Pick-up Sticks

Between pine beetle infestations and raucous windstorms, many of the surrounding forests are filled with fallen trees. This includes the Forest Service property adjoining the parcel for my cabin. That particular forest is comprised primarily of lodgepole pine.

Nature has not been kind.

The forest looks more like a giant pile of pick-up sticks. The lodgepoles have crashed down crosswise against each other, stacking high and making it nearly impossible to walk through. For the last few years, I have been sawing much of my firewood from this patch of timber. I have carved a clear swath through the mess and gradually worked my way up a fairly gentle slope. But the rounds are dry and easy to manage.

Honestly, I enjoy my time cutting into the downfall. I’ve always enjoyed anything that presses me harder against my mountains. I’m sharing a photograph of the forest and my truck filled with rounds.

My Truck Filled with Rounds

The Pick-up Sticks Forest

—Mitchell Hegman

Swarming Bees

Yesterday at midday, when I stopped to check my mail, I discovered honey bees swarming on the cluster of mailboxes. Bees are generally not looking for trouble and are not aggressive when swarming, so I was able to open my box and retrieve my mail.

Swarming is how a colony reproduces, a process in which the entire society splits in two.

The triggers for swarming typically appear in the spring when the hive becomes crowded and nectar is flowing. The workers feel congestion, rising heat, and an recognize an abundance of resources. A sense that they are strong enough to divide washes through the hive.

To prepare for a new colony, the worker bees begin raising new queens by feeding select larvae an all-royal jelly diet. At the same time, they slim down the current queen by feeding her less, making her light enough to fly. Normally, she’s a regal homebody, not a traveler.

On a warm day, often in the late morning, the hive reaches a tipping point, and the old queen leaves the hive, taking 30 to 70 percent of the workers with her. They pour out in a thick cloud, then gather again nearby, usually forming a hanging cluster.

Scout bees then head out to find a new home, sometimes miles away. They return and “dance” to argue their case, and through this democratic process, the swarm eventually lifts off and relocates, with the old queen once again laying eggs and producing a thriving colony.

Back at the old hive, a new queen rises to resume normal activity there.

When I drove past the mailbox array in the late evening, the gathering of bees was gone.

Bees Swarming the Mailbox Array

A Gathering

—Mitchell Hegman

A Cascade of Flowers

The Southeast Valley Honeybees, after several years of absence, have laid claim to our Mayday tree, now in full bloom. The entire tree hums and vibrates with the sound of dozens upon dozens of bees.

Nothing in my northland world outdoes a Mayday tree in the production of pearly white flowers. It doesn’t scatter its blossoms like loose change; it gathers them into long, crowded tassels, turning each branch into a chandelier, if not a floral waterfall, of small blooms. Mayday trees also bloom early and produce a sweet, beckoning scent, boosting the odds of pollination before other trees and ground flowers even get off the starting line to compete.

Yesterday, at midday, I wandered out and stood beneath the Mayday, a halo of blossoms and bees above me.

If not heaven, close.

Desiree and the Mayday Tree in Bloom

A Bee at Work

—Mitchell Hegman

The Holding Pen

Almost every plant-eating critter loves to munch on quaking aspen. The tender leaves and emerging buds are especially tasty. And in the snow-swirled depths of winter, when forage is scarce, these four-legged customers will strip bark for a meal. Additionally, aspen make excellent antler-rubbing posts. If you intend to plant a sapling in deer, elk, or moose country, you need to provide fencing around it.

Yesterday, Desiree and I purchased two super tall, skinny quaking aspen saplings. One will eventually find a home near our cabin; the other will be planted near our hot tub just outside our back door. Read “deer country” here.

To protect the saplings before planting, we placed them in a protective holding pen. During the summer, the pen serves as a fenced-in garden spot. I should note that I have a sketchy record with aspen trees. Throughout their range, aspen are attractive targets for pathogens and insects. Two aspens I previously planted at the cabin succumbed to blight.

