The Rendering

On July 26, a married couple, Cristen Amanda Brink and her husband, Clinton David Brink, were attacked and stabbed to death while hiking with their two daughters at Devil's Den State Park in Arkansas. The girls, aged 7 and 9, managed to flee and seek help at a visitors’ center.

The attack seemed utterly random, but a possible male suspect caught the attention of other park visitors, who worked with a forensic sketch artist to create a composite image of the man.

Five days after the murders, police arrested a man named Andrew James McGann at Lupita’s Beauty Salon in Springdale, Arkansas, while he was in the middle of getting a haircut. He reportedly admitted to the murders once taken into custody, though no motive has yet been revealed.

What I find most incredible is the accuracy of the sketch produced by the forensic artist based on witness descriptions—the sharp chin and the too-deep, dead eyes. The sketch captured what arresting officers described as the murderer’s “soulless” look.

I’ve posted a photo of McGann and the forensic artist’s rendering for comparison.

The Artist's Sketch

Photo of Andrew James McGann

—Mitchell Hegman

Proper Care of Your Moon Orchid

Desiree has a gift for the nurture and care of orchids. Her moon orchid, in particular, has thrived. I’ve been paying attention and thought I might offer others a helpful list of tips for proper orchid care. Here is my list of things to know when caring for your own orchid:

• Give your orchid plenty of sunlight.
• Water your orchid once a week. Placing a large ice cube at the plant's base and allowing it to melt is efficient and root-friendly. A word of caution: don’t short yourself on ice for Scotch when using ice as a watering method.
• Don’t use a wire brush or industrial-strength cleaning agents when “washing” your orchid.
• Refrain from swimming with your orchid—especially in the deep end of the pool. They’re not strong swimmers.
• Don’t use your orchid as a pry bar.
• Feed your plant orchid food every two weeks when it is actively growing. Never feed it dill pickles.
• Avoid exposing your orchid to country music for extended periods of time.
• Don’t baby-talk your orchid.
• Your moon orchid is hermaphroditic, meaning the flowers have both boy and girl parts. For this reason, giving your plant a unisex name is helpful. Names such as Hank or Brock are not recommended.

Desiree’s Moon Orchid

—Mitchell Hegman

A Handsome Malady

The two most beautiful women are—in descending order—my wife and Salma Hayek. Here’s the thing: neither of them would look more striking if wrung out from battling a case of influenza or afflicted with a discoloring rash.

Plants, to the contrary, may strike a more gorgeous pose when stricken by sickness or the end of a growing cycle.

Consider a temperate-zone autumn: maples igniting in red and orange before shedding bare for winter; aspens fluttering gold in the light breeze; rushes swept into bronze by the season’s chill breath.

And then there is chlorosis—the yellowing of leaves due to a lack of chlorophyll. This condition is usually triggered by nutrient deficiencies, particularly iron, though nitrogen, manganese, and zinc may also be to blame. Poor drainage, compacted soil, root damage, or an overly alkaline pH can further complicate a plant’s ability to draw in what it needs.

Yet the result is often arresting.

While spiraling down a high mountain road, Desiree and I spotted a thimbleberry whorl suffering from chlorosis. The effect was striking—like seeing the plant rendered into a living x-ray. The entire network of its hydraulic system glowed bright green, while the leaf edges faded into soft yellow.

I felt compelled to take a photograph.

Chlorosis on Display

A Healthy Thimbleberry

—Mitchell Hegman

Heavy Lies the Good Looks

I have been keeping a personal journal since the 1980s. Today, I am sharing an entry from August of 1996:

Today, Rodney and I were killing some time while awaiting an answer that would allow us to proceed with our work. As we shuffled around with nothing better to do, I spotted a weight scale on the floor nearby. I poked Rodney’s belly. “Let’s see how much we weigh, Fatso.”

I pounced on the scale first, watched the numbers flutter and wag back and forth until settling on 165—pretty close to my normal. Rodney, who stands several inches taller and appears well-constructed, jumped on the scale and watched the numbers fall to almost exactly the same weight.

