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 years after, she happened across Mr. Case who was near to dead from fever and laid out along the banks of the Rock Creek, what sets a quarter mile or so from cabin and in amongst the trees. Annie had healing powers learnt from West African ancestors, so it’s said, and used them to make that man well again. Then them two, tho of different heritage, stuck it out together on homestead claim. Today a person can take the cabin for a few nights and live with the shadows of them times past. And fish. And so I did with fishing partner name of Bill.

We packed Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, with our traps and foodstuffs, water and whiskey and crossed high over them mountains at the Skalkaho Pass, making our way in. The cabin has no water, nor plumbing of other nature, but electricity has been put in. For someone such as I, and having made camp at remote places times past, a glowing light in some old cabin was enough to make me believe I was staying at the fanciest of big city boarding houses. Me and Bill set our goods in cabin and then walked that path down to water early evening, and after catching a few trout we come back to a meal of bread and meat. Whiskey and cold brew preceded that simple feast, and also followed behind it. That night, outside the cabin door and looking heavenward in perfect darkness, the galaxy of planets and stars revealed itself by the billions. It was lovely beyond words. I was given to thought about a black woman and white man throwing down together at turn of century. And wondered if the commonality of merely being human, as it must have been for them two, might one day fully and finally eclipse color of skin. Or, for that matter, gender, religion, country or any of them other hues and tints we are like to apply to so conveniently conceal another’s humanity. Standing in that tall grass and speaking to the Great Creator, I was hopeful so.

Me and Bill then fished another day. Sipped whiskey another day. And finally packed gear and lit out back to the Bitterroot Valley, passing a bull moose taking sustenance from leafy tree along the trail home. All spoke, it was a worthy adventure. I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…