It was kind of hard to leave Montana last Friday. Nine months had passed since I was ushered into the Big Sky country by a snow storm whipping across eastern Montana. By late April, the snows of February and March quickly melted in the flat country and in the high country those same snows fed rivers and lakes for many more months. The summer was hot and dry and smoky from all the fires. But that didn't stop me from hiking, rock climbing, and traveling the state. And by August, the heat dissipated and fall settled in with cool breezes, golden aspens, and the occasional snow that majestically crowned the 9-10,000 ft peaks.
Its incredible. I've been a part of four seasons in Montana. I've watched this chunk of earth change as it makes its way around the sun. I've marveled at the beauty of the last wild (undammed) river in our country, the Yellowstone. I've paused to watch bald eagles soaring above alpine lakes. I've come face to face with weasels, martens, and marmots. I've seen meadows change from green grasses, to blankets of wildflowers, to burnt orange remnants of vegetation. I've picked my way along the frozen earth where bison have left three to four inch deep scars as they moved along the river foraging for grasses. I've been awakened from sleep to the chill howl of coyotes in the distance. I am a witness to these changes, to these lives. I've lived in Montana.
I feel a tug, a current that might just carry me back there someday. I'll be ready.