The Boseman, Montana, airport, with its exposed beams, cathedral ceilings, and stone fireplace, looks like a ski lodge. Bill, Jay, Clyde and I arrive in the thick of night. We drive our rental car past waist-deep snow drifts along the side of the road.
The dark here swallows up the glow of the street lights. Despite blazing sodium-vapor lamps atop a dozen posts, thick darkness blankets the Wal-Mart and Target parking lots.
We stop to eat a Frontier Pies, where I consume a second supper consisting of a cookie-cutter hamburger and a disappointing slice of cream cheese lemon pie: it’s flat, too sweet, and filled with what seems to be Jello.
“The sky here really is bigger,” I say to Heidi, our waitress.
“You betcha,” she says. “You betcha.”
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