The Mighty Mo

The Missouri River is both beautiful and restless.

Most rivers in North America have their directions firmly sorted out. They head south, east, or west with little hesitation. The Missouri, however, begins in the Rocky Mountains at Three Forks, Montana, promptly turns north for a considerable distance, then thinks better of it, swings east across the Great Plains, and finally hooks south to join the Mississippi River on its long journey to the Gulf of Mexico.

The "Mighty Mo," as we sometimes call it, is the longest river in the United States, stretching about 2,341 miles. The river officially begins where the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin Rivers converge. A drop of water beginning its journey at Three Forks will travel nearly 3,700 miles before it reaches saltwater.

My life has been spent traipsing along the handsome upper reaches of the river, from the headwaters to Great Falls. Yesterday, Desiree and I drove the frontage road along the stretch of river between Ulm and Wolf Creek. It turns out this is her favorite drive in all of Montana. She loves the winding waterway, the mountains marching alongside, the bridges, the towering riverside cliffs drinking from the eddied water, the lavish homes perched on ledges above, and the swirls of birds filling the skies.

We stopped at several places to fill our smartphone cameras with images.

The Open River and Mountains Beyond

Fishermen Amid the Cliffs

—Mitchell Hegman

The Blanketflower

In July of 1806, Meriwether Lewis crossed the Continental Divide near what is now the small town of Lincoln, Montana. There, on a hillside less than 10 miles from my house, he stopped long enough to collect a blanketflower. That pressed plant eventually became the type specimen for Gaillardia aristata, the scientific reference for the species. It also goes by the name firewheel.

Today, blanketflowers still bloom amid the grass in open spaces around my cabin. They also flourish in the gravelly ground just outside the bay window at my house.

Proud natives, these.

On his exploratory trek through what is now Montana, Meriwether Lewis had been charged with taking note of all new flora and fauna encountered along the way. Clearly, our showy, mid-season gaillardia screamed for his attention.

Today, the same flowers call for the attention of roving bumblebees outside my prairie home. And it seems fitting that, to test the camera on the new smartphone I brought into service just yesterday, I chose to photograph our showy native flower.

Not bad for a simple plant growing in gravel.

A Blanketflower at My House

—Mitchell Hegman 

The Middle of Nowhere

Back in February of 2018, the Washington Post, for no apparent good reason, used a massive travel-time database developed by Oxford researchers to ask a deceptively simple question: how far are Americans from civilization? For the study, they defined civilization as a metro area of at least 75,000 people. Using these criteria, roughly 98 percent of people in the contiguous United States are anchored within an hour’s drive of an urban area.

Surprising.

But the study also asked the inverse question: which town is the most remote?

The answer landed in northeastern Montana. As it turns out, Glasgow, a prairie town near the Canadian border, emerged as the most isolated town of its size in the lower forty-eight, roughly four and a half hours from a city in any direction. Once buoyed by a nearby Air Force base that closed in 1976, Glasgow now sits amid distances measured in hundreds of miles. To most, it looks like the middle of nowhere; to Montanans, it looks like room to breathe.

Photo: Google Maps

—Mitchell Hegman

Driving “The Big Open”

Montana is known for its mountains. In fact, the name Montana is derived from the Spanish word montaña, which in turn comes from the Latin montanea, meaning “mountain” or, more broadly, “mountainous country.”

But mountains are only half the story. Drive east for an hour or two after crossing the Continental Divide and you may pass an island mountain range or two, but eventually you will find yourself in the “Big Open.” This is country that surrenders the vertical ambitions of the western half of the state and applies itself instead to horizontal expanses and a sky that feels structurally vital. At times it is all sky, save for the two-lane highway threading ahead into what feels like the nearest thing to infinity.

Yesterday, Desiree and I drove nearly six hours east, much of it through the Big Open, to reach Colstrip, Montana. There is something to love about not encountering another car on the highway for nearly an hour and passing through tiny towns where a single grain elevator serves as standard bearer. We drove through river bottoms and badlands, alongside ragged ravines, and across broad plains.

I am not opposed to this sky-bound country.

Not at all.

I have posted a “driving on” photograph taken through the windshield of our car as we sailed into the widening landscape.

Driving On

—Mitchell Hegman

A Single Feather

I’m incapable of passing up a feather. If I chance upon a feather lying on the ground, I feel compelled to sweep it up and examine the colors and patterns, and then drag it like a soft file against my wrist. Feathers are invariably pretty. The standards iridescent. The structures impeccable, sometimes otherworldly.

