Bushwacked

Last weekend Laura Bush was touring Glacier National Park. I know, I know, I was wondering the same thing: Who the heck is Laura Bush?

At first I thought she was the model of the Bush family, but I was waaaaaaayyyy off.

That's Jeb.

Laura is the First Lady. You know, George's wife.

We heard about it last Wednesday, when someone who apparently wasn't going to get to meet her, referred to her as "Queen Bush."

A queen? In Glacier? Well, we just had to do some snooping around ourselves. We called the guide that was supposed to guide her. (He was mum.) We called "friends" who said that yes, they planned on meeting the Queen, but no, we couldn't come.

"Not even for a picture?"

"Not even for a picture."

Some friends.

As a last resort, we called the park. The public information office was barren. (Hear that? It's a tumbleweed blowing through.) We called the park superintendent's office.

"No comment," was the answer. "We're being told what to do."

Then we started calling everybody else we could think of.

We even got a tip she would be at Goat Haunt.

"Yeah," a source said. "The Secret Service has been snooping around. Something's up."

Then we called a friend in Washington.

"Shoot," he said. "Just look for the black Suburbans. They stick out like a monkey on a subway."

Then we called the Queen's office. The Queen, they said, was in fact in Glacier.

And no, you sorry loser from Montana, you couldn't meet her.

"Not even for a picture?" I asked.

"Not even for a picture."

So we pulled out the last straw. Our ace. Our number one card. That's right, we sicced our intern on 'em. Anna Lundgren.

Anna found out where Bush was partying (Goat Haunt my arse, they were at the head of the Lake). Anna dressed up in a pretty red dress and tried to get in.

She ran into a Secret Service agent.

He asked her if she was a really good Republican.

She must have given him the wrong answer because, pretty dress or not, she wasn't getting in.

A few hours later, the whole entourage pulled right up next me while Boy Wonder and I waited at the west entrance. The black Suburbans, the unmarked cars and Queen Bush right in the middle. In a red Ford Astro minivan.

She didn't get out, but some kid in a cowboy hat was gawking at the crowd.

Personally, I was outraged. Furious.

A minivan? What is this? This is no way to treat a Queen! Soccer moms buzz around in minivans, not first ladies.

Hi, Mrs. Bush! Hi! I cried out, stuck in my dirty old pickup with the dents and dings and six-ply tires. Sorry about the car. I know what it's like to ride in a minivan. It's embarrassing, isn't it? Isn't it?

No response.

I followed them briefly only because they were going the same way I was. They buzzed up the Camas Road, looked at the Robert Fire burn and turned back around.

I kept on driving. The Secret Service agent in the first car gave me the bad eye. Probably because I stuck a big old lens out and took the minivan's picture, officially putting me on a Secret Service creep list. Those guys have eyes that automatically remember plate numbers and iris patterns.

Boy Wonder and I went fishing up the North Fork. But even way up there, in a place where most people don't go, I still had the feeling I was being watched.

I was also tired.

Yep, I was Bushed.