This is a reanimation of the Vicaribus blog as lived by Miro Kazakoff and Ehren Foss in 2004 and 2005. The photos may be spotty.

Wow.

Posted by ehren

In the early evening I stayed in the bus for a while to do some work, while Miro struck out for the pre-fireworks town regalia, on the hospital lawn. In keeping with what I said about fireworks in Montana a few days ago -- it may have seemed like hyperbole -- the residents of Butte were setting off a constant stream of fireworks all over the city, picking up in frequency by late afternoon. I got as much work done as I could between streams of rat-tat-tat-tat-tat and the occasional svvveeeeeeee.e.....KABOOM! at close range. A family occupying the park next to the bus kept their 6-10 year olds supplied from a coffin-size box in the bed of their truck. When Miro returned around 8 I decided to bag it and went with him to the hospital grounds, which is where the townspeople might have congregated if the city were actually under attack, insteady of simply trying to simulate those sights and sounds.

The gathering was nice; I had a sno-cone, listened to the non-pro swing band limp through a few numbers, and people watched. Around 8:45 we walked back to the bus, put on our hiking boots, headed to the gas station for a 6-pack of the Moose Drool seasonal summer ale, then started hiking through town towards the official fireworks display.

The Perkins waitress suggested "up on the hill with the big M on it next to Montana Tech. Lots of people go up by there to watch. Parking's kind of hardcore, though." As we angled through the city streets, dodging the occasional impromptu and pyrotechnic expression of love for America. Miro and I both grew up in times and places where fireworks were considered unbelievably dangerous, almost beyond guns and knives, especially for children. I'm not even sure they're sold to the public in Wisconsin, and Miro's certain they're not in Connecticuit. It was arresting to watch children of all ages with a carte blanche of matches and munitions from their parent's arsenal. The occasional "You stay back, that one's lit!" was all we imagined stood between the kids and probable powder burns and stumped hands.

We cleared the last neighborhood and climbed a short grassy embankment, and asked a guy sitting in a lawn chair in the back of a 70s Toyota van (minus the rear 2/3 of roof via what looked like crude sawzall of angle grinder work) how to get up to the top of it. Nobody in his posse really knew if lots of people went up there, but they said paths farther around the backside led to the top. We could see a line across the face of the hill, halfway up, where a couple box trucks and milling firefighters indicated ground zero for the show.

It took us no more than 30 minutes to summit, and the view was spectacular. We could see the entire town, the Berkeley Pit, and all 5 historic winch towers bedazzled with red lights. All across the panorama, as it grew darker, Butte citizens were debuting their visual fireworks (as opposed to just the noisemakers), 3 or 4 square miles flowering like a phosphorescent coral reef. Then behind us to the West, the sun was setting behind mountains some 30-50 miles distant, which threw a burnt orange sheet over the ranges to the north and south. Spectacular.

Once atop the hill we saw that we misinterpreted the Perkins waitress. Directly north of the hill but much farther away a few hundred cars were lining up, and the roads from there to those we took to the summit were blocked by local heavies. We could see a few Jeep 4x4's struggling around the back country trying to get to our location. One Jeep made it, which made us think we had the right idea after all, but abruptly they left.

At 10:23 we were joined by a gaggle of breathless 10-14 year old boys who haltingly told us how we'd all probably get in trouble for being up there, and that they had been turned back twice by local enforcement around the base of the hill. Too late! The show started a few minutes later and we were in the best possible spot to see it. The rockets launched from our feet, two hundred feet away at most, and exploded not far above our heads, close enough to fill my entire field of vision. The wind was blowing favorably (we checked beforehand) so thankfully we got all the visuals with no hot ash raining down on our heads.

It was a long show by small town standards, perhaps 15-20 minutes. After the finale (I felt inclined to take cover behind a set of rocks it was so intense) we could hear, all over town, the cheers, whoops and hollers of 30,000 satisfied fireworks fans. Then private citizens resumed their private shows, and the skyline lit up again. On top of the bluff, however, it was very dark. Miro and I decided to try walking down the gravel road, slightly less steep than the footpath we used to ascend. I think we each fell twice on the steepest section, but in slow motion. The network of roads wouldn't hold a consistent direction over the small rises and holes, so we probably spent 30 minutes in the pitch dark stumbling all the way around the base of the hill, eventually through someone's back yard.

Our walk back to the bus through town was surreal, consistently as explosive as any time leading up to the official fireworks. At one point we saw a big custom chopper with a long chrome fork come down the road and weave, one handed, past three or four exploding boxes of sparklers and cherry bombs. It was probably the most badass sight I've seen on our voyage, unseating the motorcycle guy in Santa Cruz who turned on his bike and it immediately started blasting Al Green.

After stopping at the gas station for a Slim Jim nightcap, I went to bed. Even if we put serious effort towards it, I doubt we could top this 4th of July experience. I've seen the Boston fireworks twice, world famous, and I think the amount of black powder detonated by private citizens in this town of 30,000 exceeds that used in Boston's show by a factor of 4 or 5.