A Montana Journal, ca. July 2026

They’s daises on the path down to the river. More of them, by quite the many, than peoples. They’s just being, and sharing some simple beauty for passersby. Living beneath the care and kindness of the Great Creator. 


Me and brother Matthew crossed the divide a few day back and trailed here to the Rock Creek. A fine piece of water with rocky bottom, riffles and runs what hold fat trout. Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, heavy with our traps, whiskey and water, carried us surefooted once again over them tall rugged mountains and to this high river valley. We was aiming to fish a bit, drink a bit, and rest ourself from quite the restless world.


Perhaps that was cause for them daises to linger on my attention. They was angry at nothing. Didn’t call out, demand or insist. Or throw no stones, wishing evil on them that might lift ‘em from the earth and carry them away. Yet even so, they’d still give up their joy until they give up life itself. In these high places, I gratefully find less effort in removing myself from my own anger. More times the many these days recent, I have held stones in my hands, ready to cast at those what confound me in their doings and dealings and notions. Surely forgotten is that woman huddled at the feet of the Redeemer. And I, as one in that crowd what chased her there, anxious to do harm. A shameful part of me, daily fought and battle too often lost. 


Here, though, where the Great Creator is more clearly seen, I more clearly see my own failings. My own sins. Of which they’s a plenty. And so look again down at His feet and in mind’s eye place there some politician, a foolish view, a preacher kilt, the young’un who kilt him. Or any and all I deem in my arrogance deserving of the stones I hold. Then I lay them down, try to anyways. Though, my desire to let fly and make damage is difficult to release. Yet, with admitted reluctance, I heed the Word spoke to all who hold them stones. All, like I, who have they’s own sin. And give it up to the One what was indeed lifted from this earth, hung on a tree, and still give up the joy of His redemption for me, and all them what might huddle at His feet and ask. 


I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
September, ca 2018 Was eight steadfast and determined men what rid into the Ruby River Valley that day. They come from all parts of country, and was of every age, some having been on life’s journey much longer than others. They rid the worn and winding trail down along the Tabaco Roots, and in shadow of Madison and Gravelly Mountains, through settlements of Ennis, Virginia City and Alder, and finally making way along reservoir and river and into lush valley to rein up at a place name of Ruby River Ranch. They weren’t outlaws, but they followed the One from two-thousand year past who was nailed to a tree for uttering words what angered the world, then changed it forever.  The ranch itself was some 10,000-acre of cattle and crop and river cut through. It laid out wide across prairie and sage-covered mountain, land what was perfectly and profoundly crafted by masterful touch of the Great Creator. This place was owned, I suppose, by the Creator hisself, and a kind...
Read more
Image
  A Montana Journal, ca December 2024 It’s snowing here in the territories. The trees what reside near to this place are covered with them falling crystals, dressed for the season by the Great Creator’s own hand. Me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed will remain tucked in and warm. We are grateful today for the comforts of camp, and also for news of a brother soon to make homestead here in Montana. He come to visit these few days past, and so arrives again with the spring. His camp will be on mountainside, in the high places, to live among the elk and bear, the lion and the fox. It was quite the trail what led him here, the Creator’s handiwork and perfect timing surely at play. He will live but a short ride from my valley home, and my daughters, many miles distant, will be joyful to know family is near. I have often reminded those caring children that the One who rides with me has made good company these many years and never failed to keep me safe and content in His promises. Ye...
Read more
Image
  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...
Read more