Alternative subheadings include: “Letting the draft folder see the light of day”, “Writings that could very well be hard to follow”, and “Benches needs a copy editor.”
Howdy. As the actual subheading suggests, we have some words of various flavors. This dispatch, the first in many moons, contains words on a mid-summer adventure, followed by a fictional message/potential new bit, followed by a birthday party announcement. If you don’t want to read about a kayaking trip involving a bush plane ride or a patently ridiculous message from the fictional leadership of a fictional church, well, the next bench roundup is scheduled for Friday, October 3rd.
The Middle Fork of the Flathead River
Thursday evening, July 10th, Mickey and I arrive at the water sports outfitter to procure the inflatable kayaks we reserved for the weekend’s festivities. We walk into the shop, and upon entrance, we see the kayaks stacked on top of one another. As we help the employee of the shop gather the additional gear, the helmets, the PFDs, the paddles, we trivially converse about the general happenings. Mainly, why we reserved inflatable kayaks for the weekend and all river adjacencies.
“So, what is the reason for the trip?” he asks.
“Well”, responds Mickey, “we have a friend who really doesn’t want to play volleyball this weekend.”
“An expensive way to not play volleyball” quips the employee.
I mean, maybe. But also, it’s not Mallorca. It’s northwestern Montana. A weekend trip. Friday through Sunday.
The stoke has been high since the trip was conceived, since the first "hell yeah let’s rock and roll” was returned immediately upon receiving the trip invite. We were circling in a stoke spiral, which is no surprise to anyone who has talked to me in the last month1, given I’ve insufferably mentioned this trip at every opportunity I could get in the weeks leading up it2.
The trip was: a pair of bush planes that plopped us into the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Schafer Meadows Airstrip, to be precise. Kayaks that would take us back out via the Middle Fork of the Flathead River. Three days, two nights. 30-something miles of river.
The next day, Friday morning, was the first rendezvous of the whole crew3. Car and gear consolidation in Missoula. The cross-referencing of needs, the melding of souls. Typical Friday morning action. Once the bodies and equipment were accounted for, we beckoned towards Kalispell.
Three cars caravanned their way to the Kalispell City Airport, up US HWY 93, where we would drop off our gear tarmac left. There were some weight requirements that the crew needed to hit. Every item placed on an industrial scale, weighed with diligence. Collectively, accounting for every mass and matter, the combined weight could not exceed 1,800 pounds.
We arrived three hours before our flight, because one of the unglamorous parts of passenger princessing a bush plane into the woods and kayaking out is that you need to have cars waiting for you once you reach your desired river endpoint. Therefore, the caravan resumed, heading NE on US HWY 2, treading the pavement that separates the southern end of Glacier National Park and the forest south. We dropped two cars (one in Essex, one in Nimrod) for when we take out of the river two days hence, then drove back to the airport.
If you’re looking for a geographic aid to the terrain we are about to trek, here is what I’m workshopping. Glacier National Park is often referred to as the “Crown of the Continent”, and what I learned while typing this trip report is that, technically, the Bob Marshall Wilderness also comprises the Crown of the Continent Ecosystem. I had a whole bit I thought of while driving to drop the cars in Essex about how, if Glacier is considered the crown, then the Bob should be considered the widow’s peak. But, alas, the Bob is a part of the crown. It’s a beautiful drive if you ever get the pleasure.
Now, it’s deep into Friday afternoon and we’re back at the Kalispell City Airport, gathered around the two planes, which have by now been appropriately described by our group’s most seasoned bush plane flier as “lawnmowers with wings”, waiting as the loading process is finalized. The mid-July sun is present, so in the name of leisure, we were mostly standing under the wings of the plane to catch some shade. We were literally waiting in the wings, and the eagerness was brewing. Rather quickly, during the buffering time between packing and take-off, we learned how bonkable the wings of each plane were. That is: if you don’t duck as you walk under a wing, you will get bonked. If you didn’t properly execute your duck, you were bonked. Moving impatiently? Bonked. One of our own, Soup, referred to this bonking as the “Cessna Diamond”, because, apparently, if you bonk your forehead on the fabricated wing’s edge, an imprint of a diamond will impress your dome. However, since no Looney Tunes characters were invited on this trip, we were unable to see this claim in action.