Still, aspen have a hushed stubbornness about them. They send up new shoots, try again, and then try once more. With a bit of luck and a little protection, perhaps these two will grasp the earth where I plant them and decide to stay.

Desiree Pushing the Trees Toward Our Truck.

Aspen in the Holding Pen

—Mitchell Hegman

Our Requirements for Survival

Desiree and I watched a couple of episodes of Naked and Afraid. In one, the male survivalist tapped out after only three days of the 21-day challenge, leaving a young woman on her own. Thankfully, she thrived and made it to extraction day.

Desiree and I discussed what it would take for us to make it past three days. For me, survival would hinge on two non-negotiables: footwear and coffee. I would need to fashion a respectable pair of shoes out of bark or hide, and then, somehow, locate a coffee bush in whatever uncooperative corner of the planet I’d been dropped into.

Desiree’s requirements are, if anything, more exacting. She would need to successfully forage and assemble all the necessary ingredients to prepare a proper dish of pancit noodles.

We have our needs.

—Mitchell Hegman

Roughing It

My late wife and I purchased our mountain property in 2000. Over the next few years, we worked out plans and finances for a cabin, and began building in phases.

The key word here is “cabin.” I had in mind something small and simple. Maybe even rustic. I briefly considered an A-frame, then let that idea wander off into the trees.

“Simple” never made it onto the final prints. Before long, we had something that looks suspiciously like a second home. Just last year, Desiree and I finished the loft. Yesterday, we wired up a big-screen TV to fiber internet, better than what I get at home, and spent the afternoon in the loft watching music videos on YouTube.

So this, apparently, is our version of roughing it.

I’m posting a photograph of Desiree from our time in the loft.

Desiree “Roughing It”

—Mitchell Hegman

My Place in the World

When I was a kid, my mother had to drag me, squirming and sniveling, to the bath or shower. In my reckoning, it was a waste of time. Besides, I earned every speck of dirt I wore.

Welp, over the years, there’s been a radical reversal. I now find showering downright pleasurable, especially at the cabin. I love showering there. It’s a mountain luxury, and for some reason, the water feels warmer. After a day of cutting firewood, poking along the chill creek, or tending a campfire, it lands like a soft massage. And considering we went the first fifteen years of our long cabin-building process without a shower or hot water, I don’t take it for granted.

Frankly, I hate getting out of the cabin’s shower once I start. Yesterday, I stepped in after a late afternoon of sawing Douglas fir rounds.

Pure heaven.

After a while, I called out, “Hey, Desi, grab my phone and come here, please.” When she arrived, I asked her to take a G-rated picture of me in the shower. “This is my place in the world,” I said.

Today, it’s my pleasure to share it with you.

Me in the Cabin Shower

—Mitchell Hegman

About Her Name

Shirly never liked her name, and she always wondered why a decent person would call a tree a western larch when you could call it tamarack instead.

As far as her name went, she wished to be a Belinda. Maybe a Blossom. Why not Enola? A name that opened like a window and let a little light in.

Shirly heard music words in names. And yet she fell for a man simply named Bob. Not much more than a single note, Bob, but sometimes a single note is all a melody needs to begin. He agreed to call her Enola, and she liked the way he said it: Ee-no-LA. A big, bold LA to end with a flourish. A symphony could hardly do better. Easily enough to build a love upon.

—Mitchell Hegman

Thanks, Dad — Thanks, Sun

Among other things, I inherited a bad scalp from my father. As an adult, he was allergic to sunlight and lived accordingly, keeping to the shade and rarely stepping outside without a hat.

While I’m not directly allergic to the sun, my skin is damaged (and now revolting) due to too much exposure as a creek-swimming, field-wandering kid who never wore a hat.

