me on a tour of her old neighborhood where she lived between ages 5 and 15 ('41-'51; her birthday's next week); the school is still there, but no longer painted yellow. The old houses sit ornate.

We head home with the sun glaring and Myrt has to change to sunglasses. I can barely see the edge of the road. After climbing the pass, the way down is less glaring and we stop at a spring of fresh mountain water. The air is clear and clean.

The sunset is clear-blue yellow-peach tinged skies. Dark pine. Darker mountains in silhouette. Very pretty, but not easily captured, except in a painting. It would've been a boring photograph, so I savor the experience.

We pass mule deer and roadkill with hawks and magpies.

In Clinton we stop at a store and I do some shopping (why not?) buying a Truzzolino beef tamale made in Butte, that Myrt raves about. I get home by 7:30 pm., gone for over 10 hours.

I can now truly say I've been to Helena-and-back-again.

February fantasia

And the stars shall rise each night
behind ranks of silhouetted mountains,
enter windows draped shut to the cold.
We huddle in caves
to hide from the lure of the Hunter's diamonds,
his light sword that beckons the traveler each winter
to seek haven far to the south.
One dagger gleams from his dog's eye,
cold as the ice reflecting off Orion;
we sleep snug under his watch.

© 2009 Kåre Enga [165.435] 2009-02-07

Written in the semi-dark of the theatre while watching Lucia di Lammermoor in Helena, Montana: the dark story, the dreary castle, the moon over the cemetery.

A wiki-link for the opera: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucia_di_Lammermoor
A scathing review from the Kansas City Star: http://www.kansascity.com/entertainment/story/1016233.html
If Netrebko had issues hitting E-flat, the countertenor Vitas sure seems to have the reach in this amazing video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3yfFOq_CFQ

Montana: 22º at 9:00

11,703