A Montana Journal

  A Montana Journal, ca December 2023   Me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, rode this day with necessary intent: to set feet in the Great Creator’s high places and consider in joyful gratitude the good news of His glorious gift. For so has come the light of the world, who even now does separate this longing soul from the darkness. Though family, dearly loved, be two-thousand mile distant in them southern territories, among these mountains and trees and multitude of Creator’s masterworks, I am not alone. The child given is here, and the peace of His presence in this garden, in this world, be abundantly fulfilling.  I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…

  A Montana Journal, ca July, 2023 We left when there was still no shadows. Them Bitterroots was dark and spread out wide and weighty against western sky as we rid north through valley. Making way to the Hells Gate, old mister sun had by then found his way to preordained perch. Me and ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, was aiming this day to cross them high Rockies out of St. Regis and push over to the border, then deep into them Idaho panhandle territories.  They’s a cold and comely river in them tall mountains, name of the St. Joe, that runs tight along trail for a hundred mile, leading to a small logging town called St. Maries. I had heard tell that river was holding plenty of Westslope Cutthroats and I planned to take me some with golden stone, yellow sally, adams, haze or prince. I had not traveled these territories afore, but as I knowed the Great Creator was present with me on this trail and present also where I was heading, I was not fearful of what be ahead. Riding ea...

A Montana Journal, ca February, 2023.  She were a dancer. But I never did see her dance. And she were beautiful. That, I seen right off. Impossible not to. I never have got past the stretch of that woman’s legs. Or the darkness of that fine, straight hair coming down over shoulders, laying along a flawless face and wrapping up a tender smile. Or her gentle kindness. Had I been a braver man, or a younger one, maybe then I’d of made a fool of myself. Instead, I suppose, I have saved it for now when age and time make being a fool seemingly more tolerable.  And so is the reason for me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, to ride lonely again into these high mountains. Looking to find something, lose something, or at least come to terms. I can’t fully put my mind on it. I still ponder them prospects from time to time, and surely know it is a cowardly heart that did impress the greater influence of fear over deep affection. And only now understand that bad result might have meant ...

A Montana Journal, ca. March 2022  Me and friend Bill lit out up to the East Fork of the Bitterroot River these few days past. We was anxious and aiming for some early season of fishing. Still there were a bit of snow on the ground and the river icy. But beautiful day, nonetheless. Last time here on this water were back in October. And memory sprung active as there was excitement aplenty on that day past, which included the presence of bear cub seen and momma bear unseen yet frighteningly heard. I will tell that truth now. Standing knee deep in mild current and casting to opposite bank against a lay down tree, I heard the sharp, loud crack of a branch breaking behind a brushy wall of willows what was impenetrable for seeing within. Glancing back and eyeballing nothing beyond that thick cover, I imagined I was about to be treated to deer or elk breaking through to shoreline for a sip of water. Continuing to cast, it then come to mind that many an assumption made by those who live in...

A Montana Journal, ca. May 2021  We was up on the Rock Creek over in them Sapphire Mountains these few days past. The water was coming up high and fast with the thaw. Caught a few nice trout, though.  And the beauty of the Great Creator’s playful hand on them mountains and trees, rivers and rocks were abundant.  Of course them things do possess no awareness at all of my presence there or, for that matter, of my very being. They hold no rage, no grievance, no demand that a person pick side or proffer opinion. It is good enough to merely take up one’s own bit of space and quietly be, and that is a rare and cherished comfort in these times. I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…  

A Montana Journal, ca. April 2021   Sun was already on the job and attending to daily duty when me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, lit out north up the valley heading to the Missouri River. We has been a long time sitting still here at present homestead and was overjoyed to be wandering once again in these Northern territories. We pushed on past Missoula and then skirted east of the Rattlesnake to arrive at Bonner, what sets along the Blackfoot. We followed that lovely river for many a mile through canyon and cut along steep and well-treed mountain. We was pleasantly rewarded time and again with wonderous sights of them Rocky Mountains covered in snowy loveliness.  Pressing ever onwards, we come to Lincoln, Montana, what was made famous by some angry feller who’d send explosive parcels via the US Postal Service, stealing health and happiness and life itself from other souls. He and his anger reside now, and rightly so, at some federal penitentiary. Coming out of that sp...

  A Montana Journal, ca September 2020   I am here in these high places again. Me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, have made way up the Lost Horse trail, above the clouds, and to the Twin Lakes. I am alone here this morning, but for the living things what surround me, the wild things what make their home here, and the One what created us all. There is harmony in the stillness of this mountainous place. Wind and water and trembling leaves make no sound that does not fill a person but with comfort and calm. Once again gifts of His beauty are offered for me alone to behold. And so it come to mind that the caring spirit what guides all the worlds and deigns to direct even my lowly steps has been, and is still, more kind to me than I surely deserve. And I wonder why that should be.  I have heard that sweet and bitter water won’t be had from the same well. Yet my own living days would certain speak, and quite uncomfortably, contrary to that. I have been the reckless aut...