We both stared at each other, dumbfounded. He’s definitely bigger than me. Probably, the scale is toast. Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “I don’t know how to explain it, Pal. I guess good-looking is heavier than ugly.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Looking Down

I recently read an article expressing the possible health issues indicated by always walking with your head down. Psychologists suggest that a lowered gaze can signal low mood, depression, or a lack of confidence. It might also point to fatigue, illness, or even deep thought. In some cases, it's just how we protect ourselves from overstimulation or social awkwardness. Of course, context matters. In some cultures, looking down is a sign of respect. But in general, the way we carry ourselves tends to say something—sometimes more than we realize.

On the other side of this, I can readily identify two practical reasons for always looking down at the ground when walking around the area near my house. First, this is rattlesnake country, and you want to make sure you’re not about to step on one. Secondly, the ground surrounding my house is littered with rocks suitable as specimens in a rock collection.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Dying Tree Outside my Cabin Door

Several years ago, I and some competent—albeit beer-drinking—friends felled a tall fir tree that was dying and potentially a threat to my cabin. Now, another tree is in the process of punching out. This one, having been attacked by spruce budworms several years ago, is dying from the top down. The top perished some time ago.

When the top of a spruce or fir dies back after a spruce budworm attack, it most certainly marks the beginning of the end. The larvae feed heavily on the new growth in the upper crown, stripping needles and killing the tender shoots where a tree muscles skyward. With the crown gone, the tree loses its primary photosynthetic engine and its hormonal compass, throwing off the balance guiding healthy growth. Over the next seasons, weakened and depleted, the tree struggles. It may attempt a few desperate measures—sprouting shoots from lower branches or along its trunk—but the damage is often too deep. Roots begin to die from lack of energy, and the entire system slowly shuts down. This slow collapse sees bark sloughing away, limbs breaking, and finally, an unchecked fall.

A logger recently told me some trees with dead tops may fight on for some fifteen years, but the end is stalking them. Unfortunately, this particular tree is likely to topple in the direction of my cabin following its demise. And the cabin is within reach.

It’s time for me to beer up and call in my qualified felling workforce.

The Tall Dying Tree as Seen from the Cabin Door

—Mitchell Hegman

A Skirmish in the Mountains

Just as the long shadows of late evening stretched across the forest floor, the cabin fell under attack from a motley collection of empty cans and plastic bottles. We had no choice but to fill our hands with firearms and stand in defense.

Fortunately, we had our best Red Ryder BB guns and plenty of ammo on hand.

We quickly set up a firing line at the daylight basement door and began knocking down the array set against us.

I must say, the empty vessels were no match for our Red Ryder rifles. The guns sang out steadily and our aim proved true.

Desiree, Jack, and John in Defense

The Array Set Against Us

—Mitchell Hegman

A Great Idea

I had a dream in which I found myself teaching exam preparation related to the Electrical Code to several dozen electrician apprentices scheduled to take their licensing exam. After finishing up with a service calculation, I suggested to the class that we could either talk about ampacity or do twenty more Code search questions.

A hand shot up.

“I have an idea,” said one student. “Let’s just stand up and clap.”

“That’s a great idea,” I replied, with the kind of decisiveness reserved for dreams.

They leapt from their chairs and the room erupted into applause.

Not polite clapping, but full-bodied, joyful, unstoppable clapping.

Uplifting.

Rolling.

Swelling.

Unceasing.

I woke up smiling. The clapping fading inside me.

Clapping is big medicine.

Far better than Code questions.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Ten-Year-Old Boy

I have not fully grown, in the sense that the ten-year-old boy I once was is really only playing hide and seek inside me. He still steps forward now and again to throw a stick over a tree or kick at an anthill.

That boy in me is impulsive. He regularly does things for no profitable reason, and boredom quickly brings him out to begin fidgeting with anything at hand.

Yesterday, ten-year-old me took after the yucca plants in my yard. One of the stalks bearing seed pods had bent over in a way that annoyed me.

Our Montana variety of yucca is sometimes called soapweed. Native American tribes such as the Lakota, Dakota, and Blackfoot used the mashed or boiled roots of the plant as a natural soap and shampoo, particularly for washing hair and treating scalp conditions. Theoretically, the seed pods can be eaten when still young and green inside. A few years ago, as an adult, I tried eating a green yucca seed pod.

Ungood.

Absolutely bitter. Medicine-tasting stuff.