The packing process is finished. “I guess we’re good to go,” says the main boss of the aviation company with less assurance than you’d wish. Meaning, let’s get these mortals in the seats. I laugh nervously. Hell and goddamn, we’re going up.
We crawl clumsily into the plane. A Cessna 206 Stationair II, to be precise. The interior design was reminiscent of a Sears Roebuck catalog. Creamy leather(?) ceilings, soft brown bucket seats, which were configured in three rows of two. It felt vintage but probably wasn’t. Our pilot’s name was Canyon. He had the word “Adventure.” tattooed on his forearm (palm-side). He was from Wyoming (Big Horn County), and he wore cowboy boots.
We — the cabin — were instructed to put our headsets on, and we obliged as we looked around the plane with various degrees of amusement and fear. “Please don’t breathe into the mic”, says Canyon, reacting to me reflexively panic laughing through my nose into the mic (the kind of nose laugh that comes with the same pressure and cadence as if you were pumping up a bike tire). We were giggling boys going up in a Cessy.
Following the resolution of some anticlimactic wing malfunctions that required mechanical intervention, we rent the runway and find our vertical endeavor. As we gain elevation, heading east towards the Bob, the infrastructure of the Flathead Valley unspools below us. The sizing of the roads, the parking lots, the storage facilities, and farmlands diminish as we catch altitude, taking the form of a pattern less so than place. Around this time, shockingly, the pilot calmly starts texting, using his knees to hold the yoke firm. Unbothered.
Meanwhile, I’m sweaty as hell. My pants are rolled up, shirt loosely buttoned. My flame bandana4, taut around my head, was taking in some moisture. To call my palms clammy is disingenuous to honest writing; my palms were pooling. Again, a lawnmower on wings.
We’re crossing the valley, approaching the sharp rise of the Swan Mountain Range that form the western part of the crown. The plane stays much closer to the mountains than I imagined. Every tree is very much discernible. You are quite aware of the features of the forest. We leave the Swans as quickly as we arrived and we’re flying over Hungry Horse Reservoir, which marks the South Fork of the Flathead River. We’re looking for the Middle Fork. We keep east, and at this point of aviation, our vantage is coooking. Glacier National Park is visible to the north. Silvertip Mountain, the highest point of the Bob, is to the south. Soon, we will reach our destination: the backcountry airstrip of Schafer Meadows. Altogether, I think we were airborne from airstrip to airstrip in under 30 minutes as the crow flies
Plenty of days have passed since the flight, and yes, I’ve been in a plane before, but I’m still unsure how to describe the experience of gliding along the mountains. The force and propulsion, the novelty, the sporadic and probably unplanned dips and turns of the plane. The wondrous views. The pressure of the cabin. A pilot trying to make jokes. It all seemed significant; it all seemed to overload my circuitry.
But then, out of nowhere, Canyon takes the reins and skrtttsss downward and left. Well shit I guess we’re landing! is what I thought, but couldn’t find the air to say. At that moment, the Cessna was cosplaying as a rollercoaster. That is how it felt when the airstrip came into sight.
The plane lands with relative grace, contrasting with us (re: me) clumsily disembarking the plane on the empty matted grass airstrip, fist-bumping Canyon (“great work up there”), and recalibrating our bones at Schafer Meadows. It’s properly evening now, and we don’t dally much before carrying our gear the few hundred yards from airstrip to river launch. The plan is to rig up the boats, eat the take-out burritos we procured before the flight, and make a few miles downstream while we have the evening light.
The boats are rigged. My carabiner density is dialed, jangling and hanging around my personal dry bags (the strategy: a 40L drybag of clothes and camping gear strapped on the kayak’s stern, an 8L drybag ‘binered up front with foodstuffs and anything else I might need to access quickly)5. After everything was orderly enough, it was time for the coronation: eating our well-travelled dinner on a natural bench along the river’s bend, feet dangling over its edge. Nothing to see, just some fellas practicing delayed gratification.
