Life is a series of trade-offs.
I awoke with the birds at the municipal campground in Malta, Montana. It was a crisp and clear summer morning. I was nearly 1000 miles into my solo, cross-country bicycle adventure. It had rained hard overnight, but stopped early; my tent and equipment were dry.
The evening before, another touring cyclist was setting up in the site next to mine. We naturally struck up a conversation, and ended up walking the short distance downtown together to get dinner. Dan was about my age, had a similar story, and was also on a cross-country tour, though taking a slightly different route than mine. We compared notes, and solved all the world’s problems over burgers and beer.
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| My Cycling Pal Dan |
Even though we were both headed the same direction for the next few hundred miles, we agreed to each take our own pace. If we met up again on the road, great. If not, well… it was great meeting.
A short while after turning in, the rain started. While listening to the patter on my small tent, I researched my options for the next day on my phone. I always strove to find quirky independent eateries over the ubiquitous chains. Yes, the Golden Arches of the world are consistent, though mediocre, and the calories-to-dollars ratio is high (important when long-distance cycling), but the one-off joints are far more likely to provide a unique experience. The downside is having to endure the occasional bad meal. There was a small independent diner just a few miles away in the right direction. Perfect.
I wasn’t carrying cooking gear, nor much food (outside of snacks). I didn’t want the extra weight and didn't want to spend the time and effort involved with preparation and clean-up. I preferred simply eating at restaurants. A credit card is way lighter than food and cooking gear. But damn, the expense added up, so I was always looking for cheap eats.
As I was striking camp the next morning, Dan emerged from his tent and started heating water.
“Do you want some coffee?” he called.
“Yes! Thanks!” I eagerly proffered my semi-clean travel mug. "Semi-clean” means I thought wholesome thoughts while heartily rinsing it with cold well water at the nearby pump.
My “breakfast” consisted of a yet another Clif Bar; just something to fuel me to the nearest restaurant.
Dan took the opposite tack, and embraced the full camping experience. He began cooking up some oatmeal with almonds and raisins. It smelled divine. He was in no hurry. I, on the other hand, was eager to get rolling, munching my Clif bar and gulping coffee while continuing to strike camp.
As I labored, I envied my new friend’s contented demeanor as he sat in his camp chair (something else I didn’t carry), eating his breakfast, and enjoying the early light. It was the picture of serenity. Maybe my strategy of getting to a restaurant as quickly as possible was wrong headed.
I finished packing and said goodbye to Dan. We were both headed to Glasgow, about 70 miles away. Dan sat and savored the morning and his breakfast as I pedaled away to the diner I had discovered the night before.
If you took all that was good about the great vastness that is Montana -- Big Sky included -- and distilled it down to one golden drop, it would be the Hitching Post Cafe just outside of Malta. One rarely gets great food, great service AND great prices. The Hitching Post delivered all three.
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| The Hitchin' Post |
I was greeted with a cheerful “GOOOOOOD MOR-nin’!” by April, the only server. There were about 10 booths and 6 seats at the counter. It was nearly empty but would fill fast. Most of the customers were middle-aged men wearing the farmer’s uniform of blue-jeans, plaid-shirt, and trucker-cap.
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| April, and customers |
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| Window to the Kitchen |
April was quick with the coffee, and kept it coming. She chimed the same “GOOOOD MOR-nin!” to every customer who came in, often adding their names.
“Do you own this place?” I asked.
“NO!” she snapped, “I just act like it! Been here for 17 years!”
Everything she said sounded like it ended with an exclamation point.
The menu was predictable but practical. The prices were very good. I ordered the Western Scramble, with ham, pepper, onions and cheese, which included toast and hash-browns. Including a cup of coffee and a generous tip, it came to ten bucks! April even offered to fill my semi-clean travel mug before I left. Probably because I didn’t “thumb-snap.”
It may sound mundane now, but my time at The Hitchin’ Post felt like the essence of Montana. Good-hearted people, enjoying a solid meal designed to kick-off a day of honest hard work.
Okay, there was merit to my thinking about not cooking my own meals. Dan had his contentment, but I had the Hitching Post Cafe, something I never would have experienced if I had cooked my own breakfast. I wouldn’t have traded places for all the Sky in Montana.
Life is a series of trade-offs.
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| Big Sky! |
