(C) Daily Montanan This story was originally published by Daily Montanan and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . Black trucks across the Hi-Line and the 'stare' – Daily Montanan [1] ['More From Author', 'August', 'Russell Rowland'] Date: 2023-08-29 When I was doing my tour of Montana for “56 Counties: A Montana Journey,” I covered the state in four big loops. The second of those loops took me up through the middle of the state, then over to Cut Bank, where I turned east for a week-long tour of The Hi-Line. For those of you who don’t know about the Hi-Line, here’s how I describe it in the book: “A drive across the Hi-Line serves as a particularly stark reminder of how much hope the arrival of the railroad must have brought to the people who lived there at the turn of the twentieth century. From Cut Bank, near the entrance to Glacier Park, all the way across the state to Sidney, a distance of 424 miles, you pass through nine counties, in a country that is mostly as flat and treeless as a table.” This was my first trip across the Hi-Line, and although every single encounter I had was a positive one, I also started to get a little itchy from what most of us know to be a common practice in rural Montana, which I refer to in the book as “the stare.” Montanans know what I’m talking about, where you enter a café in a small town, and even though they’re usually subtle about it, the patrons just can’t help but stare at you. Again, this is how I describe it in 56 Counties: “In most of the smaller towns in Eastern Montana, what you’re going to encounter when you first walk into the local café is ‘the stare.’” Those who encounter “the stare” should not panic. Although at first glance, the stare suggests that you might want to turn around and go back to your car, the explanation is pretty simple. The stare comes from seeing the same 25 or 30 people day after day for the past five or 10 years. And then suddenly being presented with someone they’ve never seen before. You’re a specimen that needs to be studied and analyzed. The stare may seem rude at first, but it’s really a compliment. You are exotic, worthy of examination. You are something they can spend a good hour talking about later. Because I grew up in Montana, I have known about the stare my whole life, but after a week of experiencing it daily, not to mention seeing a steady diet of a certain news outlet on every single television, I started to get a little paranoid. For one thing, I had that California look, with my Birkenstocks and my cargo shorts; plus I was driving a Subaru. So it didn’t help when one night in my hotel, I decided to watch an old Spencer Tracy film called “Bad Day at Black Rock.” Tracy plays John Macreedy, a one-armed WWII veteran who gets off the train in the tiny town of Black Rock, where he encounters more than “the stare.” He is apparently the first person to stop in Black Rock for a very long time, and he quickly realizes why when he tells one of the locals that he’s come to look for an old Army friend named “Kamoko.” Suddenly, there are no rooms available in the hotel. And although they serve him at the café, he has to endure a steady diet of guff from some of the locals. Robert Ryan is the head of these bullies, which also includes particularly nasty performances from Ernest Borgnine and Lee Marvin. Of course what Macreedy eventually discovers is that these men murdered Kamoko, and have spent the last few years covering it up, mostly by making damn sure nobody comes to Black Rock. You can imagine why this film was not a great choice. My paranoia, which I knew made no sense, ratcheted up just a few notches. So by the time I arrived in Plentywood, I couldn’t believe it when shortly after I pulled into town, a black pickup started following me. I decided I was imagining things, so I started making random turns, and when that truck followed every single turn, I knew it wasn’t my imagination. I was John Macreedy, and I was in trouble. I decided to face the situation head-on. I pulled into a parking lot, and sure enough, this guy pulled in behind me, so I circled around, rolling down my window just as he did the same. For a brief moment, I wondered whether I was making a huge mistake. “You’re probably wondering why this guy is following you around!” a middle-aged guy who looked like just about every rancher I’ve ever met shouted. “I just wanted to let you know that your right rear tire is low!” So here’s the thing: This story will always represent to me what I love best about Montana, and although I took this trip in 2014-’15, I would love to believe that this is still the kind of people I would encounter. But there is absolutely no question that things have changed. And I have heard way too many stories about people being harassed and bullied to feel confident that Montana is still like this. Even minor incidents have become more common. But there have also been violent examples. Just yesterday, right down the street from my house, a man decided to get our school year off on the right foot by parading around the neighborhood of one of our grade schools with a rifle. The police couldn’t do anything because what he was doing wasn’t illegal, but really? Our state has always taken pride in our reputation as one of the most friendly and welcoming states in the country. And that reputation was built on a foundation of trust and respect that came from generations of people knowing how dependent we are on each other for survival. The whole notion of “self-reliance” in Montana was always nonsense. We have always relied on each other, and this has always made it necessary, especially in rural areas, to treat people who think differently with the idea in mind that someday, they might be the one who takes the time to stop you and let you know that your tire needs some air. 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