Ceremoniously, we hit the water, and rather immediately, we experienced what all the beta informed us: the river was low. Many of the early bends along the winding Flathead were gentle, a little too gentle, meaning there were many times where boot-scootchin’ was necessary to get your kayak unstuck from a pesky rock. If the force of a boot-scootch didn’t grant travel, then you had to accept defeat and hop out into the water, pull the kayak until you found deeper water.
But the introduction to the Middle Fork of the Flathead River’s water was a pleasure, and its slow motion helped us familiarize ourselves with the surroundings. There was a heavy and pleasant scent of pine, some birds,6 and discussions on the fish that lurk beneath the surface (First name: Hog, last name: Johnson). We ride westward-ish, watching the sun go down the same trajectory as the ridge line. When we’re content with the miles paddled and reference our location to just above a section of river that presents more technical terrain — tomorrow’s task —, we scan for a spot to camp. We find a rocky outcropping port side. Terrain-wise, the rocks on which we established camp conjured in my mind a landscape akin to a supersized game of mahjong, with tiles (rocks) stacked and layered, mostly flat and rectangular, fit for the night.
Saturday arrives and, generally, we’re blissing out. We boil water for our dehydrated breakfasts, talk about the river ahead, the miles we’ll paddle and the rapids that will make acquaintance. It was serene day to wake up on the Middle Fork of the Flathead River.
I’d like to remember the gin-clear and refreshing water. Chilly water that slowly picked up in pace as the day progressed, as the river narrowed, and as streams trickled into the main flow. I’d like to remember the giddiness of launching for the day, and the motion of the first rapids of the day, or when you’re in softly flowing water and an eddy spins your kayak around like it wants you to see every angle of the landscape you can. And you let it happen. There were bony rapids that required scouting, so we’d dock our kayaks and hop up the banks to identify the optimal route through the flow and around the rocks. There were wave trains that channeled you through narrow canyons, chute-like and mesmerizing. There were yips and there were hollers. There was more scouting ahead. I’d like to remember as much as possible.
There was pinochle7, an entirely fine card game I entertain with palpable resistance, played at dusk. The mosquitoes and horse flies were playing fast and loose, so we gathered in the dome tent to play8. The game began with natural lighting but ended under headlamps. And Saturday waned.
On Sunday, we rinsed and repeated. We boiled our water, rehydrated our meals, and dug holes above the high-water mark for the personals we would leave behind. A blue sky beckoned. We rigged our boats for one last day, and we got the show on the road.
By now, if you’ve read this far, A) why, and B) you might be thinking “is this guy just going to yap about a trip he thinks was really cool the whole time? Isn’t this a blog about benches?” Baby cuz i caaaaaaan!
On Sunday, after a precious day on the water, we wrap around the last bend of our river to see a train riding the ridges of a mountain on the horizon, stacked double. Throughout the festivities, especially the final stretch before we logged off from water for the day, I was thinking about how, generally, we are sacks of bones and electricity temporarily floating around galactic terrain. Among chaos and entropy and all else unholy or exploited, we can be so lucky and privileged to experience such joy and enthusiasm. How the future is often a pitch black and endless-ish room in which you carry just a lantern that lights only a few feet in front of you, but step by step you proceed, and you find yourself taking a bush plane into the Bob Marshall Wilderness and taking a kayak out via the Middle Fork of the Flathead River. Or something like that.
Sunday afternoon, we are at Bear Creek Boat Ramp, in Nimrod, MT, packing up all our gear to put in the cars we stashed before flying in. We’re eating wafers, celebrating each other and the experience we shared. We pile into the Subaru Forester, Paul Simon’s Greatest Hits in the CD player, and head home, leaving the continent’s crown behind.
The 14th United Methodist Church
A message to our community
Everyone,
It pains me to begin this message, but God is clear in his teachings of pride. I write on behalf of the 14th United Methodist Church. We’re really trying, team.
As you can imagine, our weekly attendance numbers since we’ve opened our doors have been pretty low. About as low as a high plains river at the end of summer. Simply, if we have two pews at capacity during service, it is considered a rousing success. After all, when you’re the last Methodist church in the nation based on numerical rank, accumulating turnout is an uphill battle.