Presently, I am battling psoriasis, folliculitis, and actinic keratoses (pre-cancer). A couple of years ago, I had a spot of squamous cell carcinoma (yes, actual cancer) sliced from my forearm. Strangely, I didn’t feel a thing, during or after, which is notable because I am, by reputation and repeated demonstration, a bit of a baby about such matters.

So, as it stands, it appears I’m one malady away from using every letter of the alphabet. Not that there is any value in that.

—Mitchell Hegman

Observations After Turning Seventy

Observations After Turning Seventy:

• I’m headed in one direction; my memory has taken a side road.
• I had no idea how young forty was until I struck seventy.
• A single project in the yard can leave a trail of connected bruises on me.
• There is no substitute for lifelong friends.
• Spending my retirement stash is way easier than saving it.
• I will never outgrow rocks.
• It’s okay to tell your man-friend you love him; some things are better said out loud.
• Being loud is not a substitute for being correct.
• I now understand why naps were invented, and why they should be defended.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Thought Experiment

Maybe we would do better if we imagined love as limping. Love is a little beat up. Something or somebody is always trying to knock it back or shove it slightly off kilter.

Love is ever a work in progress. Supporting structures come and go. Some are temporary. And while love can be fearless, it can also be overly sensitive and frail, and sometimes unrecognizable.

As a thought experiment, imagine how often you’ve passed by love without knowing.

—Mitchell Hegman

Creekside

There is a certain luxury in having a creek within a stone’s throw of where you are.

First, you should hear creek as “crik,” as I learned to pronounce it in my beer-drinking hometown of East Helena, Montana.

Second, I am presently at my cabin, which places me well within the aforementioned range of proximity to a creek.

Creeks are ever in motion and always busy with the task of seeking downhill. The creek near my cabin is running high at present. The water is over-eager and slap-happy as it reaches through tangles of willow, or dashes across the steeplechase of stone, logs, and earth laid before it.

You can hear the chattering of the creek from a great distance.

Desiree and I walked along a length of the creek yesterday afternoon. The meadow grass is only beginning to thread up through last year’s thatch of dun grass, now laid flat after a winter under snow. The pussy willows are fuzzy with blossoms, providing a place for early bees and butterflies to dine and dance together.

A walk along our section of creek is really a tale of dams. One made of stone, carefully stacked by Desiree; several others made of sticks and mud by beavers. No matter the maker, the water shimmers and blanches, clearing dams. The waters in the pools above are deep and swirled with mystery.

Trout live there.

A creek with trout is a complete thing.

Holy.

Desiree’s Dam

A Beaver Dam

—Mitchell Hegman

Splitting a Geode

If you are any kind of rockhound, you cannot miss a “rock show.” Yesterday, to maintain our rockhound status, Desiree, my sister Deb, and I took time to check out the annual Helena Mineral Society Gem and Mineral Show.

Among all the vendors of fossils, gems, cut stones, and unique mineral specimens, we found a guy selling loads of geodes. Geodes are nature’s little treasure chests—plain on the outside, wholly extravagant within. When you split one open, it feels like the earth hid a galaxy in a rock, then chucked it off to the side.

Making the geode experience far more interesting was the fact that you picked your own whole stone and then cracked it open yourself using a chain that applied great pressure when you turned a ship’s helm wheel, all of which was mounted on an old wooden barrel.

The geodes were formed first as a bubble of gas trapped in cooling lava, leaving a hollow behind as the volcano released its heat. Then, over long stretches of time, mineral-rich water seeped into that cavity, and through crystallization, layers of quartz slowly formed along the inner walls.

After watching a couple of other people crack open geodes, Desiree purchased one and took a turn at the wheel. As the vendor held the stone in position, she cranked down the pressure until the geode popped into two.

Ta-da! Each half bloomed with a dazzling array of crystals.

The Rock Show Floor as Seen from the Mezzanine

Desiree Splitting a Geode

Inside the Geode

—Mitchell Hegman

My Legacy

Each of us will likely have one thing we’ve done that casts the longest shadow after we’re gone. It may be something generous or hard-earned, or just as easily something accidental, set in motion by a moment we didn’t fully understand at the time.

