Biscuits and Gravy

When you’re on the road on a motorcycle, there’s something about biscuits and gravy in the morning.  You may not normally spend much time in roadside cafes and restaurants when you’re at home, going about your normal existence, but when you’re on the road, it’s every morning, at a different place.  And while you might not normally order biscuits and gravy at the fern bar where you normally stop for a local breakfast, when you’re on the road on a motorcycle it’s important to eat plenty of carbs to stave off the effects of the wind and supply the increased physical demands of the act of riding.  That’s why biscuits and gravy may become your choice, even if you’re not in a truck.

My preference has always been the local joint, not part of any chain, filled with the local folks, whom it must keep happy to stay in business, and so the food they offer becomes a reflection of what the local folks decide is reasonable and good.  Biscuits and gravy is like a bellwether for small towns.
Somewhere near the Mason-Dixon line you start seeing grits on your plate every time, no matter what you order.  In California it’s an avocado.  Anywhere within 3,000 nautical miles of Boise, Idaho it’s hash browns, lots of ‘em.  But they all have biscuits and gravy on the menu.

So a memorable road trip includes not only the memories of the places you went, the people who rode with you and the ones you saw along the way, and of course the weather, but also the food you ate at the various road side joints along the way.  Not to mention the beer you drank at the end of the day when the riding was over.

And it is natural that in the course of many an idle conversation after a nice dinner and over a beer and a campfire surrounded by tents that the topics would flow to those of most critical importance, such as where to find the best biscuits and gravy in the country.

My riding buddy, Marty, says that the source of the best biscuits and gravy in the country is the Two Mile Café in Albany, Oregon, while I contend that the actual source is none other than the Tastee-Freeze in Laurel, Montana.  Allow me to state my case, if you will.

The best way to sharpen your appetite for breakfast is to roll out of your fart sack as the sun breaks the horizon over the KOA where you slept and spend the next interval breaking down your camp and getting coffeed and cleaned up, then hit the road in the early chill of an August morning in western Montana, or any one of dozens of similar places in any other state.  Ride at least 30 miles or so up the canyon, where the sunny spots almost get you warm enough to be ready for the next shady spot where the temperature drops so fast you start to shake in anticipation.

In our case it was that stretch of I-90 west from Rapid City on the way home from Sturgis on a Sunday morning, and the spot on the map was Wolf Creek, Montana.  But when we pulled off the highway and down the single main street of the town, it quickly became obvious that there was nothing open, no choice but to get back on the road and head West and see what turned up.

By the time we rolled off the freeway in Laurel, the next town down the line, we were hungry enough to look hard at the next sheep that crossed the road in front of us, and the only choice appeared to be the Tastee-Freeze.  I was consoled by the number of rigs with Montana plates on them in the parking lot, which surrounded a building that was longer than it looked from the front, so in we went, five hungry bikers who had been camped in the dirt for the last ten days, and sat down with the town for their after-church Sunday morning breakfast.

I ordered the biscuits and gravy, of course.  Nothing else was going to stand a chance against the hollow ache in my midsection, that and lots of coffee.

As we warmed up over the hot coffee, conversation in the restaurant, which was mostly full, slowly built back up from the shocked hush that had greeted our arrival.  Then the food came, and I ascended into a state of nirvana, or culinary bliss, or some equivalent spasm of delight.  The biscuits were huge, and fresh out of the oven, split and covered with gravy, oh, such gravy!  It was the gravy of kings, the gravy of huntsmen on a cold morning before a fox hunt in Staffordshire, full of big chunks of the local sausage, served at the perfect temperature and accompanied by an impressive wad of hash browns to share in the wealth.  Even the toast was home made.

As I basked in that warm feeling of perfect satiety after a feast, secure in the knowledge that I was set for the day’s hard ride to come, something came over me, and I got up and walked to the front of the restaurant.  I said to the man at the register, perhaps a bit louder than I might have intended, “Let me speak to the chef.”  He hesitated, and I repeated, “I want to talk to the cook.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and a woman came out wiping her hands on her apron and said, “I’m the cook.  Is there anything wrong?”  In the back of my mind, I noticed that the restaurant was dead quiet behind me.  I asked her, “Did you make that biscuits and gravy?”  “Yes, I did,” she said, “Is anything wrong?”  I said, with a smile, “Ma’am, that was the best biscuits and gravy I have ever had in the entire state of Montana, thank you very much!”  Her face lit up and she smiled and thanked me, as the assembled customers all laughed at their tables and my wife made faces at me from our booth.  I went and hid in the bathroom.

