More From Missoula

What a Week

It has been a momentous week for me. Starting on Sunday, out at Flathead Indian Reservation and the National Bison Range 50 miles north of Missoula, with Aidan, Dylan, Julia and Zaira, we experienced the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere, with wildlife all around.

Exotic birds, antelope, bison, elk and grizzlies. There is nothing quite like a Montana Sunday out under the big sky.

Hugging the older three goodbye Monday night was bittersweet -- we'd all experienced a little of what we used to do, when they still lived here, and a lot of what their future is, now they live there.

Meanwhile, Julia and I had to leave them there and fly back here.

Our trip home was eventful. The weather in the Bay Area was frightful -- windy, with a very low fog/cloud level. First our flight home from Seattle (after our prop plane made it that far) was delayed, according to an urgent text message I received from Alaska Airlines, then cancelled, then diverted to San Jose.

Okay, so off to San Jose it was. As we descended into the Bay Area, which I have done hundreds of times over the years, it was obvious this was no normal landing. Our big jet bounced around like a bathtub toy on the turbulence all the way to the ground, which we hit in a very hard landing.

Whew.

We had been promised that a bus would meet us at the airport and transport us back north to SFO, where we were supposed to have loanded.

But there was no bus. What there was was confusion and then chaos.

Eventually a woman supposedly representing Alaska Airlines showed up and told us that some shuttles would be arriving soon to transport us to SFO.

One soon did, a little shuttle, I would say, capable of carrying maybe five people. The most aggressive passengers rushed to get seats in that one.

At this point, I positioned my daughter and myself where the next shuttle would seem likely to arrive. It worked. We were among the next seven boarded into an ancient van driven by a Pakistani man who seemed to be at the center of whatever operation was unfolding.

I still understand enough Urdu to know he was Pakistani even if no one else did.

It turns out he was the head of a private shuttle company that Alaska had contracted with to get all of us wayward passengers back to our original destination.

As head man, he coordinated the rest of his fleet, several more vehicles, to swarm into the spot where we were waiting, to ensure that everyone would get to SFO.

Thus, when all of that was finally accomplished, we were the last to leave.

As he drove us north on the notoriously crowded 101, I held on for dear life, and more specifically, for my daughter's dear life. He was weaving in and out of traffic at high speeds, answering texts and calls on his cellphone in his right hand, speaking Urdu and Hindi through his headset, and steering our ancient van with his left hand.

It felt at every moment that we were on the edge of disaster but ultimately we made it to SFO okay.

Then, Julia and I managed to hail a taxi. The ride home to the city was even more ridiculous. Our driver barely spoke English so I had to help him enter our address in his GPS because he really didn't know how to type.

Even with that he obviously didn't know the route well enough to sense where we were going.

The taxi he had been issued must have been from the bottom of the pile. It felt like the flywheel was broken, as we sashayed down 101, frighteningly close to cars on our right and our left. Allah Ackbar, I whispered.

As I succeeded in getting him off the freeway and onto a route that would reach my house, I asked him where he was from. We spoke in a mixture of my broken Arabic and his broken English.

"Yemen. I from Yemen. My first day as taxi. I pay $40,000 to come to this country."

Christ, his very first day. We are probably his first fares.

We made it home safely. The fare was $36. I tipped him $6 and told him to stay safe. In Arabic I told him "May God be with you." We exchanged our final Salaam Alekoms.

That started the rest of my week watching the Giants reclaims the National League pennant for the third time in five years. And last night I witnessed and wrote about what may have been the greatest game in baseball history.

I am still trying to wrap my mind about that.

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Giants Win the Pennant!

Out in Big Sky Country

Missoula Updates

There is nothing like hanging out with four kids, aged 20, 19, 18 and 15, to make you feel both old, yet much more in touch with your younger self at the same time.

Here at this U-M, I am reminded of my early years at another U-M.

Yesterday we drove up to Flathead Indian Reservation and the National Bison Range, where we saw elk, bison and antelope, including one big elk drinking in a river. We also passed by mighty mountains capped with snow under a sky that occasionally sent out some rain or hail but also bright sunshine, leading to some of the most fantastic cloud formations I have seen anywhere outside of the South Pacific.

As Aidan, said, "This is what they mean by 'Big Sky Country.' The sky just looks bigger here."

Today, Julia went to a class with him, while I visited Dylan's counselor.

Tonight, we visited the mall where Zaira works at Payless and got winter boots and thick socks for the boys. The locals say winter will start by the end of the month.

We had dinner at an Italian restaurant last night and an Asian restaurant tonight -- both quite good. The kids talked about their classes, their readings, their professors in ways I never remember them doing in high school.

They seem genuinely engaged, serious about their studies, and reflective about the ideas being raised in class.

This is a charming college town, in a green valley with a rushing river and trees now sporting a variety of fall colors -- yellow, orange, red and green -- and nice little houses that look like cozy places to live. The people are friendly and happy to tell you bout the best places to go and things to see.

Mixed in with the locals are ranchers, with their big belt buckles, red faces, jeans, boots and reserved expressions, driving big trucks and talking about fishing, hunting, and fixing those trucks.

There are a lot of older people here, like all over America, mainly whites but also quite a few Native Americans. It seems like a peaceful, safe place. Locals tell me they do not bother locking their front doors or even their bicycles out front.

The campus is nestled at the bottom of a precipitous cliff that sports a block M halfway up, rather like the famous Hollywood sign out west. The boys claim they are going to climb up there one day.

The river has bridges across it and the campus sits on the other side of the river from most of the town. Our hotel is exactly one mile from campus. People in the town tend to smile and nod when you pass on foot. On campus, the students, boys and girls, smiled at me, probably assuming I am a professor.

I met a young man, Chad, while waiting for Dylan's counselor to be free, who is a sophomore, attending on the GI Bill. He is just back in school after leaving Fort Bragg, and says he is having a rough time adjusting. I talked with him for a long time.

He grew up in Butte, so this part of the country is home, more or less. But he is 25 and feels so much older than the other students. He says his main comfort is to work out in the gym every day from 4-6.

I told him about Aidan, whose main comfort is to work out at the gym every night, sometimes starting at 6, sometimes later.

I think they might like each other, so I hope they meet.

Unlike my boys, who are still hesitant and a little ambivalent about their new lives here so far from home, Zaira has embraced Missoula.

"I like it much better here. It's so clean and the people are nice. It is a *lot* better than the Mission." Like most San Francisco kids, she does not describe the city as an entire place but as the neighborhood she knows best.

Zaira, a first-generation American, always has to worry about her parents and their status as immigrants in a country that treats them ambigously.

But she is a person on a mission, majoring in International Business and Business Administration, with a emphasis on Event Planning. She is an intern in events here, which means she works the concerts. Saturday night she worked the country music concert, and said "It got crazy, way too much drinking."

She also works at Payless three days a week.

And keeps an eye on the boys and encourages them in many ways. She is trying to get Aidan a job in security at the events, so he can see concerts for free too.

Well that's my report from Missoula, Montana tonight. Tomorrow morning at a frightfully early hour, Julia and I will reverse our route of Saturday and head back to the City by the Bay.

I will post better photos tomorrow or on the days to come.

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