A Montana Journal, ca December 2016
I scribble these words from Sheridan, Wyoming, where I have made camp for the night on the trail back to Montana. After the rising and setting of many suns down in them southern parts, and many sincere moments between me and the Great Creator, I have come to know certain that though my roots are there in Georgia, my soul resides here among these tall Rocky Mountains. Being confident of such, me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, lit out these two days past for the northern territories.

We made our way high over the Blue Ridge in thundering rain and traveled onward into Tennessee. We passed over the black waters of the Cumberland in Kentucky, and under cover of stars we pushed west, fording the Big Muddy and making way into Missouri territory. Coming up through the heartlands, I was not to be disappointed in the Creator’s handiwork. Great open fields of turned earth stretched either side as far as these eyes could see and were holding a reminder of His abundant generosity; what once was green and growing was now taken up into untold numbers of silos and barns that dotted the land. Trailing northward, the cold come quite harsh up around Dakota territory, dropping some 6 degree below zero. We continued our westward journey to mile upon mile of soft rolling hills that were powdered snowy white by the storms that had preceded our arrival. It was glorious.

The boundless beauty of these parts is naught but one joy after another to gaze upon. I am sure the One who knitted this earth by His very thoughts must have given particular attention to the meandering of rivers and streams cut through long valleys, to the color of hills speckled with brown grass and forested with tall green pines, and to high rock mountain tops capped in white and touching blue skies when He conceived the west.

Two days hence, I make final camp in the settlement of Great Falls, Montana. There’s a long-passed cowboy up in them parts whose brilliance with paint and brush is mightily respected around the world. He being Charles Marion Russell, and they having a museum of his masterworks named after the same. Those good folk have been kind enough to allow me to perform my trade on their behalf.

First though, I will pass through Bozeman to see the woman who owns the part of me these Rocky Mountains do not. It is the better part, surely, of who I am. The snow is falling gentle now in Sheridan, and there are yet many miles of trail to cover. I have left home. I have come home. But I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…

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