Of course, I realize the fatal flaw with the idea that you could decide once and for all just who makes the best biscuits and gravy in the country, which is that you can’t rightly say until you’ve tried them all, right?

So the search will go on, even if the goal remains as elusive as the rewards of the search are rich.  Any tips that could lead to a contender for the crown are welcome.  :-{)}

Montana teaser

There is a road that leads to heaven, and it starts in Salmon, Idaho.  You could argue that it starts well before that, and I would concede at some point, but Salmon is still the jumping off spot, in my mind.  If you come in from the South on State Highway 28 out of Idaho Falls, or up the western valley on US 93 from Butte City, that would be two sides of the same coin.  If you snuck across the National Forest from Sun Valley up through Challis on 75, then the rest of the way on 93, that’s extra points in your cool road file.

But it all starts the next morning as you tank up belly and bike, then head out into the cool morning air northbound on 93 along the Salmon River Canyon.  The road leaves the river at a place called North Fork and winds up a long canyon to the top, where, at a place called Lost Trail Powder Mountain, you are presented two choices: stay north on 93 as it comes down into the valley of the Bitterroot River on the way to Hamilton and Lolo Pass, a worthy destination in itself, or turn right on Highway 43 and drive through heaven on your way to Montana.  I say take that right, every chance you can.  Just past the turn is a parking lot surrounded by trees, among which more than a few people have chosen to have their ashes scattered as their final resting place.

Highway 43 doesn’t roll, it meanders, accompanied on either if not both sides by the classic stream like the ones in “A River Runs Through It”.   The two-lane blacktop was smooth and freshly paved the last time we went this way, and the clean fresh air combines with the wide open sky and the heartbreakingly green fields completely devoid of any signs of civilization beyond the macadam itself to bring on a bad case of traveler’s grin.  Then it gets better.

As the highway exits the hills it sets up an automatic reaction that occurs in most riders at that point.  The trees fall away, and the road cuts straight as a slightly dog-legged arrow across a wide open valley with the small town of Wisdom clearly visible in the far distance.  There is no stock in the fields, no obstructions or traffic on the road, so what else can you do but lay down on the tank and hold the throttle wide open until you see God or attain Wisdom, whichever comes first?    You’ll know you’re there when you see the floozy on the false front above Conover’s Trading Post.

So if you’re thinking about a road trip this summer, there are no bad choices in Montana, beyond Cut Bank and Browning, about which more can be said later.  In the meantime, let’s get out and do some riding!  :-{)}

The Campground in the Little Belt Mountains

There’s a magical feeling I recall when I think back on that trip, the one I got when we were gathered around our campfire in the early evening as a light summer rain fell through the dying embers of the day’s sunshine on our camp in the Little Belt Mountains of Montana on our way to Sturgis in 1995.  We were listening to Craig Chaquico’s “Sacred Ground” from the Harley Davidson Road Songs cd on L.C.’s stereo as the rain fell and dissipated the heat of the day around us.  Something about the light and the music combined to form something special.  Then reality set in.

Our day had begun in the KOA campground in Glacier, Montana.  The five of us had decided to vary the routine that year by taking Highway 2 out of Washington State through Glacier Park, then cruising the back roads of Montana down to rejoin I-90 and the parade of bikers headed for Sturgis by the direct route.  It was our third day out.  It began when my bike wouldn’t start when we were packed and headed to breakfast.  I sent them on ahead while I fiddled with the starter relay and caught up shortly when that worked.  The old girl gave me a scare that day, but never let me down when it counted, then or later.

