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

Lesser-Known Mistakes

Following is a list of lesser-known mistakes:

• Threatening to water, move, trim, or uproot any of the (nearly 1,000) houseplants purchased and tended by your Filipina wife.
• Ordering a Merlot at a winery known exclusively for Pinot Noir.
• Saying “I don’t care what you put in it” in a country where bugs are on the menu.
• Purchasing a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, anywhere.
• Naming your daughter Paige if your last name is Turner.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Small Self-Correction

I don’t owe any particular person an apology, but I do need to make a small self-correction. This has to do with something I often carp about: people leaving their empty shopping carts near where they parked their cars rather than pushing them back to the store or to the nearest cart return corral.

After finishing our shopping at a local grocery store, Desiree and I pushed our cart out the front door and headed for the car. Before long, we fell in behind a man who was slowly making his way along the sidewalk with his cart. His slow pace and obvious, halting gait revealed legitimate issues with walking. As providence would have it, he led us all the way to our car, which was parked only two spots away from his.

While we loaded our groceries into the car, the man did the same. After finishing, he pushed his cart against the wall of the store and slowly wobbled back to his car, struggling to stay upright the whole time. Watching him, I imagined how difficult it would be for him to make his way all the way from the cart return to his car. With that in mind, I coupled his cart with mine and returned both of them. In the future, I’ll try to remember that not every cart has been abandoned thoughtlessly.

—Mitchell Hegman

Crossing Bridges

Within scaffolds of clouds, my dear, you will find the waxing moon. Richard Brautigan once wrote: “The moon is Hamlet on a motorcycle coming down a dark road.” That’s not the right image for us. Sometimes, Brautigan tended to carry his metaphors not just one, but two bridges beyond where most of us are willing to go. And, yes, I did just explain that with my own metaphor.

Tonight, my dear, the moon is delicious.

There, we have crossed just one bridge.

—Mitchell Hegman

Boulders from the Batholith

My neighbor has what you would term a large disposable income. I have a modest disposable income. While I can purchase a few pretty, fist-sized rocks at the gem show and lug them home in a plastic bag, he can buy multi-ton boulders, have them shipped in on oversized rigs, and then set them strategically about his property with a crane.

He is actually doing so as I write this.

The boulders in question rolled in (the huge trucks rumbling, I might add) from the granite formations within the Boulder Batholith amid the Elkhorn Mountains. The boulders are impressive, some approaching the size of a small automobile. Given that granite weighs 165 pounds per cubic foot, I’m thinking most of these monsters weigh somewhere north of 30,000 pounds. And, me being me, I love rocks of any size, so I approve.

I am posting a series of images of the boulders, including one featuring a crew setting one at the fork of the road in front of our house and two with Desiree (instead of a Cold Smoke beer) near more boulders as a reference for size.

Setting a Boulder at the Fork in the Road in Front of my House

Final Placement (With My House in the Background)

More Boulders Near the Crane

A Boulder Set Where Our Spur Originates at the Main Road 

—Mitchell Hegman

Two Cold Smoke Comparisons

On a drive home after a trip to town, my car’s sophisticated (read: “annoying” fifty percent of the time) electronic monitoring system alerted me to a low tire on the rear passenger side. I immediately flipped the car around and headed to the tire shop. I determined long ago that a low tire is usually an indication of a puncture caused by something like a nail or screw.

As soon as the tech at the shop removed the tire, he spotted a nail lodged between two sets of treads. After repairing the tire, he handed me the nail, which turned out to be a large sinker, and I set out for home again.

While driving home this time, I came across a particularly annoying piece of “litter” just off the Frontage Road: a cushion from a sofa. I actually noticed it a week ago. This time, I stopped and tossed it into the back of my car. Below are photographs of the nail and sofa cushion, each displayed with a can of Cold Smoke beer for an accurate reference of relative size.

Nail and Cold Smoke

Litter and Cold Smoke

—Mitchell Hegman

An Intimate Fire

When I was a boy, nothing pleased me more than an opportunity to feed and poke at a campfire. I quickly learned that each and every fire has its own look and—for lack of a better term—personality. The stacks of wood varied in shape, size, and combustibility, and ambient conditions shifted each time. The flames danced across a wide color spectrum, beginning with yellow and edging into powder blue. I learned to appreciate unique aspects of each fire, and since tending my first, I have developed a sort of oneness with each fire I tend.

For the last couple of days, the overnight temperatures have dipped low enough to prompt me to start fires in our new wood stove. The stove features a glass door, allowing me to watch the fire. I can witness the first flames wavering, tentatively exploring the thin-split kindling. To begin, I pull open the door to let a rush of air urge the flames deeper and higher into the cross-stacked logs. Soon, orange flames waver up, scissoring into the wood. Before long, the entire stack is engulfed in flames fringed with crawlers of blue, and the first ghosts of heat issue forth.

This is my fire, and with modulations of the damper and the occasional addition of a split from a round, I train the fire to consume the wood at a rate that pleases me. I watch as the logs gradually crumble and collapse into a deep red bed of pulsating embers. Heat presses against me if I stand nearby, and at some point, both I and the fire become intimate and ageless.

A New Fire

A Mature Fire Tinged with Blue

—Mitchell Hegman