Montana - On Rivers and Cinnamon Rolls

I’ve known rivers. I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. —Langston Hughes, The Negro Speaks of Rivers, 1926

Discovered these words today at the Headwaters of the Missouri River, between Bozeman and Helena, Montana. This is the spot where 3 rivers, the Gallatin, the Jefferson, and the Madison, converge to form the Missouri. This land is steeped in history. In 1803 Thomas Jefferson charged Meriwether Lewis and William Clark to "explore the Missouri River and such principal streams of it, as, by its course and communication with the waters of the Pacific Ocean . . . may offer the most direct and practicable water communication across this continent for the purposes of commerce." Their exploration of the Missouri accomplished at this site, the Core of Discovery expedition turned south into the Jefferson, finally completing their task, though not their journey, many miles and two years after they began, as the Great Columbia joined the Pacific.

Hughes’ words call to me, as do the rivers themselves, all rivers. I do not know the origin of this, my enchantment with moving water. All I know is that since I began my own exploration of the natural world some seven years ago, I have been drawn to rushing water. I seek it out. When hiking, I prefer trails that parallel rivers and creeks. When in exploration of an area I come upon a new source, I must get down beside it. I must touch it. I trail my fingers through it. I examine the rocks lining the banks and littering the bed. I soothe weary feet in its cool depths. I can sit beside a river for hours, mesmerized by its song. I recall favorite words by writer Norman MacLean, who lived not far from here, in Missoula:

I sat there and forgot and forgot, until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched. On the river the heat mirages danced with each other and then they danced through each other and then they joined hands and danced around each other. Eventually the watcher joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river. --Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

Like Hughes, my soul has grown deep over these past many years, as has my love of rivers. I do not know which occurred first, but I am satisfied with each.



Missouri Headwaters

I sigh as I remind myself that I do not have time today to loiter beside or to explore these four rivers. I must be in Helena for a meeting this afternoon. But my imagination is stimulated by thoughts of Lewis and Clark and their travels. I think to myself that I would have enjoyed immensely being a member of the Core of Discovery . . .

******



Bridger Mountains

I am in Montana for a series of meetings with operating and developing Family Promise affiliates. Today I am traveling from Bozeman to Helena. Though I have sparse time for exploration today, I will make the most of what little time I do have. It was late when I arrived in Montana last night, so this morning is my first opportunity to see this glorious countryside. After several hours of e-mail and phone conversations, I head out. I do love Montana, and today does not disappoint. Bozeman is a lovely town ringed by mountains, the Bridger Range to the north, the Gallatin Range to the south. I note that there is already snow on the highest of the peaks to the south. I head away, into the foothills. I skirt the interstate and instead drive west on the two-lane highway that parallels I-90 - this to ensure that I can stop if a photo opportunity presents itself. This so I can stop if a river presents itself!

It is 62 degrees outside and a light breeze ruffles my hair. Aspen, cottonwood and huge blue spruce trees line the roadside and dot the pastures. I pass cut and uncut yellow fields, rolls and square bales of hay stacked deep and high. I am reminded first by this view that I am in cattle country. I am reminded next . . . . by the aroma . . . that I am in cattle country! Fields yield to yellow hills which are studded with rocks, isolated stands of trees bringing color and texture to the view. Cows soon also dot the countryside. I pass through small towns, cattle and agriculture-oriented villages absent even a traffic light, stop signs seeming to get the job done: Belgrade, Manhattan, Logan, (Manhattan?). These towns seem to have in common the presence of large grain silos at the entrance to the community. Signs advertise Custom seed processing. Livestock trailers are parked en masse in parking lots. Fortunately the odor of livestock is intermittent. I am primarily absorbed by the smell of cool dry air, dry evergreen needles, and a sweet odor I cannot identify. This frustrates me. I want to know!

In Belgrade I smile as I see my second cowboy of this trip. (I define cowboy purely by look: boots, jeans, hat . . . he absolutely must be wearing the hat!) Cowboys are my running joke with Gloria, the Director of the Family Promise in Bozeman. I keep reminding her that I want an introduction to the local cowboys, except I want to meet the ones who own the ranches, not merely work on them. I am awaiting the day when I arrive at the Bozeman airport to find one of those rugged young men, in his red shirt, blue jeans, white hat, and boots, holding a sign with my name on it! I keep my eyes peeled for more sightings.

Wheat Bakery & Deli

After my short side trip to the Missouri Headwaters I turn north, toward Helena. I stop at Wheat Bakery and Deli, operated by Wheat Montana Farms, which owns and farms much of the surrounding countryside. The building looks like a silo. Fifty pound bags of grain and flour are sold at this location! I am more interested in the baked goods, however - I discover huge cinnamon rolls, five inches by five inches, so light, I soon learn, that they melt in your mouth. I eavesdrop on conversation among folks lounging at the tables. The topic is - what else? - cows. I smile and continue on my trip fortified by roll and coffee. I'll take Wheat Bakery and Deli over Starbucks any day.


Canyon Ferry Lake

This drive north on Hwy 287 runs through the fields that yield the grain which is sold at Wheat Bakery, thousands of acres of farmland, colorful parcels of unharvested yellow, plowed gray, and newly planted green. A large body of water soon appears on the east side of the road. I learn that it is Canyon Ferry Lake, the third largest body of water in Montana.  It is actually a reservoir created by the damming of the Missouri.  I find my way to the edge of the lake to take photographs, to dip my fingers in the water, and to examine the rocks that make up the beach. I learn that Confederate Gulch in the Big Belt Mountains on the east side of the lake was a prodigious producer of gold in the 1860's. This entire area was a gold mine, you might say, as just north, the town of Helena was founded in 1864 with the discovery of gold in a local gulch also. I look for gold nuggets among the stones in the water. I am disappointed when I don’t find any. Maybe I need to try my hand at panning - ?

I continue on up the road, noting that the pine beetle has reached Montana now also, and stands of pines on the hillsides are colored reddish brown in death. I smile at signs reading This is prime beef country. Then all too quickly I find myself arriving in Helena. My opportunity to explore new countryside has ended for today. Instead I answer more e-mails and make more telephone calls, then head up Last Chance Gulch Road to First Christian Church. My meeting goes very well. I am impressed with the level of knowledge and the talent among these Board members, and I predict that Family Promise of Helena will open in Spring. Moreover, I have greatly enjoyed getting to know these folks, and I hope I have the opportunity to gather with them again. My evening wraps up with literal and figurative local flavor, dinner at the RB Drive-In with Mary, the Board President. A real deliver-to-your-car-door drive-in, we chat comfortably while eating fish and chips. Then I return to my motel, the day over.

I think back on the history I encountered today. I wonder if at the confluence of the Jefferson, the Madison, and the Gallatin, I stepped in the footsteps of Lewis and Clark, or perhaps even Sacagawea. Seems I remember learning in science class so many years ago that matter is neither created nor destroyed. Did I perhaps inhale molecules of their breath. Interesting thoughts . . . but it is late and I must go . . .

I am satisfied.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.   ---- Norman Maclean A River Runs Through It

Donna

©July 14, 2010