Painted Rocks, Montana.
April, ca 2018
I had me a friend onest. She was tall and handsome and her character sturdy. She weren’t a lover, but she was dearly loved. Is still, I reckon. I think on her from time to time. And so it was that she pressed heavy upon my heart as me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, lit off into the high country this day. I can’t summon up why she rode with us, but nonetheless she was there in my thoughts. At dawn, we made our way south through the valley as the clouds come in covering mountain’s glory, yet kindly presented a loveliness all their own.

We then rid up along the West Fork of the Bitterroot River to the place they call Painted Rocks. The mountainsides here are like a canvas what was delightfully touched with colors abundant, decorated with divine strokes of bright yellows and reds and greens and blues from the Great Creator’s palette. It steals the breath in the beholding of it. And it brings a pure pleasure to these eyes. Riding further on, we come to an old track what took us higher into them peaks. A turn in the trail then pleasingly revealed a small heard of elk wandering about in deep forest and taking sustenance from it. 


We lingered here quite the while for nothing more than to gaze on these magnificent creatures. In these high and lonesome places with naught but hushed breeze and natural wonder, I am perpetually amazed by the immensity of this earthly paradise and my own minor position among it. If there be a location where perspective abounds, I have found it in these mountains. For here the joys and sorrows attached to all things living, even the regret of a dear friend lost, seem to take on their necessary place and meaning, so as to allow one to continue the journey and keep riding onward to trail’s next wondrous adventure. I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…

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