A Montana Journal, ca July 2020 The air was a fine 48-degree and the dark morning sky cloudless and speckled with a swarm of stars as we lit off north through the valley. It were quite the impressive lightshow to precede sun’s participation in the day coming. Me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, was heading up toward the Hellgate and then taking westerly track to the settlement of Superior. The path ahead was one I’d never afore traveled, which would regularly be reason enough to make the trip. Yet as calm is a commodity hard to come by these days, I was hoping there’d be ample trail to ride in high solitude to secure a small portion of that. After our arrival at Superior, we took off south and also heavenward into the Clearwater. The North Fork of the Clearwater River rambles on through this territory and we aimed to find and follow it far as fortitude would allow. We come into these mountains making our way for many a mile along the Trout Creek, so we knew we was on proper cours...

A Montana Journal, ca March 2020 We was down on river’s edge a few days past, me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed. It were a just little spit of water off the main flow of the Bitterroot near to settlement of Victor. Big enough, tho, and deep in places, to hold some acceptable trout. Off in some field close by I heard me the croaking rasp of a Sandhill Crane. They come back to the valley every year about this time to make their babies and push on with life. I have confidence that old bird is not one bit concerned with the current doings of us peoples. It is just being. And there so is life itself, what keeps trundling onward in its labor to continue its own existence. These days seem to find us all working plentiful hard for this life thing. Staying far one from another. Steering clear. Holed up and lonely. And so it should be, I reckon. A lot of us has given it up already. Not by choice, but by living’s design. It is a sadness all around, and surely more so for them wha...

A Montana Journal, February, ca 2020 There was deep trepidation in them high mountains this day, and, soon coming, plentiful pain. As yours truly embarked on new and novel adventure – cross-country skiing. Never before here on the green side of my mortal existence had I contemplated the strapping on of thin wood planks to foot and sliding across snowy cover. But I have a friend, name of Bill, who thought I might enjoy giving this thing a go. I recollect when friend Bill introduced me to elk hunting. Tho toting no long-gun nor pistol myself, I trailed with him up savagely vertical ascent covering some twenty-and-five-mile of rugged mountainsides into them high forests, until lungs come to screaming for air and body was in agony from climb. It weren’t ‘til after this torturous trek I come to discover friend Bill must be a stranger to the truth, as he related we’d only hiked along old dirt road two maybe three mile at best. Based on bodily suffering endured by yours truly, I re...

A Montana Journal, January, ca. 2020 The snow is falling in this mountain valley. They’s saying we’ll have our full share of it down here below, more in them high places. Me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, is out and in it. I am grateful my good companion is of heavy breed and stands steady on these icy trails. We have clung to many a wintry path in these northern territories and he has not once lost purchase. This cold, grey day seems fitting for the task ahead. Today I ride, and without haste, to say farewell to an old woman who had been on a different trail. The one what leads through the veil, and from this being into the next. She died at Christmastime. I was humbled to have been along side her, from time to time, as she journeyed onward these past months. As I knew her, she was gentle of heart, kind in spirit. She would tell me her stories and ask me for mine. She was in the healing profession, and lived her lifetime caring for others. And is now, I am confident...

A Montana Journal, August, ca 2019 There was this trail that led through grass what was waist-high to a tall man, still green for this time of year and with them seed buds atop, and so thick as to make that pathway visible but for only two feet or so ahead when walking on it, and hidden complete when looking out and across wind-waving stalks. That trail took a person down to waters edge for fishing, and it begun at an old homesteader’s cabin. The homestead spread out 365 acre and mapped east of the divide on the other side of them Sapphire Mountains, back in along an old dirt road that followed the Rock Creek. Built in 1890s, them that made the place was a former slave name of Annie Morgan, and her common-law husband, Joseph Case. They say prior to settling here Miss Morgan was a cook for Lt. Col. George A. Custer, leaving that man’s service only after he got hisself and his troops kilt at the Bighorn. She come first into this lonely territory in 1880s. A few year...

July, ca 2019 Here in these Rocky Mountains, I seen fairytale creeks lined with Christmas trees. Forested landscapes carving up sun above river bottoms. Tall mountains what are painted in colors so perfectly put together one might believe it weren’t possible but for the actual seeing of it. I’ve stood on the great divide. Rid so high I was looking downward into clouds. And filled these eyes with wilderness no horizon might contain. Perhaps it’s being so near to these endless glories – and to the One what made them – that keeps me pondering on this living. Wondering if I’ve said enough, given enough, loved enough. Or spoke too little, held too tight, loved too poorly. I rightly know one lifetime plus a thousand more would not be sufficient to find them answers. And I imagine it a condition common to many. So I trail again and again into them high and hushed hills to content myself with the Great Creator’s company. And pray that when my steps finally lead through that veil, I wi...

June, ca 2019 It was a fair and lovely evening as me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, rid north through this Rocky Mountain valley. We was joined on the ride by a woman name of Lesley who is like-minded to myself in many the way. For she, too, packed her traps and trailed solo some 1800 mile from populous city, hers being in Southern California, leaving behind one life for the finding of another in these high mountain places. She has courage certain to do such. Perhaps that’s why I favor her company and find her companionship satisfying. We was headed up to the settlement of Bonner, what maps east of the Rattlesnake and is laid out along the Blackfoot River. It was there a Texas man come to play his music amongst them mountain. His name being Lyle Lovett, and his band being play-billed as large. As we trailed northward through the cool of early dusk, we reined up briefly in the town of Missoula for a shot of whiskey and a cold beer at a rugged little estab...