Sandwiched behind Tea Kettle and Columbia mountains, and between Highway 2 and the Flathead River, Hungry Horse had a population of a little over 900 people when I moved there. To get there, the highway followed the Flathead River, then crossed a bridge over the South Fork of the Flathead and on up through the canyon towards Glacier Park. Originally named “Damtown” it was a product of the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation project to build a dam and large reservoir. Portable prefab buildings housed thousands of workers. Remnants of the foundations could still be seen on the south side of the highway behind the post office. Straight rows of Ponderosa pines planted back then had grown tall.
County Commissioners changed the name to Hungry Horse when two lost horses, Tex and Jerry, were found almost starved to death after wintering in the deep snows along the South Fork.
Moving day into my “little cabin in the woods” went smoothly. I fell into bed that night, exhausted, but it took a while to drift off. It was quiet…too quiet. I was used to city noises. Even at night in a “quiet” neighborhood there was always background white noise, or the sound of a plane overhead. Finally sleep came…until the shookety-clack of a train echoed through my open window at 2:00 am. I could hear the squeak of the cars as they rocked their way up the canyon, and me back to sleep. A rooster announced sunrise the next morning.
Sometime during my teenage years, my mother said, “Never live in a town without sidewalks.” I don’t remember why she said this, though it was not unusual for her to blurt out something random that had nothing to do with our conversation. I would be reminded of that remark later in the day.
Aside from unpacking remaining boxes, I needed to pick up some items at the grocery store and get a mail box at the post office. There was no mail delivery. My cabin was bound on one side by the road leading downhill to the Bible Camp, but my driveway faced an alley and a little white house on the other side.
Gypsy rode shotgun as I backed my car out of the garage and turned it to face the alley. A tall man wearing a cowboy hat and long black drover coat walked slowly by. He stared forward with a purposeful look, arms down at his sides. A long barreled black pistol pointed to the earth was held firmly in his left hand. Three questions came to mind: 1) was another gunslinger at the other end of the alley, 2) was someone filming a movie and 3) did I want to forget my plans and go back in the house? I waited a few minutes, didn’t hear gunfire, and decided to continue to the grocery store. I tentatively eased the car around the corner and peeked down the alley. The drover coat man was nowhere in sight.
As I checked out my groceries I mentioned that I had seen a man with a long pistol walking down my alley.
“Yeah,” said the clerk. “He was probably out looking for the grizzly. I heard there was one sighted in town. But if he was planning to shoot it with that pistol he’ll lose a front tooth.” He chuckled.
Confused by the answer I asked what he meant by the tooth comment.
“A griz charges at about 40 mph. They are so fast, that fella would be aiming that pistol from his chin before he could get off a shot.”
“Do you get many grizzlies in town?” I asked.
“Every once in awhile one will swim across the river looking for huckleberries,” he answered.
After getting a PO box I drove around to get the lay of the land. The town was a blip along U.S. Highway 2 with one grocery store, a combination restaurant, clothing store/tourist trap, a gas station, a liquor store and a sad looking wooden horse painted red standing outside a carver’s studio. My mother would have called it a “one horse town” and she would not have been wrong.
The restaurant, made famous for its huckleberry pie, offered everything huckleberry, including jams, taffy, syrup, soap, licorice, jewelry, framed huckleberry prints and, of course, T-shirts. There was a community church, a Bible camp along the river, a contract post office and several bars. Some streets were paved, most were not and there were no sidewalks. Whenever another car approached the driver would wave and expected me to do the same. It was more of a gesture than a wave, a flip of the hand off the steering wheel. Some would raise just one or two fingers. I guess you would know where you stood if it was a third-finger wave. It felt kind of weird waving at someone I didn’t know, but as they say, “when in Rome”.
Martin City was the next town a few miles up the canyon and boasted bar stool races during the summer. Later my neighbor explained that anyone would be famous if they could still stand (or live) after “going up the line” by drinking their way through all the bars between Hungry Horse and the entrance to Glacier Park.
“Many have tried, few survived,” she said.
The first day in my new home was memorable. Culture shock is not an adequate descriptor. It was like being dropped onto another planet. I grew up in an upper middle-class neighborhood, enjoyed the conveniences and trappings of city life, I had been a paralegal working in an office on the 68th floor of the then Key Bank building. My office had a view of the Olympic Mountains and Puget Sound. I wore suits and high heels from Nordstrom to work. I grew up traveling extensively through the U.S. with family on summer vacations. I had lived in San Diego, San Antonio, San Francisco, Alameda, Seattle…all of them had sidewalks.
My new life would definitely be an adventure. That first day would be the tip of the iceberg.
I had no idea that Hungry Horse was named for two starving horses! Your description of the town is spot on. This was an engaging read! I also learned more about you. Fascinating travels!