The Men Who United the States: The Amazing Stories of the Explorers, Inventors and Mavericks Who Made America. Simon Winchester

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      There is something indescribably magical about Montana, and every experience I have had in the state, in more than thirty years of visiting, has been a good one. Most of the events on which I now look back so fondly took place along the same long, scimitar-curved route Lewis and Clark took when they first came through and spent their twenty weeks there. Here they are, recalled not in chronological order but according to their location along the line that the Corpsmen followed as they paddled upstream and then finally as they lifted their boats out of the ever smaller and shallower rivers and walked across the great Divide.

      The men—led by Lewis only; Clark and a small group had gone a different way—entered the Rockies by way of a narrow rock-walled defile that Lewis named the Gates of the Mountains. It is still called that, and for good reason. A curious optical illusion confronts anyone who boats upstream toward the towering line of cliffs, more than a thousand feet high, that marks the leading edge of the range. The river initially seems to vanish into the rock itself until, just a few score yards before you are dashed against the cliff face, an opening appears, an opening that, as your boat moves left and right with the current, seems to open and close, as if with sliding doors. Or gates. The river is little more than a hundred yards across—the entrance to the Rockies, the river’s exit, is spectacularly slender, half hidden, secret.

      I had never seen the Gates; and on the day I arrived by car from the state capital, Helena, ten miles away, it looked unlikely that I would see them. I was upstream, above the defile; it was a Sunday, in early spring, and there were no boats to hire. It was more or less impossible to walk along the cliff edge, and much of the land was in any case private. I was glum indeed—until a fisherman pulled his car down to the water’s edge and began to ease his aluminum boat off the trailer and into the lake. He introduced himself—Jeff Key—and his ten-year-old son, Jason. They were spending the day trolling for trout. When I explained who I was and what I was doing, there was no hesitation. Hop in, Jeff said; Jason won’t mind a few hours’ delay. There’ll be plenty of fish.

      And so downstream we went, driving gently down the twists and turns of the canyon, the water slapping happily against the hull, the sun glinting on the water. We had to crane our necks and squint into the sky to see the tops of the peaks, each crowned with lodgepole pine, balsam, and aspen.

      At one stage, on the west side of the river, there were some Indian pictographs, tricked out in black and ocher, and then a scar of landscape where greenery seemed a little newer, the trees a little shorter. This was the valley, the Mann Gulch, where there had been a terrible uncontrollable forest fire in 1949—the most fearsome kind, known as a crown fire—in which thirteen men had died. Norman Maclean had written a classic book: Young Men and Fire, which told the saga of the smoke jumpers who had been dropped in and who, when the fire suddenly boiled and turned, had been burned alive or had suffocated that day. It told of how an escape fire had been burned that might have offered them a way out, but the men’s radio, which might have told them about it, had been smashed when its parachute failed to open. The Mann Gulch Fire is a legendary episode, a lesson in how not to fight infernos, which forest firefighters use in classrooms still.

      And though the event occurred more than sixty years ago, it still resonates. A short while after my visit, a relative of one of the dead men—who was Jewish—came to these hills with a Star of David to replace the cross that had memorialized him. The other tiny monuments can be seen from the river, a scattering of white against the fresh green of the undergrowth, dotted up the impossibly steep hillside. Fire can rage uphill with astonishing speed. A man can hardly run up such a slope at all. Such was the core of the tragedy, all those years ago.

      But finally we came out of this gloomy canyon with its macabre memories and out into a burst of sunlight: we were back in the flatlands all of a sudden, the river now coursing through the Big Sky country that gives Montana its current nickname. Jeff turned his boat around—and as he did so, we were able to see just what Meriwether Lewis had seen more than two centuries before: the immense black gates of the Rocky Mountains, opening and closing slowly before us as the boat pirouetted in the water. It was mesmerizing; small wonder Lewis was so enthralled. Since the beginning of the adventure, his world had been dominated by the horizontal. Now it had been upended, and the dominance belonged entirely to the vertical.

      We stayed for half an hour, admiring, remembering; and then my companions remembered that they were bent on fishing. So Jeff then gunned his motor and sped back upriver, finally depositing us on the dock where we had started, by the very place where Lewis camped on that celebrated night of July 19, 1805. The expedition leader had been overjoyed at getting to the mountains, but when he heard a single shot ring out, he suddenly imagined a Blackfoot war party bearing down on them. It turned out to be a signal from Clark, telling his colleagues that he was over the mountains, too.

      I tried to thank Jeff and to apologize for taking his time and spoiling his son’s holiday fishing. But he said it was nothing, that it had been his pleasure. At least let me pay for your gasoline, I said.

      “No,” he replied, quite firmly. “Remember: this is Montana!”

      Later that day, when I was in Helena, I decided to buy a copy of one of my more recent books and send it to Jeff and Jason as a gift for their kindness. Jeff had given me his address. There was just one bookstore open on this April Sunday. By good fortune it had what I wanted. I signed the back suitably, and asked the elderly lady behind the counter if she would gift-wrap it and mail it. I then paid, said my farewells—only just as I was leaving, I realized to my shame that I hadn’t paid for postage. I turned back to the desk.

      The lady looked at his address and smiled. “I’ll drop it by his house on my way home tonight,” she said. “It’ll be no problem.”

      I thanked her, effusively. She shushed me.

      “I said it’s no problem,” she repeated. “You have to remember: this is Montana!”