That’s the unsettling part of it. We don’t necessarily get to choose what will be our legacy.

I’d like to think mine will be something deliberate, say, related to the cabin I built over the span of two decades. But what if it’s something else, the result of a quick mistake I’ve made that hasn’t yet come to light?

A sobering thought, that.

So I find myself hoping, quietly and somewhat practically, that my “one big thing” isn’t something I miswired out there, something set to fizzle or explode at a date uncertain.

—Mitchell Hegman

One Finger Striking Out on Its Own

I don’t think being an idiot is my biggest problem, though it does slow me down at times. I think my biggest problem is my fingers. More precisely, my problem is suffering from Raynaud's phenomenon, which is not a good phenomenon in the vein of, say, the Northern Lights.

I’ve posted a photograph I captured of my hand the other day. The dead-looking finger is the work of Raynaud’s. The finger is cold, entirely numb, and without blood circulation. My hands contacting cold water triggered it. Commonly, all of my fingers will do this when an episode is triggered. In my case, I have two triggers for a Raynaud’s event: contact with something cold or gripping something for an extended time.

Raynaud's is essentially my body overreacting, throwing up its hands and running away screaming, pun intended, as if the world were harsher than it is. A sudden chill or passing stress, and the small arteries in the fingers constrict, limiting blood flow and draining the skin of color as though drawing the shades against an imagined storm. It is less a clear-cut disease than an overcautious reflex, the nervous system pressing the brakes too hard.

Sometimes I must dip my hands in warm water for several minutes to get blood flowing again.

—Mitchell Hegman

Solutions

Problem: I keep compiling my various mistakes in my head and then constantly wade through them.

Solution #1: Stop making mistakes.

Solution #2: Drop a tab of LSD and alter reality.

Problem: I’m small on the outside.

Solution: Be big on the inside.

Problem: I take myself too seriously.

Solution: Remember I am, in fact, a temporary arrangement of opinions.

Problem: I often fail at properly pronouncing “rotisserie.”

Solution: Beer.

—Mitchell Hegman

Dee-Dee, Doo-Doo (A Conversation)

While soaking in our outdoor hot tub, Desiree looked out toward the pine trees on the hillside below. Steam lifted around us in slowly spiraling ribbons.

“What kind of bird is that?”

“What bird?” I asked, scanning the trees and finding nothing but branches and shadow.

“The one singing.”

“I don’t hear a bird.”

“You don’t hear the bird?”

“Nope. I’ve lost a lot of the high-pitched stuff from my range of hearing.”

“I know you don’t hear crickets.”

“Not unless I’m right on top of them. What does the bird sound like?”

“It’s just a simple song. Kinda like a chickadee.”

“We should get one of those smartphone apps that identifies birds by their songs. I actually had one for a while. There’s a bird I used to hear all the time that’s been missing for the last few years. I figured it had vanished from here. I downloaded the app and whistled the song, just to see what kind of bird it was. The app immediately responded: ‘That sounds like a human.’”

Desiree and I laughed.

“It’s a simple song, too,” I said, and then I whistled it for her: dee-dee, doo-doo.

Desiree brightened. “That’s it! That’s what I’m hearing!”

I whistled it again.

“That’s it,” she said.

“So they didn’t vanish. I just stopped hearing them. I used to hear them constantly in the trees below, years ago.”

I whistled again: dee-dee, doo-doo.

The sound floated out over the hillside, human from beginning to end, answering a bird I could no longer hear.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood

The making of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood Scotch is less a straight line and more a long, patient waltz between wood and time. It begins at The Balvenie Distillery in the Dufftown area of Speyside, Scotland, where the rhythm is set early and never rushed.

