A waltz in the bitterroots
Waltzing in the Bitterroots
I described Idaho as Americana personified in their people, community, and warmth. I picture Idahoans as a gentle, giving group, waving American flags at parades, welcoming you into their homes stocked with home grown groceries. I hear the soft unified voice of the turtle-son in Robin Hood, cheering his dad at the archery tournament. “We love being part of America”.
“Fuck yeah, we ARE America!” echoes from Montana’s Bitterroot Canyons in the guttural tones of sensei Rex Kwon Do. So far, Montana’s culture matches the mountains. A tough effacement and a challenging approach. Daunting at first, the beauty is more dramatic and tough, hardened like the mountains.
One afternoon, I stopped to take pictures and three elder women, winter resillient, ranch hand tough, stopped to make sure I was ok. One, in her 70’s, hustled down a rocky mountain trail road in a fold up electric scooter, the wheels no bigger than ten inches. Another one made sure I was aware of the ‘no hunting up there’ rule. As she drove away, three shots rang from the hills she’d driven from.
I continue to be guided by urgings beyond my comprehension. My first ten days in Montana have felt like a month. I’ve been denied cresting a mountain peak by a snowstorm, driven the rig through a snow shower, photographed whitetail deer (missed hitting five already), elk, and bighorn sheep, sat in a shallow, leaky warm springs, stood in a diminishing lake, and found the cowboy hat I’ve searched for for decades. I continue to meet fellow Texans, and most of them spent some time in the suburbs I did.
The previous four months have proven incomprehensible day after day, so I’ve come to expect daily dogma-altering events. I am trying to shift my mentality from “Can’t believe this is happening to me” to a more confidently settled “This is for me so I can send it out to others”. I cannot deny that every single day, if I am sensitive to my environment and obedient to those callings, I am destined for a mind scrambling ‘coincidence’, guided by an entity that defies explanation.
The second half of today lies beyond that very concept of comprehension.
I was in town and felt a pull to drive south. I’ve heard rumors of an elk herd being in the valley near Darby, so I turned left and headed that way. Just south of the Darby main drag, the valley opens up as the mountains push east and west from each other. Five minutes later, I pull over with a smile of confidence, knowing I am followed the proper road.
Twenty yards west grazed three-hundred elk, filling the twenty acres that fed them. I had my moment from God. I had captured some photographs and headed home for the evening.
I thought I was done for the day until…
Quietly, the northern half of the sky began glowing. First, the stars were bathed in pink lemonade that ebbed and flowed in an amorphous arch from West to East. Then, a diluted green half-dome rose dead center of the north horizon, expanding into the river of pink lemonade. Silver streaks snaked through the pinks and greens.
My first aurora borealis.
I continued north, searching for a turnoff west so I could jeep up a mountain and find a space without lights. Climbing led me to a small turn off just before closed trail gates. I parked and stood in the silence.
After a few moments, I slowly raised my arms out like a scarecrow and tilted my head back. With my eyes and heart fully opened, I started spinning in circles, and…