Interestingly, a feather grows the opposite manner to a tree. A tree grows new at the top, while a feather grows new at the bottom. Trees add height and reach through their tips, where buds at the ends of branches and the crown extend upward into the light. Feathers, by contrast, push out from follicles in the skin, with fresh cells forming at the base and older material carried upward until the feather unfurls to full length. One reaches higher by stretching at its topmost points, the other by building steadily from its root.

Yesterday, I found a feather near my back door—a northern flicker feather, by my best estimation. That’s a woodpecker, for those of you from my lovely smelterite-filled neighborhood in East Helena, Montana.

Northern flickers are strikingly attired and sure to catch your eye. They also overwinter in our rumpled swath of Montana. For that, I give them due credit. At the same time, they can prove a pest. They are not opposed to pecking away at the exterior of a house if they appreciate the sound it makes or suspect dinner is someplace inside. A few years ago, one of our local flickers took to hanging out with a rowdy band of magpies that regularly descended upon my yard.

Interesting stuff, that. And the feather I picked up is interesting enough that I placed it on a shelf in my den.

The Feather

Northern Flicker (Photo: Audubon)

—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

Amid the Flowers

I never tire of drifting among wildflowers, whether they’re spread across open parks or gathered in the half-light of the forest understory.

My favorites: paintbrush, beargrass, fairy slipper orchids.

Here in our region of the Rocky Mountains, spring and summer are brief. But what they lack in duration, they make up for in a fervent dedication to wildflowers.

After spending Sunday and Monday driving mountain roads on both sides of the Great Continental Divide, I’d like to share a few images of the flowers I encountered along the way.

Parry’s Townsend Daisy

Thimbleberry

Paintbrush

Lupine, Arnica, and Paintbrush

—Mitchell Hegman

Along the Front

Desiree and I drove home from the cabin by way of the Front Range of the Rockies.

The “Front,” as we call it in Montana, is a dramatic meeting of worlds—where wind-scoured prairie upsurges suddenly into a soaring wall of limestone and shale, fringed with sweeping foothills and canyons carved deep by time and water.

We stopped often, drawn to fence lines and expansive views, to watch the shadows of clouds drift across the vast, handsome land.

I’m sharing three photographs I captured along the way.

Montana Highway 200

Desiree and the Front Range

Gaillardia

A Whatizit

I don’t know my weasels. I mean, I don’t know a mink from a least weasel or a ferret from an ermine. If you exclude black-footed ferrets (which are extinct from my region of Montana) and exclude badgers and wolverines (because they have obvious features), there are seven weasel-type critters that scamper the wilds surrounding my cabin.

One of these little scurrying whatizits tripped my game camera late in the night and provided me with a fuzzy, ill-lighted photograph capture. Given the location of the animal relative to the camera, I would guess it to be somewhere north or south of two feet in length, including the tail.

So, I’m thinking—suppose I left a can of Cold Smoke beer out there so I could both attract these critters and have an accurate reference for size…

If you look closely at the center of the photograph I’ve posted, you can see the whatizit in question.

Mystery Capture

—Mitchell Hegman

Emigrant Peak

Emigrant Peak is a striking mountain located in Montana’s Paradise Valley, just east of the town of Emigrant and north of Yellowstone National Park. Part of the Absaroka Range, the peak surges abruptly to an elevation of 10,926 feet. Its summit towers more than 6,000 feet above the Yellowstone River, which winds through the valley floor below.

Yesterday, on a drive through Paradise Valley on the way to a teaching engagement with the Yellowstone Park electricians, Desiree and I stopped to admire Emigrant Peak from a fishing access along the Yellowstone River.

Emigrant Peak

Desiree Along the River 

—Mitchell Hegman

Mount Grinnell

Mount Grinnell is a massive, rocky peak in Glacier National Park, Montana, rising abruptly to 8,851 feet in the Many Glacier region. Named after explorer and conservationist George Bird Grinnell, the mountain is flanked by Swiftcurrent Lake and Lake Josephine. The Many Glacier area is frequented by grizzly bears and offers spectacular vistas of rough-hewn mountains, stair-stepping waterfalls, and an abundance of wildflowers.

