A Montana Journal

A Montana Journal, ca March 2020 We was down on river’s edge a few days past, me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed. It were a just little spit of water off the main flow of the Bitterroot near to settlement of Victor. Big enough, tho, and deep in places, to hold some acceptable trout. Off in some field close by I heard me the croaking rasp of a Sandhill Crane. They come back to the valley every year about this time to make their babies and push on with life. I have confidence that old bird is not one bit concerned with the current doings of us peoples. It is just being. And there so is life itself, what keeps trundling onward in its labor to continue its own existence. These days seem to find us all working plentiful hard for this life thing. Staying far one from another. Steering clear. Holed up and lonely. And so it should be, I reckon. A lot of us has given it up already. Not by choice, but by living’s design. It is a sadness all around, and surely more so for them wha...

A Montana Journal, February, ca 2020 There was deep trepidation in them high mountains this day, and, soon coming, plentiful pain. As yours truly embarked on new and novel adventure – cross-country skiing. Never before here on the green side of my mortal existence had I contemplated the strapping on of thin wood planks to foot and sliding across snowy cover. But I have a friend, name of Bill, who thought I might enjoy giving this thing a go. I recollect when friend Bill introduced me to elk hunting. Tho toting no long-gun nor pistol myself, I trailed with him up savagely vertical ascent covering some twenty-and-five-mile of rugged mountainsides into them high forests, until lungs come to screaming for air and body was in agony from climb. It weren’t ‘til after this torturous trek I come to discover friend Bill must be a stranger to the truth, as he related we’d only hiked along old dirt road two maybe three mile at best. Based on bodily suffering endured by yours truly, I re...

A Montana Journal, January, ca. 2020 The snow is falling in this mountain valley. They’s saying we’ll have our full share of it down here below, more in them high places. Me and Ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, is out and in it. I am grateful my good companion is of heavy breed and stands steady on these icy trails. We have clung to many a wintry path in these northern territories and he has not once lost purchase. This cold, grey day seems fitting for the task ahead. Today I ride, and without haste, to say farewell to an old woman who had been on a different trail. The one what leads through the veil, and from this being into the next. She died at Christmastime. I was humbled to have been along side her, from time to time, as she journeyed onward these past months. As I knew her, she was gentle of heart, kind in spirit. She would tell me her stories and ask me for mine. She was in the healing profession, and lived her lifetime caring for others. And is now, I am confident...

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 168 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...

November, ca 2018 A hoot owl come visiting in quiet of early morning hours this day. Its call was a low and lonesome sound that brought calm with it as it hushed through morning mist and over new snow. So peaceful a song seemed fitting in this season of holy days, and this heart was turned thankful again for the love of the Great Creator what was laid in a stable for all humankind to behold. Family will come at Christmastime, their presence being a joyful gift. I have not died today. And that is a fine thing. Yours truly…

October, ca 2018 There was amiable company on the trail today. Good friend Bill, a tall and sturdy Texican who come to homestead in these Northern territories back in aught-four, rid with me as we pushed east over to the settlement of Bozeman. Day had already begun when we lit out and sun was sliding slowly across the bright blue above as we crossed the Divide in high mountain and made way into the Big Hole Valley. Further on, we crossed her again atop Homestake Pass what is just east of Butte and then rid hard to day’s destination. Bill, having a lovely and long-time gal in that town, made his residence with her, whilst I found lodging at local boarding house. Pleasantries of old friends and pretty women notwithstanding, we was there to fish.  Dave Williamson of Wild Trout Outfitters. Every year at this time, the big browns and bows come swimming out of Hebgen Lake and move up into the Madison, the Gibbon and the Firehole rivers of Yellowstone National Park. Th...

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...