Aug. 1, 2006 - Whitefish, Montana
Ben and I got up at 6 a.m. yesterday so we'd have time to head from the Lewis River Inn in Woodland, Wash., to our home in Portland before catching our 11:30 a.m. flight.

Moving at a leisurely pace, we made it to the airport with time to spare, after checking in online and cuddling with Mister at our house. We did leave an awful mess behind and a detailed list of requests for my dad to face when he gets there, however.

The trip to Whitefish was uneventful. Two short hops on crowded propellor planes and a lot of time waiting at airports or standing in line.

Montana is beaufitul. Sunny and warm, but not hot. The Flathead Valley runs long and level straight into the mountains -- Rockies, I think -- which jut upwards shockingly without any foothills or other warnings.

The sky is blue, dotted with occasional big white clouds and a haze that can probably be blamed on forest fires to the distant east.

At the Garden Wall Inn at 4 p.m., we pushed the bell and innkeeper Chris opened the door.

"You must be Courtney," he said, and introdcused himself. Ben said hi.

Downstairs, a place of cheese, crackers, veggies, grapes and picked asparagus was laid out to welcome us. An open bottle of sherry beckoned from another table.

In our room: a fresh wildflower bouquet; champagne on ice with crystal glasses and "congratulations" on a card; a red rose in a narrow vase; an antique queen sized bed with well-tuned springs and heavy down comfortor.

We dropped our bags, ate some cheese, walked around town, grabbed a light dinner of salad, and when we got back we found Godiva chocolates. They went down well with the champage.

I was asleep by 7:30, but Ben stayed up to finish his book.

This morning, I woke around 6:30 a.m. and read and talked with Ben for an hour.

At 7:30 promptly a a knock came at our door. French pressed coffee on a silver platter with heavy cream, blocks of sugar, white and blue porcelain cups.

Breakfast at 8: A California couple and Virginia from Alabama joined us. Rhonda, owner of the Garden Wall, served, telling us the history of the house and the origins of the farm-fresh meal as we ate.

More coffee, fresh fruit in a tall glass, warm blueberry muffins with melting butter, tomato and zucchini frittata, fingerling potatos.

It's almost noon, and we're well on our way toward taking it easy. We drove around town; picked up maps, books and this journal; made plans for simultaneous hour-long massages on Wednesday; chatted at the Chamber of Commerce about celebrity sitings (Johnny Depp and Cindy Crawford); and now we're chilling over drinks at the Montana Coffee Traders. Later, we may head to the farmer's market and angle for tickets to Camelot at the local community theater.

Ben adds: The Black Star Brewery building from 1998 was passed to a different brewery (Great Northern), and the town of Whitefish has zero youth hostels.

The woman at the chamber of commerce mentioned the "Non-Hostile Hostel," which was likely the hostel I stayed at in 1998, and said it's now a brick building witha store of some kind.