We had no choice but to carry the 14th in our holy church’s name. Once we heard the news that revised bylaws of the Church had passed and all churches that weren’t using a numerical name must change their name, and that the number you receive and rebrand to is given on a first-come, first-served basis, the entirety of single-digit names were accounted for. We’ve listened to the concerns that our tardiness in responding to Church’s decree was abhorrent and damaging to our image, but we must hold faith that the three-week mission we served repairing bird habitats in remote British Columbia was God’s Timing, even if by the time we return to find the letter in our mailbox announcing the bylaw update, we were late to the game, and slated to be the 14th United Methodist Church in our new, sovereign nation.
Slowly but surely, (and credit always to the Most High), though our name remains, we are now technically the 11th Methodist Church listed in the most recent Good Evangelist’s 2025 Traveling Guide. Last year, the 2nd United Methodist Church’s entire congregation fled the country without any warning or communication (weird), the 9th United Methodist Church was converted into a bowling alley (cheers to them), and, just two months ago, in a situation we’re not legally nor liturgically allowed to comment on, the 13th United Methodist Church burned down (thankfully, no souls perished). Some of our newer congregants have expressed confusion as to why the Methodist leadership doesn’t allow for churches to move up in numerical order when a lower number is seemingly available, but being such a young nation, it is imperative to be consistent with your message. Plus, they shrewdly believe context diminishes over time, and people will forget about the fire. In times like these, we simply feel so fortunate to be the 14th.
And while we discourage departures from the #MethFam, we pray one day that our beloved place of worship can move up to the Single Digits, for the life of the Low-Teens is a heavy pressure on the tender hearts of the 14th’s leadership. Sure, we acknowledge certain decisions of our past have been unfavorable in the eyes of our young nation’s Council of Bishops. If we had the chance to go back in time, we would not have added 808s to the Lord’s Prayer. And yes, please, once again, forgive us for introducing a blood-of-Christ emulsion as a spread option during communion. Our old chef de cuisine was adamant that it was the “summer of breads and spreads.” He is no longer with us.
However, it is our mission to both church and state to evangelize God’s teachings, and given our standing as the 14th (re: 11th!) Methodist Church in the country, we must think inventively, quixotically, and immediately, for any opportunity to share His word must be seized. And, after productive conversations with the Bishops on how sacrilegious additions to service might be “bad optics”, we’re looking forward to opportunities that provide a richer, closer relationship to our Life Force.
We are moving into a new era, and exciting things are to come! We would love it if you took it to heart and joined us for our next service. As a reminder, or if you’re just learning about us for the first time, we hold our services on Wednesday mornings at 9:30 AM. We are located downtown, next door to the 5th NAPA Auto Parts.
Life is precious and fleeting.
Thank you so much for your time
— The 14th United Methodist Church
Benches Turns Two
My dear friends, it’s that time of year again. Our beloved is approaching its second sweet trip around the sun, so we must celebrate accordingly. Once again, we have the annex of the Roxy Theatre reserved. Once again, we will have a live reading of the October bench roundup and a viewing of a yet-to-be-determined movie. This year, new to the agenda, there will be a live raffle. This year, we have the marquee.
October 29th.
As it goes —
Gently,
— Markus
this was written in July
and the following weeks after
Adam (friend; trip leader), Brett (friend; our guiding light), Mickey (friend; self-described overconfident fisherman), Sean (friend; sage), Soup (friend; real name is Sean), and I (friend)
for special occasions (mostly)
candidly, I’m such an amateur
skill issue (wish I could tell you what birds)
A card game I am not yet sold on, for it goes against two personal philosophies of Games.
Philosophy 1: if you can’t comfortably hold and view all the cards in your hand at once without strain, there is an issue with the configuration of the game.
Philosophy 2: The point system of games should not be allowed to go into the negatives.
They simply don’t make hexagonal dome tents like they used to
What a lovely surprise. While ★·.·´¯`·.·★ 𝕓𝕖ｎᑕĤᵉ𝕊 ★·.·´¯`·.·★ could never be trite, this was a beautiful, and much appreciated read.
P.S. I couldn't find the "new bit" you mentioned, you might have left it out.