A Montana Journal

  A Montana Journal, ca December 2023   Me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, rode this day with necessary intent: to set feet in the Great Creator’s high places and consider in joyful gratitude the good news of His glorious gift. For so has come the light of the world, who even now does separate this longing soul from the darkness. Though family, dearly loved, be two-thousand mile distant in them southern territories, among these mountains and trees and multitude of Creator’s masterworks, I am not alone. The child given is here, and the peace of His presence in this garden, in this world, be abundantly fulfilling.  I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…

  A Montana Journal, ca July, 2023 We left when there was still no shadows. Them Bitterroots was dark and spread out wide and weighty against western sky as we rid north through valley. Making way to the Hells Gate, old mister sun had by then found his way to preordained perch. Me and ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, was aiming this day to cross them high Rockies out of St. Regis and push over to the border, then deep into them Idaho panhandle territories.  They’s a cold and comely river in them tall mountains, name of the St. Joe, that runs tight along trail for a hundred mile, leading to a small logging town called St. Maries. I had heard tell that river was holding plenty of Westslope Cutthroats and I planned to take me some with golden stone, yellow sally, adams, haze or prince. I had not traveled these territories afore, but as I knowed the Great Creator was present with me on this trail and present also where I was heading, I was not fearful of what be ahead. Riding ea...

A Montana Journal, ca February, 2023.  She were a dancer. But I never did see her dance. And she were beautiful. That, I seen right off. Impossible not to. I never have got past the stretch of that woman’s legs. Or the darkness of that fine, straight hair coming down over shoulders, laying along a flawless face and wrapping up a tender smile. Or her gentle kindness. Had I been a braver man, or a younger one, maybe then I’d of made a fool of myself. Instead, I suppose, I have saved it for now when age and time make being a fool seemingly more tolerable.  And so is the reason for me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, to ride lonely again into these high mountains. Looking to find something, lose something, or at least come to terms. I can’t fully put my mind on it. I still ponder them prospects from time to time, and surely know it is a cowardly heart that did impress the greater influence of fear over deep affection. And only now understand that bad result might have meant ...