Wildfires

This morning, heavy smoke fills the air around my house and chokes the expansive valley beyond.  The smell of burnt wood is strong.  A red sun will soon rise in the east.   At present, some 24 wildfires are active in Montana.  The largest and most ferocious fires are not in the mountainous western half of Montana, they are, instead, savaging the broken lands and Big Open of our eastern half.

One of those fires, the Lodgepole Complex, has scorched 270,723 acres since first flaring to life on the 19^th of July.  Located some 52 miles from Jordan, Montana, that fire scoured through entire ranches, killing livestock and leaving only an occasional island of grass behind.  When punched forward by the wind, there is no stopping such fires.

Jordan, for those interested in our more sketchy history, was the small town at center of the Montana Freeman standoff of 1996.  That event saw a small virulently anti-government armed militia engage in a months-long standoff with the federal agents and local law enforcement agencies.

Oddly, what I most recall from the Freeman standoff, is the terrible haircuts sported by all of the local men whenever they appeared in interviews on national news outlets.  Apparently the same very bad barber cut hair for the entire local population.

Closer to home, three fires are burning within a dozen miles of my cabin.  The largest of those, the Park Creek Fire, has burned through 4,133 acres since being ignited by lightning on the 15^th of July.  So far, these fires have clawed slowly through heavy timber and rugged mountains.

The smoke outside my house in more than a reminder of the fires.  The smoke is a reminder that we are shaped by the landscape and the weather surrounding us.  I cannot imagine what a first-time visitor to the area would think if confronted by this.  The pall and smell would likely be both overwhelming and frightening.

I don’t like this, but I understand the fires as a natural part of living here.  Here in the natural rain shadow, we are shaped by an arid climate and the expected occurrence of wildfires as much as we are shaped by the beautiful clear trout streams and the snow-tented mountains.

--Mitchell Hegman

Huckleberry Hell?

If you go out picking huckleberries and return home without bruises, small cuts, or scrapes, you are probably not a serious berry picker.  Real honest-to-goodness huckleberry picking is like participating in a demolition derby without the cars.  It’s you charging against steep inclines, holes, loose rocks, sharp sticks, and deadfall.

The best berries, by some cruel trick of nature or fate, tend to flourish in the deepest crosshatch of fallen trees or at the edge of the steepest incline.

If you want choice berries, you must go there.

On occasion you may be required to literally swim through a thick patch of small spruce, alder, or stick willow.  You must crawl under snags, clamber over huge logs, and climb up and down steep embankments.

People traps abound.

Sticks fly back at you as you snap dead branches out of your immediate path.  Unexpected holes lie hidden under the grasses and forbs.  Sharp points from broken branches extend along the lengths of downed trees and amid slash on the forest floor.

But also there: gorgeous huckleberries.

The other day, I returned from a trip to the huckleberry patch with several serious scrapes on my shin and countless small cuts on my arms.  At one point, while traversing a tangle of blowdown trees, I caught my leg between a pair of fallen lodgepole and I fell forward.  That one produced the biggest scrape on my shin.  Fortunately, I did not spill a single berry from the gallon jug strapped alongside the bear spray on my belt.

That’s another thing: bears.  We often seek berries in known grizzly country.  While picking berries alongside one of my buddies, we got to talking about bears.  “I tend to keep my head down as I’m moving around,” I said. “I want to find berries and need to watch my step.  But I still stop now and again to scan around for bears.”

“Same here,” my buddy responded.  “But I’m actually more afraid I’m gonna bust my ass in here or trip and impale myself on a stick than I am afraid of bears.”

“Agree.”

Finally, I don’t want to leave you standing here at the end my blog with nothing to show but scrapes and bruises.  Huckleberry picking is a beautiful event.  My favorite.  The berries grow only in lovely forests and mountains.  At times, the piercing, unique smell of huckleberries will draw you into a thick berry patch and hold you as might an ancient spell.  You can expect butterflies and songbirds in your periphery, soft wind through tall trees, maybe elk or deer.  You will strike clear mountain streams that have produced smooth, heart-shaped stones you can fish from the stream bottom and take home.

And from the huckleberry patch you take huckleberries and deep red stains on your fingers.

Posted are a few photographs I captured in the huckleberry patch with my smarter-than-me-phone.

--Mitchell Hegman

Specificity

Seeking stones is not enough.

One should seek heart-shaped stones. 

One should seek heart-shaped stones colored red or blue.

One should seek heart-shaped stones colored red or blue and made smooth by water and time.

One should seek heart-shaped stones colored blue or red, made smooth by water and time, and found within the waters that smoothed them.

One should seek a generous lover.

--Mitchell Hegman

Report from the Hot Tub

I woke at 3:00 this morning and could not find my way back to sleep.   At 3:30 I crawled from bed, fed my 20 pounds of housecat, started my coffee, and staggered outside to soak in the hot tub.

Here is my report from the hot tub:

—One satellite crossing from west to east.

—Two shooting stars.   

—Seventeen very bright clusters of stars in groups of three.  (NOTE: My view is blocked by trees and my house which limits my assessment.)

—One small bug zizzing past my nose.

—I also had a thought.  If it is legal, here in Montana, for a person to take home (as harvest) a deer or other such game animal they strike and kill with an automobile, should we now put stickers on cars and trucks sold here with this warning: CAUTION—This Automobile Is Not Intended For Use As A Weapon For Hunting Big Game.

--Mitchell Hegman

Recent Observations

—From a great distance, the calling of sandhill cranes sounds like people chanting.

—Sadness must be dragged along.  Happiness carries you.