Though it’s somewhat out of the way, I try to visit Many Glacier whenever I tour the park. Just last September, Desiree and I spent part of a day there. While there, we both took dozens of photographs. Late last week, we started piecing together a new jigsaw puzzle someone gifted us. The puzzle, as it turns out, is a photograph of Grinnell Peak.

“You know,” I told Desiree as we were staring at the puzzle in progress, “I have a picture of nearly the same view on my phone from our trip last fall.”

After a little scrolling, I found the image on my phone. Working on a puzzle with a subject adds another pleasurable dimension to the task.

After finding the image of the peak on my screen, I placed my phone on the table and had Desiree take a photograph of it. I am sharing that photograph here today.

Good stuff, this.

Mount Grinnell

—Mitchell Hegman

Blue and White

While our Montana winters can be brutally harsh, they also provide some of the most beautiful vistas imaginable. Yesterday morning, the sun rose over one of those gorgeous landscapes of fresh snow—an entire expanse of earth and sky awash in blue and white, all profoundly soft and quiet.

As the sun ascended, I tiptoed out my door and captured a few photographs.

Morning Light

The Big Belt Mountains

—Mitchell Hegman

The Highest and Lowest Points in Montana

It is widely known that Western Montana is home to the mountains, while Eastern Montana is given to the Northern Great Plains. Yet, in a strange twist of fate, the highest point in Montana is found in the east, and the lowest in the far northwest corner of the state. Granite Peak, towering at 12,799 feet in the Beartooth Range, is Montana’s highest point, its jagged silhouette a testament to the tectonic forces that forged the region millions of years ago. Meanwhile, the Kootenai River, flowing out of the state near the Canadian border in the mountainous west, drops to an elevation of just 1,820 feet.

Between these two elevation markers lies a state that rarely settles for a single elevation for very long. There is always a fold, a drop-off, or a mountain confronting you as you travel from point to point. And, if that were not enough to garner your attention, we also have that “big sky” thing.

Granite Peak (Photo: USFS)

—Mitchell Hegman

Winter Arrives

Montana wouldn’t be Montana without throwing an inclement twist in the weather at you. Yesterday, in this tradition, Desiree and I found ourselves driving across an open, summer-cured expanse of rangeland before abruptly entering a churning storm front—a virtual wall of falling snow extending from the uppermost reaches of the sky to the grasslands before us.

At once, we penetrated the undulating wall and entered winter.

Caught within swirls of snow, we ascended the whiplash curves to the crest of Flesher Pass and then descended into the Upper Blackfoot Valley and full-on snowscapes. “I love it,” Desiree said as we turned off the main highway and onto the unplowed road leading us toward a narrow mountain valley and our cabin. We stopped for photographs when we reached the bridge across the Blackfoot River, and stopped again before reaching the cabin so Desiree could pose among a stand of snow-covered pines.

“Winter is pretty,” Desiree declared.

“Yep, I’ll give you that.”

The Upper Blackfoot River

Desiree in Snowy Trees

First Snow at the Cabin

—Mitchell Hegman

Going to the Sun

Going-to-the-Sun Road, completed in 1932, is a 50-mile engineering marvel that clings to steep mountains and sheer cliffs as it traverses Glacier National Park. The road ascends from around 3,150 feet at the west entrance near Apgar Village, crests over 6,600 feet at Logan Pass, and descends again to Saint Mary on the east side. While it offers breathtaking views, the season for traveling this route is relatively short. At higher elevations, snowfall can accumulate up to 80 feet in some areas. Due to these conditions, Going-to-the-Sun Road typically opens in late June or early July and becomes impassable again by mid-October.

Desiree and I spent nearly 8 hours on the road yesterday, including many stops for short hikes and photographs. We experienced perfect weather and enjoyed the stunning vistas brought forth at every curve.

Saint Mary Lake

Strange Reflections

Desiree and Reflections

The Two of Us

A Red Bus

The Edge of the Road

—Mitchell Hegman

Swiftcurrent Lake

Glacier National Park is often referred to as the "Jewel of the Continent." The nickname reflects the stunning natural beauty and its location at the heart of North America's Rocky Mountains. The mountains in Glacier appear as though freshly axed from the Earth’s foundation. Chevron-shaped mountain peaks and powder horns fall into lofty, repeating patterns; all of them rake at clouds that barely manage to rove over the top. For the most part, Montana is not a place that loves water, but Glacier National Park is an exception. Water is constantly at work within the mountains: shedding from lingering snowfields, flouncing from stone to stone in narrow ravines, and pooling into reflective lakes within the verdant, timbered valleys.