Anyhow, I whacked down several yucca stalks bearing seed pods and then sliced several pods open just because I could. I like the patterns produced by the seeds. Yucca are proficient producers of seeds—a single plant might produce 600 to 6,000 of them.

Just in case you’re bored right now, I’m sharing photographs of the seed pods—including one featuring the pods alongside a Cold Smoke beer. This will give you some manner of comparison between delicious and yucky.

A Yucca Plant

Pods With a Cold Smoke Beer (For Proper Size Reference)

Pod Slices

—Mitchell Hegman

One of My Favorite Memories

One of my favorite memories, strangely enough, is from a totally mundane morning back in my days of bachelorhood. At the time, I lived with a buddy in a house he’d purchased on the prairie edge of my hometown. I had actually been at a house party until the sun crept over the morning horizon and was driving home past my grandmother’s house. It was a time when she would be awake and sitting at her kitchen table, drinking cold coffee.

I hadn’t been drinking much, and I decided to drop in and see her before continuing home to crash.

Granny was elated to see me so early on a Saturday morning. We chatted a little before I noticed there were dishes in her sink.

“Let me do your dishes while we’re talking,” I said.

“I can do them,” she replied.

“I actually want to do them. And when have you ever heard that from me?”

Grandmother smiled. “Okay.”

I clinked and swished through her dishes as we talked about nothing that lifted any weight or brought daylight to shadows. Just the small things. And the kitchen was warm and brightening with a new day.

All of us alive then.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Squawkfields

While poking around outside the cabin, I met the Squawkfield family.

Three things:

I’m only guessing they were an actual family. I gave them the name Squawkfield. And I’m talking about a mess of ravens.

Technically, a group of ravens can be called a conspiracy, a treachery, a rave, an unkindness, or, more generically, a flock. But for the purposes of this blog, we’re sticking with mess. It fits.

They were loud. And relentless. For hours, they squawked from all directions—left, right, above, behind—almost always high up in the firs and pines. It was like being surrounded by feathery hecklers.

I soon surmised the ravens were likely a mix of relatives and neighborhood busybodies watching over and encouraging a batch of fledglings that had left the nest and were taking wobbly test flights. Ravens are known to be particularly boisterous when watching juveniles fledge.

This is a big time for these birds. Perhaps they even fancy all that squawking is pleasant.

From my perspective, it’s mostly annoying.

—Mitchell Hegman

Weird Bones

I like weird stuff, and I don’t require any particular reason to like it. My cabin is filled with odd things I’ve picked up over the years. Fred the eagle “sculpture” I blogged about a few days ago qualifies in this regard.

I also have the skull of a bison I picked up from a perhaps too-quiet brick mason who, as a “hobby,” raised dermestid beetles for cleaning the tissue off bones. I didn’t ask a lot of questions about his hobby. Regarding the skull, he claimed that someone hired him to clean it and never returned to pick it up. I try my best not to do any math regarding the fact that the man who apparently disappeared was also comprised of some interesting bones.

And, speaking of bones, I have a deer bone I collected near the cabin. I liked the way the bone was broken—perhaps by a mountain lion. I stuffed a handful of grouse feathers I similarly gathered near the cabin inside the bone. And because I’ve also been cursed with the weird habit of naming everything, I call this little charm “a feathered bone.”

Bison Skull

Fred

A Feathered Bone

—Mitchell Hegman

Cardboard Flaps and Beyond

What if, instead of working in the electrical industry, I was destined to be a structural packaging designer—you know, one of those heroic figures who craft cardboard into a series of flaps that fold together into shipping boxes?

What if I had an innate gift for flaps?

Maybe IKEA would have discovered my genius and hired me to design the perfect box for shipping a bookshelf with 302 parts and a pictograph instruction sheet. Maybe I’d rise through the ranks—promoted to Senior Vice President of Hardware Omission in the Shipping Department.

I’d be the one who decides whether to leave out a critical long screw or a random, odd-sized bolt required to complete Step 18.

Imagine my legacy now.

—Mitchell Hegman

Our Boodle Fight

We had a boodle fight at the cabin.

While that might sound like a bad thing, it’s quite the opposite.

