A Montana Journal

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...

May, ca 2019 There is a dying time in these northern territories. When the raw cold of winter takes the weakest of the wild things and puts them to the earth, stealing breath and being. I can observe not one callous nor cruel part in it, just the spinning of this planet and the comings and goings of all life. That unfeeling season, tho beautiful to behold, is now taking its leave and I am sorely pleased for it. The mountain passes has cleared some, so me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, took to trail and rid south through the valley at dawn. We kept Bitterroots to our west and Sapphires to our east as sun’s daily duty was taking place behind mountaintops. Down along the East Fork, among the cottonwoods and willows, we saw quite the number of elk, them that bitter chill laid no claim to, and I imagined them to be reveling in warming day to come. We made our way up and over mountain peak, and at Lost Trail we wondered down again into Idaho ...

A Montana Journal. April, ca 2019 Evil come a’callin these two days past.  She took the form of a tiny angel with cherub’s face and divine siren’s song no mortal here on earth might forbear. She spun her entrapping web with beguiling words such as thin mints, trefoils, samoas and tagalongs. The cart she brung with her, muled I’m confident by Satan hisself – or perhaps her pa – was filled to full with her captivating temptations. And so it was I found myself staring down at two big blues eyes and taking three of them boxes of devilish delight off her hands in exchange for twelve dollar. With her sweet little smile and mannerly thank-you’s, she took leave of my camp and I was left alone with my own weakness as a human being. Along with them three parcels of sinful pleasure. I have spent these past days in sugary paradise (yes, them boxes are presently empty of all contents) and have done so without regret. Though having touched the glorious gates of cookie Heaven, I have not...