Author: Sledge Simmons

Posted: Sat Jul 23 15:26:19 -0700 2005

Geologists are by nature an odd lot of people and have, on at least one occasion, been described as completely out to lunch by a person who claims that the Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese Sandwich could be a wise investment.  Knowing this, further description of the derrangement of this portion of the scientific community is unnecessary.  We, and by we I mean Geologists, are generally spotted from late spring to early summer in any area where rocks are plentiful and trees are sparse.  Under no circumstance should you antagonize a sober geologist! (Extremely agressive when not held at contentment by beer.)  We go into the field armed to the teeth.  Rock hammers are kept at ready for the primary assault, hand lenses for intensely roasting any anything that will hold still, and oddly enough the occasional bottle of hydrochloric acid which can be used for a plentitude of devious activities, are only a small portion of the gadgetry in a field bag.  Beer is the fuel that feeds the fire to keep a geologist going.  At one of the Geological Society of America meetings, there was a series of presentations given on "Geology and Beer".  It would probably be safe to wager that the ideas leading to most of the profound discoveries in geology were concieved around a campfire and involved no less than a case of beer.

Dillon, MT is a wholly unremarkable town.  It is small, clean, the people are as kind and welcoming as anyone you might meet here in southern Mississippi, a portion of the world that can make claim to holding only one noteworthy attribute, hospitality.  In short, the town is boring.  Geologically speaking, it is beyond entertaining to the point of absurdity and defies simple explanations at every turn.  The Univ. of Montana geology field course goes to Dillon every year for about a month as it has for many years, and torments students with what is effectively a month long and obscenely geological test in mapping exercises.  I attended this summer.  Wildly inaccurate descriptions told me that Montana is typically very dry, but it rained almost daily for the entirety of my stay.  Perhaps the cause was the rain turtle I drew in the dirt at Frying Pan Gulch...perhaps not. 

It was, in general, cold, rainy, and a bit gloomy.  I suffered.  I am accustomed to 80-100 degree temperatures and 300 feet of elevation.  One simply can't make the transition that rapidly.  At the end of the first day I plodded into a bar called Rookies that lies just off the UM Western campus and settled into the stool at the corner of the bar.  Mary, the proprietor of this quaint little establishment asked if I wanted a beer.  My only reply was, "Desperately."  My first pint of Drool was gone before she could have filled another glass.  One pint rapidly led to several and before the evening was over, my only sense remaining that was of any aid to me on the short walk home was that of touch.  The low, two rail fence at the front of campus will offer no reply if it is asked of its memory of me, however in our moment together I was left with what I could say was a lasting impression... if the word bleeding head wound didn't make such an accurate assesment.  This is the first time I have admitted to this particular navigational mishap.  

The rest of my stay in Dillon can be described as a series of near nightly encounters with at least one pint of Moose Drool.  It proved to be the perfect elixer for the treatment of all forms of ailments from sore feet to a a serious sunburn.  It also became the social lubricant that led to the meetings of some of the finest and most hospitable people I have met to date.  

To the makers of Moose Drool!...A hundred thousand thanks for being a part of some of the fondest memories I have. May the gods of beer and bars smile on you and your brew for the rest of your time on Earth!

Sledge