The process begins with malted barley, mashed, fermented, and distilled in copper stills into a bright, eager spirit. That spirit is then laid to rest for many years in traditional oak casks, where it gathers honeyed warmth, soft vanilla, and a gentle structure. In time, the signature turn arrives: the whisky is transferred, or “finished,” in casks that once held rich ruby port from Portugal, drawing in notes of dried fruit, spice, and a quiet, wine-dark sweetness. After 21 years of this slow exchange between spirit and seasoned wood, the result is a Scotch that feels composed, balanced, and just a touch indulgent.

The taste of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood is smooth and layered, with honey and oak giving way to a soft, earthy sweetness that lingers without overstaying its welcome.

Many would describe this Scotch in a much simpler, unsubtle manner: expensive! For my birthday, a group of Desiree’s Filipina friends, whom I affectionately call my “sister wives,” chipped in and purchased me a bottle of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood.

Let me assure you, this is a big deal. Thank you, girls!

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sapphire Bucket

One look inside my garage will tell you I’m a fan of 5-gallon buckets. On my last count, I had 17 of them in some form of use. Still, none of them quite compare to the “sapphire bucket” I received as a birthday gift.

This one-of-a-kind, customized bucket was fashioned by fellow rockhound Tad St. Clair. It serves as a complete kit for gleaning sapphires from pay gravel gathered from deposits along the Missouri River near my house, a simple idea turned elegant.

The kit includes a clear glass plate that rests on the rim of the bucket, a battery-powered LED light glowing up from within, and a small plastic container with tweezers and compartments for the safekeeping of any promising finds. Gravel is spread across the glass, and with a little patience and a careful eye, the light reveals what the river has chosen to keep hidden.

Tad also included a small bag of pay gravel from a trip we made to the local gem and mineral society dig near Lakeside. I am posting photographs of the bucket and of Desiree making a run with a handful of pay. No sapphires surfaced this time, but that feels beside the point. We will gather more gravel soon and let the light try again.

The Sapphire Bucket Complete

The Kit on Display

Desiree Looking for Sapphires

—Mitchell Hegman

You Can’t Please Everyone

I figured out a long time ago that the aphorism about not being able to please everyone is an absolute truth. But I’ve since determined that you can annoy everyone with remarkable efficiency, either by making weird noises constantly or by singing Bob Dylan songs even worse than he sings them.

—Mitchell Hegman

NOTE: I’m a huge Dylan fan.

Something Fran Lebowitz Said

—    “Children are the most desirable opponents at scrabble as they are both easy to beat and fun to cheat.”

—    “Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.”

—    “Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about wine.”

Normal Instructor

My friend and, for quite some time, coworker, Kenny, perished after a fairly long bout with cancer. But that did not keep him from appearing in a dream I had last night. In the dream, I found myself walking down the street of an unknown city. I was a little uneasy because I had lost my cellphone. Just as I turned a corner on a sidewalk in a residential part of the city, I saw my friend Kenny walking partway down the street on the opposite side. Naturally, I called to him and waved.

He stopped and allowed me to approach. “Kenny! I have not seen you for ages. How are you?” 

“Doing great,” Kenny answered, smiling.

“I’m having a bad day,” I admitted. “I lost my cellphone. But you look fantastic. Really good!” I found myself amazed by how fit he looked. He had a notable glow of health about him. Kenny is not the hugging type, so I gave him a playful punch to the shoulder. “What have you been up to?”

“I started two trucking companies,” he said without hesitation. “I threw in with a partner on one of the companies, and we are in the process of selling it.”

“That’s good. Who is your business partner?”

“Normal Instructor.”

I paused, squinting a little, as if the meaning might come into focus if I adjusted my eyes. “Your business partner’s name is Normal Instructor?”

“Yes. Normal Instructor.”

I cannot quite decide if it was good fortune or bad timing, but that is the precise moment I woke up, left standing there with him, and with that name, like a door that had just begun to open. 

