The Vagabond Chef

Clouds were dark and low, threatening rain all day as I rode north through Montana towards Canada and Glacier Park. The previous night I’d stayed in a motel in Belgrade. I’d happened to meet some really interesting people, whom I hope to feature in the blog later on. That had been the first time I’ve ever stayed in a hotel by myself. Normally, I would have kept driving until I either got to my destination, or found a place to crawl in the back and catch some shut-eye.

On the bike things were different. After spending the weekend in a heat wave in Jackson (a day and a half of that knocked down with some sort of summer flu), I had happily driven into the wind through Grand Teton National Park and into Yellowstone (more on that later). On the other side, in West Yellowstone, I stopped to see about a room. I laughed my way back out the door when the clerk told me the price for a single room.

So, I kept riding. I thought to stop in Big Sky, MT, maybe see the brewery, but riding up it looked too much like another resort town. I needed a break from that scene.

I was getting fried by the time I came into Bozeman, hence the hotel room.

Now, coming into Browning, I was finding myself in a similar situation. Swinging into one campground that ended up being closed, I almost dropped the bike. I have yet to do this. I’ve read about it happening to people. Read about how to deal with it. Read about how, most likely, I would have to take all the luggage off the bike, then get it upright, then strap everything back down. Not an enticing situation. Especially since you’re not going to drop your bike when things are going “well.”

I finally found an open campsite, paid too much for it, and asked the host about the place I’d seen back up the road. Instead of just having a granola bar and some beef jerky for dinner, I was thinking maybe I’d eat something hot.

It began raining (thankfully) just after I got the tent up. And as I retraced my tracks the half mile back to the place I saw on the side of the road, it did not look inviting. A small handful of trucks and cars were parked outside. I couldn’t help but think of places like the old Traveler’s Paradise on route 250 in WVa, places where if they had truer names would be called things like “The Bloody Knuckles” and “Bad Decisions.”

I walked in to the Snow Slip Inn. Four men sat alone at different tables in various stages of their dinner. A television was on. Some American Idol type show. I sat at a table just vacated by two kayakers. It was dark inside, but less menacing than I’d expected.

Then the proprietor, Bill came over to take my order. I asked for a patty melt, and he told me that that was made with their house-pattied burgers and handcut fries. I’m sure my eyes widened a little in surprise, and then my preconceived notions of the Snow Slip began to slip away.

Not that I was completely off base, mind you. Local legends are full of tales of train robbers and vigilantes, hard men gambling away their pay, boozing it away, whoring it away…. Hard fun for a hard life. The next morning Kathy gleefully pointed out old bullet holes in the ceiling. But I’m getting away with myself here.

The other patrons seemed to be a nice example of the demographic for the place. One guy in a button up shirt and glasses looked to be some sort of passer-through on business or pleasure. A gruff local railroad man watched the television. I already mentioned the kayakers. Another man looked to be a hunter, maybe just in from some time out in the mountains.

Bill brought me over my food, and it was delicious. After eating I looked around. This place was cool.

I asked Bill about the food and he said everything he knew about cooking he’d learned from Kathy who worked the morning shift tomorrow, and yeah it would be great if I came in and talked to her about the place and took some pictures. He packed a six pack or Rainer into a bag of ice for me, and I went back to my campsite to huddle in my little tent while the rain fell, drink beer, and watch Justice League cartoons on my laptop.

The following morning it was still raining. I had stayed warm and dry in the tent, but everything else was soaked. I packed up and went back to the Snow Slip, excited to be warm, get dry, and eat some breakfast.

Grateful Dead satellite radio was on when I met Kathy as she was handing me a hot cup of coffee, creating a favorable impression to say the least. We quickly realized we had grown up across the Ohio River from each other. Kathy was from Bridgeport, OH. We talked about the Ohio Valley for a while, how it’s changed, what it’s like to leave and go back. Even though our experiences were separated by some years, it was amazing what we shared. She told me anytime she heard someone say “you’uns” she knew exactly where they were from.

Glancing through the menu my eyes fell on Snow Slip’s Trashy Omelet.  “Trash breakfast” is something my wife Katie’s family makes and that we have adopted. It involves throwing whatever you can find into a skillet with a couple of eggs. It’s great how you can add egg to anything and it becomes breakfast! Kathy told me the previous owners would do, literally, just that. He’d put chili, or whatever, into the omelet, but she felt like it should be a little more standardized for folks.

The Trashy Omelet now has “breakfast meats and veggies,” so it’s still pretty open to interpretation.

Kathy showed me around the restaurant and bar telling stories. There’s a stage behind the building and they have live music in the summer, the fourth of July being an especially big time. All around the bar at the top of the wall there were drawn on dollar bills. Kathy told me the tradition had started with the cowboys. They would sign their money and leave it at the bar so it would be there when they got back.

In addition to all the bills around the bar, there were stacks under the till. She said people loved to do it and maybe they would start a scrapbook with them, because there were so many.

We talked about business life on the fringes when you never know if you’re going to get slammed or be dead, and the importance of consistency with your hours, even if sometimes it means sitting around talking to the cats.

It is neither unkind, nor untrue, to call the Snow Slip eccentric. It has character in a way often imitated by chain restaurants perpetually lurking at interstate exits. The difference is one of authenticity. The Snow Slip Inn has been officially around since 1945, but its history stretches well before that.

I think this character feels less than safe to some people. Maybe this is why rich transplants come into a new area, and the first thing they try to do is turn it into a copy of where they’re from. The familiar is comfortable. Convenience and comfort are, after all, the most important things in life. Aren’t they?

If people would let go of their perceived control and allow themselves to be open and <gasp> vulnerable, they would find a wealth of experiences and interactions never preconceived. They would find places like this. Places like HAHA’s in Spokane, or the Goat Shack in Idaho.

I am certainly and continually having my preconceptions blown out of the water and my world expands exponentially with every mile in the saddle.

When breakfast arrived it was, good… really good. It was filling, priced very reasonably, and cooked perfectly. I love eggs. I love potatoes. I love coffee.

My awesome conversation with Kathy and the great meal she fixed really took the edge of the wet and cold. My stop at the Snow Slip Inn was the happiest of happenstance, and I will always make it a point to stop in when I’m going through. Hell, I’d even make a special trip and stay in their motel or campground. I’ll bet the locals have some great stories to tell.

You can learn more about the Snow Slip Inn at their website: http://snowslipinn.com/ and you can find them on facebook, too.