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