Boodle fights originated as a tradition in the Philippine military and symbolize equality and brotherhood among ranks. Generous portions and a wide variety of food are served over banana leaves, often layered atop a bed of rice, and are typically prepared for special occasions or gatherings.

In our case, we were celebrating the birthdays of a couple of girls, and the table of food—set up in the daylight basement of the cabin—was a lovely display of rice, seafood, pork skewers, and fruit. The feast was followed by games of bingo and cards, and a John Wick movie projected onto the ceiling in the cabin loft.

Everyone Gathered by the Firepit

The Table Filled with Food

The Food

Bingo and Cards (Just the Girls)

Looking Down from the Loft

—Mitchell Hegman

Fred in the Loft

I mentioned Fred—a sculpture a friend of mine created in an art class at Montana State University in the early 1980s—in a previous blog. Today, I’m pleased to share a photograph of him in his new home: the loft of my cabin. He rests quietly in a narrow nook between the stairs that rise from the main floor and the loft railing that looks out over the space below.

Fred has taken on the role of a contemplative watch-eagle, permanently stationed to observe and reflect on the quiet rhythms of cabin life. I placed a small U.S. flag beside him—an addition that somehow suits him well.

Fred at His Place in the Loft

—Mitchell Hegman

Connected

This is interesting. My cabin lies nestled in a notch valley just west of the Continental Divide, within 10 miles of the Scapegoat Wilderness. There is only one road in, and the valley is surrounded by Forest Service holdings.

And there is something near scandalous about the cabin’s location: it resides in a cellphone dead zone.

Yet, weirdly enough, I have, in addition to a landline, fast fiber internet service—thanks to Lincoln Telephone Company.

I broke ground on construction for the cabin in the early summer of 2003. A couple of days ago, a friend of mine finally installed the kitchen cabinets. I gave him a set of keys to get through the gate and into the cabin and told him he’d need to use the landline to reach me if he had any issues.

He called me with an issue as soon as he arrived at the cabin: “Mitch, I need your internet password so I can listen to music.”

Thankfully, I managed to get him connected. And after a long day, he and his son completed the cabinet installation. That’s how things work in this modern, remote wilderness.

Cabin Kitchen Looking West

Cabin Kitchen Looking North

—Mitchell Hegman

My Biggest Fear

Given my spotty track record when it comes to dressing myself—especially in coordinating colors and patterns—my greatest fear in life is having to endure a fashion resurgence that brings back the flamboyant clothing choices of the 1960s and 1970s.

1960s Menswear

—Mitchell Hegman

PHOTO: fcipshop.com

Happy Thursday!

My sister and her husband were visiting for a few days. For a variety of reasons, they’ve limited themselves to drinking a glass of red wine only on Thursday evenings. I, on the other hand, enjoy a glass of red wine nearly every evening. If they were going to join me in sharing a glass of wine daily, we would need to make some sort of amendment.

We soon came up with a practical solution: rolling Thursdays. In this scheme, you can roll the designation of Thursday to any day of the week.

Today, for example, could be a Thursday.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

—Mitchell Hegman

Reflections on Hauser

In the near perfection of mid-morning, we sliced through the becalmed waters of Hauser Lake in our boat, on a quest. The objective? To find a place where still water repeats the mountains of stone and trees in lightly wavering reflections.

And we found just that place—where the mountains converge to express themselves in cliffs and talus slopes. There, with all mechanical contrivances silenced, we drifted into the replication of morning’s best face.

Hauser and Sun

Hauser Lake Reflection

—Mitchell Hegman

Bannack (Under the Sun)

The sun stands high and unobstructed above Bannack ghost town on a summer day. This is an authentic and uninhabited ghost town—one set aside to tell the tale of the gold rush days.

Located in southwest Montana, Bannack developed when gold was discovered on the banks of nearby Grasshopper Creek in 1862. It briefly served as the first territorial capital of Montana in 1864. The town is famous for its well-preserved buildings and for Sheriff Henry Plummer, who was controversially hanged by vigilantes amid accusations that he led a gang of “road agent” outlaws. Today, Bannack is a designated state park and ghost town, offering visitors a vivid glimpse into the Old West.

I am sharing photographs from a walk through Bannack as it looks today.

