Montana - Sauntering Through This Holy Land

Walk away quietly in any direction and taste the freedom of the mountaineer. Camp out among the grasses and gentians of glacial meadows, in craggy garden nooks full of nature's darlings. Climb the mountains and get their good tidings, Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.  ---John Muir



Missouri River at Wolf Creek Bridge



Today is a "down" day, meaning I have no meetings scheduled. I should spend the day writing reports, as Claas has gently but firmly indicated that I am too far behind. But this is Montana . . . and the sky is blue . . .

I grab a cup of coffee and a blueberry scone at Helena’s Wheat Montana Bakery and head north of Helena on Hwy 15. I must take the interstate today, as it is the only way to get to where I want to be. My goal is to see if I can find my way into the Gates of the Mountains Wilderness and Wolf Creek Canyon. Morning has brought fog that burns off as I drive, and soon I am pleased to see blue sky - which portends a good day for photography! I am already seeing wildlife - there are pronghorn grazing in the fields beside the road! Pronghorn, a type of antelope, are the fastest land animal in North America, capable of reaching speeds of 60 mph. Their brown and white coat and short antlers are quite striking. Montana and Wyoming are the only places I’ve ever seen them. I smile at my first "sighting."



Gates of the Mountains

Though south of Helena the hillsides are sparsely treed, there are increasing stands of pines along this route. I note grimly, however, that in future years these hills will also be sparsely treed, as damage from the pine beetle is especially notable here, whole stands of dead trees. I wonder what it will look like when all the pines are gone, what trees will move in and take their place? As I exit the highway, I cross over a cattle guard, my clue that I am now in free range cattle country. I turn east - and am amazed at what I see! My mouth opens and I utter my first, "Oh, wow!" of the trip. Just up the road is a body of water at the base of towering cliffs backed by taller mountains. I have found Gates of the Mountains! Another area steeped in history, this spot was named by Meriwether Lewis in 1805. The body of water is the Missouri River, and though it looks like the river must reach its terminus at these limestone walls, as Lewis learned the river cuts its way through the rock and into the mountains, through these gates. Awesome, really awesome this view!
 

Hilger Hereford Ranch

There is no way into the wilderness area at this point other than by boat, no roads, no trails. I contemplate taking the two hour boat tour, but I am not willing to be cooped up with 40 people and no means of escape. I wander a bit and learn the history of the area itself, that the land in this area has been owned by two families, the Siebens and the Hilgers, since the 1860's. In fact, the land surrounding the entrance to Gates of the Mountains is the Hilger Hereford Ranch. I explore accessible areas of the farm with my camera then head north again, where I discover the Sieben Ranch on the west side of the highway. I exit and take more photographs - of the weathered wooden ranch buildings and stacked rolls of hay against the morning sun. Then I head north again.

Sieben Ranch

North takes me through Wolf Creek Canyon. The road winds and climbs to an elevation of around 2,600 feet, through what is to me, "in your face geology." Striations of green, yellow, and red rock slant at crazy angles, the rock so "crumbly" in places that it looks like entire hillsides could collapse at any moment. I want to know what is this rock, what are the different colored ones. I don’t know. I am frustrated. There is so much to know! Soon the canyon opens to rolling hills, and I am gratified to discover an exit to a road that parallels the interstate.





Sieben Ranch

I stop in the wee little town of Wolf Creek - no stop sign even in this one - just some tiny restaurants, a gas station/grocery store/all-purpose store, and a small outfitter shop. I chuckle at a sign on the wall of the store: Vegetarian - an old western word for lousy hunter. Though I chuckle, the sign signals an old debate I have with myself. I think I should not be eating animals. I think I should be a vegetarian. I struggle mightily with this one. I cringed when I entered my hotel last evening, as there were multiple heads on the walls . . . these of fairly small mountain goats. I wonder why they were killed, for meat or simply to hang their heads on this wall . . . If for the latter, shame on us. I look at the animals and wonder if we - if I - should be eating them. . . I have not resolved this one. . . . And I know I will not resolve it - neither will I discuss it with anyone - while I am in Montana!
  

Missouri River at Wolf Creek

Shortly up the road I cross over the Missouri, which has by now navigated the mountains and exited into this rolling ranchland. The Missouri is looking magnificent today, wide and blue! I head east, back into the mountains, paralleling the river. I stop to photograph the gorgeous view, as well as the handful of fly fishermen on the banks or in the water, also enjoying this glorious day. The water is moving swiftly and the mountains reflect gold in the water. It is 65 degrees and a slight wind is blowing. I have figured out that the sweet smell of yesterday - which is stronger today - is sage, which dots the hillsides along with pine and fir. All senses are active at once. They thread to my heart, which sings with delight!

Mule Deer at Holter Lake

The road takes me into Holter Lake National Recreation Area. Holter Lake is actually another reservoir created by the damming of the Missouri by Holter Dam. I wonder about the damming of rivers, wonder if we are damning them, as I think of what I learned last month about the Colorado. There are 29 dams and other diversion projects on the Colorado. By the time that river reaches Mexico it is nothing but a trickle. I wish I understood the issues better. I know the need for water is great in many parts of the country. But I know there is also a lot of waste - mine included. I wonder what I would be if I had another lifetime to decide my profession. I think ecologist, conservationist, perhaps national park ranger. . .