Breakfast was in a bar, of course.  Everything in Montana happens in a bar, (except for the Tastee-Freeze in Laurel, which serves the best biscuits and gravy in the whole state, but that’s another story), in a bar, or on the road.  After breakfast we saddled up and headed out into the morning, always the best part of a day on the road.  First thing we did was head up the Going-To-The-Sun Road, and we caught perfect weather.  If you’ve ridden that section in bad weather, as I have, it can be nasty, but in the warm sunshine it is impressive.  You can see the handiwork of thousands of farm boys from across the Midwest who the government put to work doing something useful, with lasting results.  Their work is evident in the scattered National Park Lodges, great timbered structures that drop your jaw every time you walk in the door, and hidden in the roads that lead to Sturgis and Mount Rushmore.

  On the way out of the park, we bore right at Browning and took Highway 89 south and east to Livingston.  This is a classic forested beautiful two-lane highway with few people living along it, the type for which Montana is famous.  No speed limits, no traffic, no cops – a biker’s paradise, and, at the end, a good lunch at a nice little bar in downtown Great Falls.  That’s where we made our critical mistake.

Leaving Great Falls on 89 you literally ride off the end of the earth.  There’s a valley that starts outside of town where the cliff wall drops a few miles abruptly, and, as you approach the cliff at 60 miles an hour and wonder where the road is, the downhill right that starts the switchbacks gets close enough to make you hold your breath and cover your brake until you see it.

We rode across that valley until early evening, then pulled into the first roadside campground we found as we left the grasslands and headed into the Little Belts.  Our mistake was, when we left Great Falls we were full of food and beer and just assumed there would be a place to stop for dinner, not a good assumption in the back hills of Montana.  When we arrived at what proved to be our campsite, it was early evening and a squall was forming over the mountains that promised to drive us into our tents for the night.  We held a quick conference by the fire.  Everyone was tired, we were miles from anywhere, and we had no food, and a little water.  I volunteered to run down the road a few miles and look for a truck stop.

As I pulled out of the campsite I remembered to look back and form a mental picture of what the driveway looks like coming back.  Hate to miss it at night in the rain.  Then I booked on down the highway.  That’s a moment when you really get to know your bike.  It’s just the two of you powering into the gloom on a hope and a maybe.  This was before the cell phone era, and if a guy disappeared out here on a blind curve they might never find him.  It’s a time when you feel fully at attention and alive.

About 14 miles down I spotted our salvation:  An obvious roadside store with an old gas pump under the canopy and a general store in one end of a long structure with outbuildings.  There were lots of cars and trucks in the lot. I parked and walked in the door.

I offered the two old ladies behind the counter a heartfelt, “Boy, I sure am glad to find you here, still open!”  They gave me funny looks, and said nothing.  Then I glanced to the side, and realized the long low structure to one side of the store was one big room, connected inside the building.  There were rows of picnic tables arranged inside, and at those picnic tables sat what appeared to be every man, woman and child who lived in them there hills, and they all sat quietly staring at me, not saying a word.  There had to be 50 of them.  They were all white folks, dressed plainly, and it seemed on that quick glance that all the women wore full length skirts.   I had barged in on a town meeting, or a revival, or a church service or something, and it was quickly evident that they did not want me in their midst at all, no how, no way, and I should leave at once.

I turned to the old ladies and said, “We’re camped up the road and we need food.  Is there anything you can sell me?”  “Sorry”, she replied, “we got nothing for you.”  I looked wildly around the room.  There on the bar was a display case with candy bars and potato chips, about 5 of each.  I pointed.  “I’ll take them”.  She rang them up, I said thanks, and out the door I went.

We had M&Ms, both plain and peanut, for dinner that night, along with Doritos for dessert and bottled water to wash it down.  It was a splendid repast.  The next morning we rode by that place on the way out of there, but not a creature was stirring.  We found a little town, White Sulphur Springs, about 18 miles down on the other side of the state forest, and stopped there for breakfast.  It was a lesson learned:  never leave lunch in Montana without knowing where your dinner is going to be, or take it with you.

The rest of that trip was a typical Sturgis experience, noise, heat, smoke, sweat, lines for everything and all prices doubled.  That’s why it took me 5 years to go back, the memories have to fade some.  But that picture, those 50 people sitting in silence staring at me, that is a picture I will always keep in my brain.  What were they doing?  What was their story?  Some things you just never will know.  :-{)}