Hogan Cabin in the Beaverhead-Deerlodge.

Late July, ca 2018

These few days past, me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, looked out over a new horizon of adventure as we trailed again into them high mountains and made way deep into the Beaverhead-Deerlodge. There’s this rugged old cabin up there what is located as close as a person might get to the middle of lonely, situated in a vast and open mountain valley some 7,300-foot up. The government built the place back in the 1920s; giving fine and sturdy accommodation to smoke chasers, trail crews, timber cruisers and others working this high country. Tho there be no water nor electric nor other common convenience, it does possess beauty aplenty in its surroundings. 

Packing in gear and grub, water and whiskey, we made camp here for two night among the trees and the stars and the wild things. On arrival, I took particular note of air itself, smelling of the earth and grass and them pines what are present here in great abundance. To be true, the mere act of breathing in and breathing out imparted joyful attitude of being amongst it, and of being one so fortunate as to be still standing above the ground. There is this twisting and winding creek nearby I intended to fish, and so after making camp I pushed in through thick scrub and willowy brush only to find it was narrow and shallow and seemed to offer little more than the disappointment of bringing naught to net. I elected then to set aside fishing til the morrow and settled in with book for reading and whiskey for sipping. A pale moon rose up over mountaintop and wind passing through them tall trees transformed forest into a natural orchestra playing the most lovely of melodies.

After preparing evening’s meal over campfire, sleep come quick and easy as temperature passed from 80s at sun’s setting into 40s under starry skies. I next awakened to long shadows in the morning forest with whitetail grazing on hillside and some coughing a raspy warning to other in the heard. They soon come to calm when realizing, I suppose, I weren’t no danger. Coffee on the camp stove and cool breeze finally opened my eyes to the day ahead. I took off to that narrow creek expecting little, but finding opposite to be true. Casting with utmost care into small pockets and slow, shallow runs, I discovered them brookies was more than anxious to attach themselves to my fly, which they did in numbers near to a dozen. Having returned same to they’s watery home, I come back to cabin feeling quite the accomplished (and somewhat pompous) fisherman.

Later that morning, good friend Bill Feille come a’calling and after lunchtime, we made way back to creek and he hisself brought others of them brook trout to net. We then sat under shady porch and contented ourselves with icy beers and laughter until breaking bread at suppertime, and him having to head off thereafter to his lady friend who had just arrived from Bozeman and was waiting his return back down in the valley. As sun took its rest behind trees, I again found myself sipping whiskey with wind and pines repeating previous night’s performance of soft and gentle cradlesong.

Final morning, me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, headed homeward, crossing over the Divide and down steep mountain into the Bitterroot Valley.

I have often pondered if I can discern with genuine honesty the opposing nature of “searching for” and “running from.” I head into these high and rocky places seeking some sort of peace in solitude. Tho peace from what I have only failed to grasp. From what is or what was or what will be, I do not know. I light out looking for time with the One who made me and who made these things that surround me, and I indeed find calm and comfort in both them and Him. Yet all too frequently – and I suppose like others who are passing through to ultimate conclusion of living – I return to the ashes of a past what’s been filled with beaten and broken heart, and cruel and callous actions. And regret. I would sorely like to imagine that after being a participant of so many suns rising and setting, that some permanent mending of the soul might be granted. Perhaps it is forthcoming. Perhaps not. But I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…