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--> --> Aug. 16: Deliver us from four-week vacations By Larry Berteau Vacations are like pistachio ice cream. They taste good, they don't last long enough, and they're a bit nutty. Americans are at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to our annual holiday from the drudgery. Far less civilized countries, with citizens of far fewer rights and privileges, pass out serious holiday helpings compared to the U.S. In fact, comparing America with, say, France, in the sport of vacations, one would conclude quickly that the French are the well-bred bunch. A natty Parisienne would crack up in his baguette over a 2- or 3-week annual vacation. Why, he wouldn't even gas up his Peugeot for a couple weeks in Provence. In England, there's not a prayer in Picadilly a Brit would even pack a marmite sandwich for two weeks in the Cotswolds. In Scandinavia, a Finn wouldn't ford a fjord for less than a 4-week reward. Welcome to West World Nope. Only in America do we work harder, longer, for so little (in the vacation department). I just did one of those frighteningly short sorties - for the first time to northern Montana. The immediate danger of the journey rested in the long list of Montana jokes I've been told - and worse, remembered - over the years. You know them too. Like: "Do you know what Montana foreplay is?" and "Do you know the one about the city dude who bought a ranch in Montana, and, sitting on his front porch that first night saw a lonely horse and rider approaching?" Of course you do. I was forced to refrain from repeating any of them. This was driven home early on. Montana is one of those places that doesn't disappoint - whether it's the predictable arsenal racked in the rear window of every pickup, or the equally predictable fact that every Montanan drives a pickup, or the conclusive evidence that the only other form of transportation is horseback. That's a birdie, Bucko Montana is real, pardner. There are no urban cowboys. These dudes are right out of a Remington painting. They make John Wayne look like a soda jerk. They have names like Lefty, Billy Ray, Joe Bob, Spike, Colorado, Buck, Curly, got the picture? I golfed with hustlers who wore cowboy boots and a red bandanna and drove consistently over 275 yards. I went whitewater rafting with a guide who never lost his stetson. I ate Montana beef at a barbecue and finished last to women with no teeth and kids who ate with a chaw in their cheek. I went horseback riding with a rancher who joked about his last grizz encounter (it had happened the day before) and was transfixed by the claw marks that cut a ribbon of scar tissue across his ample jaw. But you can be happy I saw glaciers of mountains so majestic they cut gouges in the sky. Everywhere my meager vacation days took me, I saw streams and rivers carving through the centuries of ravines - with water so clear and sweet it broke your heart. There were brown trout the size of sedans. When they rose in the evening for an insect, you set down your fly rod, overcome by fish fever. And everywhere it was green and blue - grass and mountains meeting at some point on the horizon in a marriage of integrity that sucked the breath from your chest. Of course, there was the nutty part too. Well-meaning land management abounds. On a bison range that carried you back to the pre-Little Big Horn era, a sign reminding us of all the things you couldn't do: No littering. No feeding the buffalo. No climbing the fence. No fishing. No hunting. No removing the garbage cans. No getting out of the car. No skateboarding. No fireworks. No rock removal. I have no idea why you can't skateboard in a buffalo herd, or for that matter be forewarned, but certainly Roger Miller must have written a song about it. The list was so glumly created it resembled a civil rights plank in a Republican platform. It was as negative as an ion spinning out of orbit. Bear with me There was a road to a place called Buffalo Bridge that was "mighty easy" to find. "Just take a left up there, carry on out that road past the schoolhouse, then keep your eye peeled for the red angus ranch road which'll take you to the gorge." This trip through the Montana outback was delivered with a matter-of-factness that suggested a city slicker with advanced glaucoma could find the bridge in a snowstorm. As soon as I grabbed a left "up there" there was trouble. The road turned to gravel, then to red dust, inside a mile. There were horseshoe imprints, cloven hoof tracks, and my Michelins stirring up the countryside. My wife, the woman of constant good humor, and my son, the heir to the vast Berteau fortune, were sorely tested. I nearly had the day saved when I spotted a schoolhouse, only to be reminded a mile later of another schoolhouse. Everywhere we looked there were red cows, chewing on something, chuckling under their disgusting breath. Certainly, Buffalo Bridge is a delightful place. And fortunately, I had a local brochure to prove it. Maybe there's a reason our holidays are so short. Maybe we couldn't survive a month out there. Have you ever seen grizz scars? Larry Berteau is editor of The Tidings. Email your... Technical questions & comments to: WebMaster Daily Tidings editorial comments & questions to: Editor Visit our other Oregon Newspapers... | Albany Democrat-Herald | Ashland Daily Tidings | Corvallis Gazette-Times | | Lebanon Express | Newport News-Times | Springfield News | Cottage Grove Sentinel | Ashland Daily Tidings 1661 Siskiyou Blvd. Ashland, OR 97520 Telephone 541-482-3456 © Copyright 2001 Lee Northwest Publishing