The Masonic Lodge / School

Desiree in Class at the School

An Old House Under the Sun

A Fading Interior Wall

—Mitchell Hegman

The Falls at Lost Creek

Lost Creek State Park lies six miles north of Anaconda, Montana, at the ragged tail end of the chevron-peaked Flint Creek Mountain Range. Within the park’s 502 acres, limestone cliffs and painted rock formations rise 1,200 feet above the canyon floor, carved and weathered by time.

At the far end of a box canyon within the park, the cliffs gather close, the air cools, and Lost Creek Falls spills fifty feet down a broken staircase of stone, its waters chattering through the narrow gorge.

If you have reason to be driving near or through Anaconda and have a few minutes of spare time, taking the short diversion to see Lost Creek Falls is well worth the effort. We did that just yesterday. The cool, misted air near the falls felt especially good on the hot summer day.

Desiree at Lost Creek Falls

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Winston Churchill Said

—"Courage is what it takes to stand up and speak; courage is also what it takes to sit down and listen.”

—"Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.”

—"If we open a quarrel between past and present, we shall find that we have lost the future.”

I busted a doe mule deer the other day. After watching her snag and eat a few leaves from the underside of the canopy of our linden tree, she took a few rather prancing steps toward a hollyhock Desiree has been nurturing for the last two years near our front door. I flew to the door and ejected outside.

“Not a chance at eating that,” I admonished the deer.

The deer pirouetted into the air and then bounced off into the sagebrush and bunchgrass expanse.

“A deer made moves on your hollyhock,” I informed Desiree when I next saw her. “I chased her off.”

Desiree’s eyes expanded. “I want to see it bloom. I need deer protection.”

Deer most often raid the delicious offerings in our yard late in the evening or early in the morning. With this in mind, Desiree thought for a minute. “I know just what to do. I’m going to put a bag over the hollyhock.”

Desiree tromped off to the kitchen, grabbed a plastic bag, and then stepped outside and pulled the bag down over the top of the hollyhock.

The following morning, Desiree pulled the bag off the hollyhock, and later in the day, one of the buds unfurled into a bright red flower. Hopefully, the flower is not a daytime deer beacon.

The Plastic Bag Solution

Desiree With Her Hollyhock

The Hollyhock in Bloom

—Mitchell Hegman

Truth

Truth is the sharp end of the knife.

Truth closes the door when it goes inside.

Truth regularly cleans the cat’s litter box.

Truth isn’t afraid to twist a few wrenches and get its hands dirty.

Truth swims, but will submerge when required.

Truth is relentless but not restless.

Truth is a three-legged dog that has learned to thrive on the streets.

Truth has opposable thumbs.

Truth just ran off with somebody’s wife.

Truth eats breakfast with a shovel.

Truth doesn’t knock—it picks the lock and lets itself in.

—Mitchell Hegman

Meet Fred

I attended Montana State University in the early 1980s. By then, I had already successfully completed an apprenticeship as an electrician and was mostly interested in broadening my experiences. One of the people I befriended while in an art class was a Bozeman native and talented artist named Joe Schneider.

Joe especially liked working with tactile materials. For one of his projects, he carved a small cavity in a stone and then made a combination lock out of metal to access the chamber inside the stone.

Joe also made Fred.

Fred was constructed from wood, papier-mâché, wax, and denim as one of Joe’s projects for a class. Remarkably, as I recall, Fred was created in the course of only three or so days. I was particularly impressed with Fred and said as much.

“You can have him, Mitch,” Joe told me. “I don’t have anywhere to keep him.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure, you can take him.”

Fred’s been with me ever since—over 40 years now. He spent the last 34 of those perched quietly in the rafters of my garage, watching the seasons pass in sawdust and silence. But recently, I brought him down, dusted him off, and decided it’s time for him to move again.

Fred’s heading to the cabin. I figure he’s earned a place up in the loft, watching over things in his quiet yet solid way.

Fred With a Cold Smoke Beer

—Mitchell Hegman

Oxeye Daisy

I protect wildflowers with unbridled passion. I cringe at the thought of picking a mess of them to make a tabletop arrangement. Mowing them down to make a meadow “presentable” sends a shudder through me. Also, it is not legal in Montana to pick flowers on National Forest land or within a National Park.