—Mitchell Hegman

Tomb Raiders

Alejandro Cambronero Albaladejo is angry. No, he’s not angry about the syllabic train wreck that is his name, though he has every reason to be. He’s miffed because he no longer holds the Guinness World Record for the largest collection of Tomb Raider games.

He was unseated by Amy Dyson, a British woman who bested the Spanish collector with a count of 291 unique copies of games in the franchise, including special editions, the same game across multiple consoles, and foreign-language releases. AL (for the sake of ease, I’m calling Alejandro Cambronero Albaladejo “AL”) had a collection that tallied 215 back in 2017.

Amy said the video game helps her deal with functional neurological disorder, which causes symptoms including brain fog, tics, tremors, and paralysis.

Interesting, the brain fog and tics. Might that explain why Amy purchased so many copies of the game, propelling her to a world record?

Maybe so.

But how do we explain AL?

Amy With Her Games

—Mitchell Hegman

Source of Original Story and Photo: UPI (Ben Harper)

Precious Dirt

At no point as a creek-fishing, apple-throwing, bike-riding kid in East Helena, Montana, did I entertain any thoughts about buying dirt. Well, as an adult living on a pile of rocks, I find myself buying dirt on a fairly regular basis. And just yesterday, Desiree and I bought a yard of it for several spring planting projects.

First up, we planted an October Glory maple in front of the house. Desiree has been dazzled by fall colors since joining me here in the North Country, where autumn declares itself in dramatic colors. Maples, especially, have held her attention, their leaves turning like quiet signals from another season.

To plant trees around my house, you need to begin by digging a hole (read: prying out rocks here) so you can surround the root ball with some semblance of dirt. In this case, once we had an appropriate hole, we dropped the tree in, and I shoveled dirt down from the back of my truck while Desiree tended the tree and kept it properly oriented (leafy side up, thank you).

I’m sharing photographs of our work.

Up next: fall colors.

Desiree Digging

Me Shoveling Precious Dirt

Desiree Tending the Tree

Desiree with the Planted Tree

—Mitchell Hegman

An All-Thumbs English Conversion

“All thumbs” is one of those phrases that stumbled into English in the late nineteenth to early twentieth century, a modest little expression for the universal condition of clumsiness. If someone is “all thumbs,” they are fumbling the small mechanics of life, missing buttons, dropping screws, or turning a simple task into a train derailment, as if their fingers had all fattened into a bulky array of thumbs.

In light of all this, I need to share my absolute amazement at the ability of many young people I know to text on their smartphone with a single thumb. Not only do they text, but they do so accurately at lightning speed. I have witnessed some people one-thumbing a flawless text while driving. Never mind that they should not text and drive at once.

This skill is utterly beyond me. Just for fun, I tried a practice text a few moments ago to check my skill level. Here is what I thumbed on my smartphone: “Do hoof ddigg.”

An all-thumbs English conversion.

Here is what I was attempting to write: “Do good stuff.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Smoke and Cold Smoke

Desiree and I smoked an 11-pound pork shoulder roast. The strategy for smoking meat is to cook at low temperatures while infusing smoke flavor. Smoking meat is less cooking than persuasion, a quiet agreement between low heat and drifting smoke. I generally try to operate at 225°F, which can lead to extended cooking times, especially when targeting an internal temperature of 195°F to ensure maximum tenderness.

In this instance, I slipped the roast into the smoker (with an internal temperature of 40°F) at 5:00 in the morning and didn’t pull it out until 9:00 in the evening.

Sixteen hours is a long vigil for a piece of meat, but that is the bargain we struck.

One of the things that extends the cooking time is “the stall.” The stall is the pork roast’s way of hitting the pause button around 150–170°F, when moisture rises to the surface and evaporates, cooling it like a built-in air conditioner while your smoker keeps trying to heat it up. From the outside, it looks like nothing’s happening, but inside, collagen is slowly melting into gelatin and the meat is quietly becoming tender. Eventually, the moisture runs low, the cooling effect fades, and the roast wakes up from its little spa day and starts climbing in temperature again. The temperature of our roast held stubbornly steady for several hours before it began to rise again.

