Big Sky Country

Montana is vast.

We crossed the border at Sweetgrass yesterday at midday; tonight, we are in Glendive, near the North Dakota border, but still in Montana. We could–and probably should–have made better progress, but we had decided to swing down to Helena rather than cut directly across the state. 

We did have our reasons. To begin with, we weren’t sure how long it would take to get across the border. Sophia needed to get a TN visa, and we had no idea (but buckets of trepidation) about how long that would take (or if the visa would be granted at all). Sophia was also importing a car; that, too, was a source of anxiety. And just as importantly, it was Pierre’s eighteenth birthday, and we wanted not to spend the whole day in the car.

This trip, though it traverses some of the most beautiful places in the world, was not undertaken with tourism in mind. Since we’re towing a trailer, and none of the licensed drivers has much experience driving with trailers, we chose to stay in places near the highway. This meant that we stayed in the ugliest part of Lethbridge (at least we hope it was), and in a not-so-charming part of Helena.

But back to the border. The crossing at Sweetgrass is one of 14 designated “POEs” (points of entry) for people seeking a TN visa. We had a two-minute wait, then pulled up to the booth. We handed over our passports to the officer in the booth, who took a quick look and said, “One of these is not like the other ones.” (The kids and I have US passports; Sophia, of course, was on her Canadian passport.) I was in the driver’s seat, so answered. “Yeah, uh, speaking of which… Sophia is applying for a TN visa.” Which then launched a slightly awkward conversation; I don’t think the officer was sure whether he wanted to speak to me because I was in the driver’s seat or to Sophia because she was the one applying for a visa. But it got sorted quickly. He asked all the usual questions about what we were bringing in. “A bike, our dishes, our clothes,  a piano, and… eh… a bottle of scotch and five bottles of wine.” All of which was true. And we had to add that Sophia was not just applying for a TN visa, but also seeking to import her car.

[Side note: The instructions for importing a car into the US are very particular. The car must be clean, and the undercarriage must have been washed before attempting to import the car. So part of our Lethbridge adventure was trying to find a car/truck wash were we could rinse the road muck off the car. We were daunted by the truck car wash we found: the bays on one side were for 18-wheelers; on the other, they seemed designed to accommodate a Mini Cooper, and nothing larger. We did manage to find a truck wash in Milk River, a few kilometers north of the border, that worked. Whew.]

The officer didn’t blink at any of this. But he did ask why Sophia was not applying for a green card rather than the (temporary) TN visa. “Just a trial run?,” he asked. “Uh… yes,” Sophia and I both said, more or less simultaneously. We have gotten to the point where we say the same things at about the same time, though most of the time we mean completely different things even when we use the same words. And then we both hastened to add that the marriage thing was no longer on trial; we had settled that. He seemed to be a little amused, but it was hard to tell. He told us to go park our vehicle and enter through the double glass doors in the back. (I loathe the word “vehicle,” by the way. It’s ugly.)

We did as we were instructed. The office that we entered was vast, with a long grey formica counter separating applicants from officers. There was only one group ahead of us, and lots of officers at desks or behind the counter, so we didn’t expect to wait long. We were all nervous. Sophia was a bit pallid; Nathalie looked agitated; I was aggressively cheerful. Pierre, who quite sensibly opted to hang out in the car while Sophia dealt with the paperwork, had earlier asked what we would do if Sophia did not get a TN visa. We had to confess that Plan B was yet to be written. Pierre did not seem hugely impressed with our contingency planning.

In the wake of Trump and his politicization of immigration, I would not have been shocked to find an officious bully at the border.  As it turned out, the whole nerve-wracking process was ridiculously easy. The officer who took charge of us was efficient, clear, courteous, and had a sense of humor. He was thorough: checked all the documents, asked all the proper questions, and made sure that Sophia understood exactly what she was doing. So, half an hour or so after arriving at the Sweetgrass POE, we were on the road again.

One of Montana’s nicknames is “Big Sky Country.” But the skies in northern Montana were leaden, grey with the same smoke that blanketed Lethbridge when we were there. Despite the grey skies, the landscape was stunning. 

While the skies were grey, Sophia had recovered her color… and a certain impishness. We had all, in our own ways, been nervous about the crossing.

It didn’t take us too long to get to Helena. We checked into our motel, consulted with the newest adult member of the family about what we should do for dinner, and settled on a place called Bullman’s Pizza, which was within walking distance–and, as it turns out, makes damned nice wood-fired pizzas.

This morning, we had breakfast at the motel, loaded up the car, and headed east. There are some odd things in Montana. 

For instance, it had never occurred to me that one might use Adam & Eve to sell sex toys–but there are enormous billboards along the highway that do just that.

Then there are the things you might expect in Montana: huge grain storage bins.

Horses on a hillside. 

Oh–wait. Those are fake horses. And, to my genuine delight, injunctions to “mask up”–though this one is made all the more poignant by the marker in front of it.

Well. It’s late. We are well, though all tired. And I have gone on too long. Tomorrow we cross North Dakota.