When it comes to nonnative, invasive weeds, I fly to the opposite end of the spectrum. I want to wipe them out in violent fashion. They are challenging—and often defeating—my flowers.

This is where it gets tricky. Some “invasive weeds” are pretty flowers.

Perhaps nothing illustrates this better than the oxeye daisy. In Montana, it is listed as a noxious weed due to its aggressive spread and ability to outcompete native vegetation and desirable forage species. A single plant can produce up to 26,000 seeds, which remain viable in the soil for years.

Oxeye daisy thrives in disturbed soils, roadsides, pastures, meadows, and forest openings. It prefers full sun to partial shade and can tolerate a wide range of soil types, including poor or rocky soils.

While ascending a mountain road, we came across a long swath of daisies extending alongside the road for many yards.

“Those are pretty,” Desiree suggested.

“They are pretty, but they don’t belong here. They’re a weed.”

“I want to pick some.

Had Desiree expressed this about a native wildflower, I would have launched into a speech about why she couldn’t pick them. But since we were dealing with an exotic that escaped the yard and is now tromping through the mountains, I immediately pulled my truck off to the side of the road, allowing a cloud of dust to settle around us.

“Pick ’em,” I said. “Get all you want.”

Oxeye Daisy

Desiree With Freshly Cut Daisies

—Mitchell Hegman

A Creepy Man

This whole thing with Brian Kohberger pleading guilty to the murder of four University of Idaho students has been haunting me. No—creeping me the hell out. It's like a shadow that won't go away. And it's got me thinking about serial killers. Make no mistake—Kohberger was one in the making. If he hadn't been caught, he would’ve killed again. You can see it all over him.

After the murders, records show he searched the internet for information on Ted Bundy—like he was studying up. He stalked his victims, just like Bundy did. And the brutality? It fits the serial killer playbook. Stabbing. Beating. Up-close violence. That’s what they crave. They want the rush—the blood, the screams, the power. All the raw, immediate input. All the horror.

This stuff drills into me.

It doesn’t just disturb me—it violates something deep inside. It’s completely alien to my sense of humanity, to everything I believe in.

Brian Kohberger is terrifying, through and through.

I posted two of his selfies. The first was taken just six hours after the murders—he’s flashing a thumbs-up like he won a prize. The second is worse. His eyes are empty, like something vital never existed there.

He is the kind of man who walks unseen among us—until it’s far, far too late.

Six Hours After the Murders

Kohberger in a Hood

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Earnest Hemingway Said

—"Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.”

—"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”

—"Never mistake motion for action.”

Space Rock?

On second thought, I took a step backward.

While walking the road down to the lakefront, I had stepped over an oddly colored rock in the graveled rut. After stepping back up the hill, I scooped up the rock and found it astoundingly weighty. Moreover, the rock had the look of iron.

When I showed the rock to some folks gathered at the lake to celebrate Independence Day, several people wondered if it might be a meteorite. A later experiment proved the rock highly attracted to a magnet.

Once home again, I scoured the internet for information about the rock. Two possibilities emerged: meteorite or limonite.

While a meteorite is space stuff, limonite is a common, earthy iron ore made up mostly of hydrated iron oxides and other iron-bearing minerals. It forms in a variety of low-temperature, near-surface environments as part of the weathering and oxidation of iron-bearing minerals. Limonite is often found in river and lake sediments (especially oxidized gravels), which exactly fits the bill for the virtual pile of rocks upon which my road traverses.

I’m leaning toward limonite on this one.

My Heavy Rock

A Magnet Stuck to the Rock

—Mitchell Hegman

Incompetently Flying Juveniles

I’ve got another public service announcement for you. This one is pretty straightforward: be on the lookout for incompetently flying juvenile magpies.

You can’t miss them. They look like your run-of-the-mill adult magpie, except their tails are conspicuously short and they have a bit less iridescence in appearance. And they don’t fly worth a damn.

Since they are just learning how to fly, they’re still working out the details of lifting, landing, and braking. Some of them simply don’t pay attention. In the last few days, while driving to and from town, I’ve nearly collided with two juvenile magpies lifting from roadside ditches. One of the birds remained unscathed only because I swerved and braked hard to avoid striking it.

So, be careful out there. Give yourself a little space as you approach the next magpie.

—Mitchell Hegman