When it was finished, the pork was tender enough to fall apart at a suggestion, wrapped in a dark, lovely bark formed from little more than salt, pepper, and time. I’m sharing photographs of the roast with the requisite Cold Smoke beer alongside.

Before Smoking

Pulling the Roast at 9:00

After Smoking

—Mitchell Hegman

Plants Growing Naked and Sideways

Given the title of this blog, I owe a bit of explanation.

We are, in fact, discussing a houseplant. A five-finger plant, to be precise. It recently endured an overwatering incident of some consequence and, in what feels like a small act of protest, shed its final two leaves. What remains is a living thing, certainly, but also a bare stalk with aspirations.

In an effort to spare it from drowning and suffering the slow creep of root rot, Desiree tipped the entire operation sideways on the floor, allowing the excess water to seep away.

Practical, yes.

Still, there is something faintly unsettling about coming across a plant lying on its side, as if it has simply decided it has had enough of vertical life.

I’m hoping it rallies, finds its footing, and produces a leaf or two in defiance of recent events. I feel a little sorry for it. For now, though, I can live with naked and sideways.

Naked and Sideways

 —Mitchell Hegman

The Sky Is My Garden (2026 Version)

The sky is my garden, though it refuses all fences. By day, the wind tends it, herding clouds and scattering birds across an open blue field.

By night, it blooms righteous. Stars press outward, electrified above the dark strokes of the mountains, steady and unhurried.

They call this Montana, “Big Sky Country,” but the phrase feels far too small. In summer, the air shimmers and bends, sending ravens warping across the prairie. In winter, at twenty below, the sky sharpens to crystal while the frozen lake below groans in reply.

Clouds rise. Clouds scurry. Clouds roil. Clouds pause. Clouds drift away.

It is a garden that grows in motion and color and gesture, and we are only ever passing through.

Fiery Garden

Stormy Garden

Soft Garden

—Mitchell Hegman

One Hour

Flying from Manila to Seattle is a strange proposition. On paper, our most recent flight between the two points, with an aircraft transfer in Tokyo, required only one hour. That’s pretty astonishing for traveling 6,650 miles.

There are a few dynamics involved here. For one thing, you are flying against the sun, passing backward through various time zones. Also, somewhere near the midpoint, you cross the international date line and encounter the very beginning of the same day you just left behind.

In our case (see the photograph of our itinerary posted below), we departed Manila at 10:05 a.m. on Tuesday, April 2. After 16 hours in the air and in transit, we arrived in Seattle at 11:05 a.m. on Tuesday, April 2. One hour later, by the clock.

I can assure you, it did not feel like merely an hour had passed by the time we landed. Even now, two days on, things remain slightly out of joint. My Rocky Mountain days are still trying, stubbornly, to be Manila nights.

Our Itinerary

—Mitchell Hegman

Parting Shots

Desiree and I have returned from over a month in the Philippines. I have settled back into my place in the Rocky Mountains, reclaiming my sofa and my own peculiar brew of coffee.

Montana, being Montana, saw fit to greet me properly. I woke early this morning to a skiff of fresh snow and a clean-edged chill in the air.

This is why I love you, Montana. No one tells you how to behave when it comes to springtime weather. You do as you please. Thank you for the welcome home.

Today, I’m sharing a few final photographs. Two are courtesy of Desiree’s daughter, Bea. The last features Desiree with a spread of dry goods and other treasures she gathered in the Philippines and we dragged home in our luggage.

Lunch with Desiree’s Family Under Sister May’s Avocado Tree

Ladders Are Us (Bea)

More Post Overload (Bea)

Me and a Glass of Wine on the Tower Balcony

Desiree and Her Freshly Unpacked Goodies

—Mitchell Hegman