Everything is flowing -- going somewhere, animals and so-called lifeless rocks as well as water. Thus the snow flows fast or slow in grand beauty-making glaciers and avalanches; the air in majestic floods carrying minerals, plant leaves, seeds, spores, with streams of music and fragrance; water streams carrying rocks . . . While the stars go streaming through space pulsed on and on forever like blood...in Nature's warm heart. --- John Muir



Holter Lake - Big Belt Mountains

The lake and surrounding Big Belt Mountains are gorgeous. I head further into the park and am thrilled when the road turns to gravel. This to me signifies fewer buildings and fewer people. I have my second wildlife encounter as I startle two groups of mule deer grazing just ten feet from the road. I stop and take their photograph, talking softly to them. I travel on, though I am beginning to become concerned about the condition of road. I am in a car, not a truck or SUV, and am beginning to think I will not be able to travel much further. On a different day I might be braver, but I do not know this area, and it is becoming more isolated. I am torn. I want to continue, to see what is around the bend, to explore, but I don’t think it is wise. Instead I stop at what appears to be the back side of the lake, not far from the spot where the river enters, and I explore a bit. The bed of the lake appears be made of fine black gravel. I wander a trail that climbs a bit above the lake, through grassy, treeless terrain. I chuckle thinking of some words uttered by John Muir, about the concept of hiking:

Hiking - I don't like either the word or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains - not hike! Do you know the origin of that word 'saunter?' It's a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, ‘A la sainte terre,’ 'To the Holy Land. And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them. —John Muir



So I saunter for a while. Then I sit for a while. Then I just be for a while. It is good.

It is now early afternoon and my destination is south of Helena, so I know it is time to turn back. Which is okay because I am sated at this point. It has been a good day. There will be more. Yes, there will be more.

Donna

© September 15, 2010



Sieben Ranch





Holter Lake - Big Belt Mountains

 

Journeying God

Journeying god,
pitch your tent with mine
so that I may not become deterred
by hardship, strangeness, doubt.
Show me the movement I must make
toward a wealth not dependent on possessions,
toward a wisdom not based on books,
toward a strength not bolstered by might,
toward a god not confined to heaven.
Help me to find myself as I walk in other's shoes.

(Prayer song from Ghana)

How fitting that this should be a quote in my inbox this morning.

Help me to find myself as I walk in other's footsteps today . . .

Donna

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

Writing

Why a blog?

It is no secret to those who know me well that I enjoy writing. Indeed, those who know me well are the recipients several times a year of essays I’ve written on various subjects as well as the recipients multiple times over of e-mails chock full of words on a number of subjects. I like to write. I am compelled to write. I keep a notebook with me during all waking hours, to jot down the words that start forming. Sometimes I get out of bed at night to track down pad and pen when thoughts start flowing.

But I have not always written. Back in high school I received A’s on written work, essays and term papers and the like. But I was not required to take English classes in college, so I didn't. Then after college, I wrote for business purposes, e.g., reports for court, chart notes on clients, and so on. But I did not write for pleasure. I did not begin really writing until about six months after Philip died, though one would not describe the initial purpose as “for pleasure.”

Initially writing was very purposeful, part of a much bigger process, of integration. For a number of years prior to Philip’s death I had had to measure every word, and I became accustomed to using very few. Living with one who is suicidal oftentimes requires  “walking on eggshells.” Philip’s emotional state was such that the slightest misspeak - or perception thereof - would affect him. He would begin, to use his words, “spiraling into that deep dark hole,” at the bottom of which was annihilation. I learned that the only way to possibly prevent this occurrence was to remain silent. No matter what, to remain silent. No idle chatter. Little discussion of work issues. No attempt to explain or defend when accused of insensitivity. No attempt to discuss the deepest longings of my heart. There was risk to every word uttered. Additionally, living with one who was actively suicidal required for me a closing off of feelings. I could not allow myself to feel all there was and continue to function day in and day out. So I did not allow myself to use internal words either, for feelings at least. I shut down.

It was not until I entered counseling and began the process of making sense of all that happened that my words began to return. One day I discovered myself pondering the issue of grief, trying to put my finger on exactly what it was I was feeling. My attempts to do this adequately demanded that I write down what it was I was struggling with. I crossed out, erased and re-wrote until I had it just right. And thus began the process of sorting my feelings via use of the pen.

Around this time I also discovered the solace provide me by the words of others. I felt less alone in my pain and grief as I read the words of those who had made this journey before me. I felt comfort in knowing that I had not been singled out for tragedy, that many had experienced similar pain before, and alongside, me. My writing shifted. I began writing not only for me but for us. I began to write those thoughts and feelings that I believed to be common to many of us as we attempt to make sense of life.

I find at this point that I write for these purposes and more. I continue to write solely to sort my thoughts and feelings. I write when it feels as if what I am encountering must be common to many. When traveling, I write to share my adventures with friends and to describe the beauty of what I am experiencing. I write to share my joy. And I write sometimes just to share me, because I want to be known. Most of the time I write because I am compelled to. I can’t not.

Writer and theologian Frederick Buechner speaks many of my favorite words, and I particularly like what he says about telling our stories. I share with you some of his words now:

"My story is important not because it is mine, God knows, but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours. Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity, as I have long believed and often said, that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally. "

~~~~~

"I have come to believe that by and large the human family all has the same secrets, which are both very telling and very important to tell. They are telling in the sense that they tell what is perhaps the central paradox of our condition – that what we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often just what we also fear more than anything else. It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are – even if we tell it only to ourselves – because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing. It is important to tell our secrets too because it makes it easier that way to see where we have been in our lives and where we are going. It also makes it easier for other people to tell us a secret or two of their own, and exchanges like that have a lot to do with what being a family is all about and what being human is all about. Finally, I suspect that it is by entering that deep place inside us where our secrets are kept that we come perhaps closer than we do anywhere else to the One who, whether we realize it or not, is of all our secrets the most telling and the most precious we have to tell." (Telling Secrets)

Thanks for listening.

Donna