Yesterday, Desiree and I drove along the Front Range of the Rockies for about four hours to reach the park. We then spent the afternoon exploring the eastern edge, where the mountains abruptly surge up from the Great Plains. I am posting three photographs I captured at Many Glacier.

Swiftcurrent Lake

Reflections

Swiftcurrent Creek  

—Mitchell Hegman

Lewis and Clark Caverns

Found within Montana's first state park, established in 1937, and located along the Jefferson River within the Tobacco Root Mountains, Lewis and Clark Caverns offers a glimpse into the state's subterranean marvels. Even given its depth inside the mountains, a tour of the caverns will, at one point, find you at an elevation of exactly one mile above sea level.

The geological formation of the caverns is a result of ancient sea deposits dating back to the Mississippian period, around 325 million years ago. Today, the caverns showcase a variety of spectacular formations, including stalactites, stalagmites, and columns, each requiring centuries of slow, patient development. All of the formations are the result of slightly acidic water dissolving minerals from the limestone, then dripping into the caverns and leaving behind deposits of calcium carbonate. These deposits build up over the eons to create all the wondrous features seen today inside the cave system.

Yesterday, Desiree and I took a 2-hour walking tour of the caverns. The tour proved both beautiful and pleasurable given the cool temperature of 50°F inside the caverns. I am posting photographs from our tour.

Waterfall Formation

Grand Finale Room

Desiree in the Caverns

Our Tour Group Descending

—Mitchell Hegman

Bannack Ghost Town

Yesterday, Desiree and I drove through the Big Hole Valley and spent the better part of two hours visiting Bannack Ghost Town. The town and some nearby campsites are currently a state park.

Bannack was founded in 1862 following the discovery of gold along nearby Grasshopper Creek, which also sparked one of the first major gold rushes in the region. Bannack and Virginia City, some 50 miles away as the crow flies, flourished concurrently.

Along with prospectors, a host of thieves and bad actors also swept into what is now southwestern Montana. Notably, on January 10, 1864, Henry Plummer and two of his road agent associates were arrested and summarily hanged in Bannack by a company of Vigilantes, a group of citizens who took the law into their own hands to combat this criminal activity. The town briefly served as Montana's territorial capital from 1864 to 1865 but failed to secure this position permanently. As the gold reserves dwindled, miners moved on to more promising locations, and Bannack's population began to slowly decline, with a significant downturn in the 1940s. This decline continued, leading to its eventual abandonment by the 1970s.

I am sharing a few photographs from our tour of Bannack.

The Masonic Lodge and Schoolhouse

The Masonic Lodge and Schoolhouse

The Hotel Meade

Desiree on the Hotel Staircase

—Mitchell Hegman

The Rocky Mountains (Appropriately Close)

While visiting the beautiful sugar-sand beaches and ocean waters of the Philippines, I had conversations with several people where I expressed how much I loved the islands. However, I also mentioned that I could never leave my Rocky Mountains for good. The upthrust mountains have always been a part of me. I literally feel as though I am an extension of the landscape in Montana. The mountains thrilled me as a boy, and they still thrill me today. Yesterday, after two weeks back home, Desiree and I took a drive into the mountains near Lincoln so we could get appropriately close to some snow-covered peaks on the first of July.

Good stuff, that.

Required.

A Road into the Rocky Mountains

Desiree Striking the Required Pose

—Mitchell Hegman

Philippine Cuisine

Montana will surprise you more often than not. Here is a case in point. According to the 2020 census, Colstrip supports a population of 2,096. Given that, the population of Pacific Islanders lands somewhere in the single digits. Even so, the small town of Colstrip has a Philippine restaurant named “Mabuhay,” a word meaning “welcome” in Tagalog, the national language of the Philippines.

Naturally, upon discovering a place with Philippine Cuisine in Colstrip (something we don’t even have in much larger Helena), Desiree and I were compelled to have dinner there. Upon arriving at Mabuhay, Desiree discovered that the restaurant owner hailed from Cebu, a city on an island next to the one from which she came.

Mabuhay proved to be clean and filled with sunshine. We enjoyed our meal, and Desiree was able to chat with the owner in both Tagalog and Bisaya. Good stuff, that.

Below are two photographs from our visit to Mabuhay.

Mabuhay

Desiree and The Owner of Mabuhay

—Mitchell Hegman