—Few things are more unnerving than an absolutely still forest.

—The word “stuff,” though common and indefinite, has become my new favorite word.  It is a word with towering possibilities.  It is a blank wanting to be filled.  If I say “good stuff” in a room filled with twenty people, twenty different images of “good stuff” will appear in the room.

--Mitchell Hegman

Something I Had To Do

Yesterday, at about 1:00 in the afternoon, I did something I had to do.

I had to stand on mountainside of mixed timber and sunshine, in a cooling breeze faintly scented by huckleberries.

I had to stand there and watch a small white moth lift from the broad leaf of a thimbleberry, tumble off through the green understory, and then dissolve in the arresting light of a small clearing.

If not me, who?

--Mitchell Hegman

If You See That Girl, Please Send Her Home

Going through whole days alone changes me.  More accurately, wounds me.  I imagine my belly growing exponentially.  Helicopters fly closer to my house than they should.  If the Smurfs appear on television, I watch them.  I turn up music and sing along so poorly, my 20 pounds of housecat considers sauntering off to watch the old episodes of Gunsmoke in the spare bedroom.

I returned from Ohio by myself late last Wednesday night and have been spending whole days alone since.

The flight into Bozeman was interesting because I met a know-it-all couple from Virginia.  They quickly insisted I was wrong about Mount St Helens erupting in 1980.  I was, they similarly asserted, incorrect in identifying the old man who refused to leave Spirit Lake (and died in the eruption) as a certain Harry Truman.

“That’s close,” the wife insisted, “but that’s not his name.”

I freely admit I am a full-blown dumbass with a poor memory.  I therefore shrugged off Harry and the volcano.  But our conversation became slightly disturbing when the subject turned to lightning—spurred by a fierce lightning storm brawling inside a brooding cloudscape within arm’s reach of our jetliner.

The husband informed me that their house had been struck by lightning. 

Bad electrical stuff happened when the lightning flashed through their house.  Appliances popped apart.  Smoke emerged from wiring.

He then went on to tell me about how corrupt the practice of grounding a house is.  Apparently, according to some inspector dude he personally knows, grounding your house makes your home a lightning strike target.  Just the opposite of what all our electrical Codes suggest!

“That’s amazing!” I said.

I pretty much kept to myself after the lightning discussion.

And now I’m home alone.

That girl will not be flying home until the fifth of August.  That’s a lot of time for watching the Smurfs.  I’m not sure my cat is up to it.  I know that girl worries about what I eat while I am foraging for myself, but I'm more worried I might take up slam dancing with the walls in my house.

I’m wondering if I should run outside with a screwdriver and disconnect the grounding electrode connection at my electrical service.  I also picked up a new poetry book, which is always a little dangerous.

--Mitchell Hegman

Toolkit

Sometimes I didn’t fully appreciate gifts given to me by my late wife.  The most glaring example of this is how I reacted when she gave me—on advice from my friend Bill—a power miter saw for my birthday.

I think my exact words to Uyen after she gave me the saw were something like: “What do I need this for?”

That was thirty years ago.

Turns out, I needed the saw to build a garage, remodel a basement, construct a new house, build a cabin, and finish countless smaller projects.  I used the miter saw again just yesterday while working on my cabin’s bathroom.

About ten years ago, Uyen gave me a small clearance-sale toolkit she’d found at a hardware store.  “This might be good to keep at the cabin,” she suggested.

I didn’t think much of the toolkit.

For the last fourteen years, ever since I started building the cabin, I have been dragging tools back and forth between my home and the cabin.  During the last ten years, the cheapo toolkit sat collecting dust on a shelf alongside cans and boxes of screws and nails in the basement of the cabin.

Yesterday, I needed a small Phillips screwdriver to finish installing a venting van, but had neglected to toss one in my truck before I headed to the cabin. 

I’m not sure I can accurately describe my sentiments as I tromped down the stairs to retrieve the toolkit.  My emotions rushed from one end of the spectrum to the other.  I leapt from frustration and anger (in not having a tool I needed) to bittersweet gratitude when I unzipped the kit and found exactly what I needed.

I had to fight back tears.

I am six years beyond the ability to thank Uyen.

--Mitchell Hegman

Empire

We had our choice.

Cling to the rock

or cling to the vine.

The rock: sharp-edged, crumbling at the edges, difficult to grasp.

The vine: pliant, easy to grasp.

I remembered then—who knows why—the fall of Rome was a process of decline.

The Romans had gone soft

with Vandals and Goths at the door.

It required years of mistakes to fail.

Our choice seemed natural.

We could dye our hair black

and wear black clothing.

Grab the rock.

--Mitchell Hegman

Softening

At the end of a long night of sitting near a campfire, as you stir the final embers with a stick, you should realize that your time at the fire has softened a few hard edges in your thinking.  If this is not so, throw another log on the fire and try again.

--Mitchell Hegman

My Two Left Feet

Somebody came up with a clever idea for idiots such as me.  The idea is this: pairs of socks marked with “R” for the right foot and “L” for the left foot.  With such socks, no matter your level of dress dysfunction (mine is severe), you should not be able to screw-up.

First, if you pair socks with letters embossed on them you will have matching socks by default.  Additionally, you will have the added benefit of a proper left and right fit.

Well, in theory, that is. 

Sadly, left and right feet have met their mis-match in me…

I give you, as exhibit number one, a photograph of my feet after I finished dressing this morning.

--Mitchell Hegman

Smoke

I arrived back home from Ohio by plane near midnight last night.  The mountain air felt refreshingly cool as I walked out from the terminal to retrieve my car before driving home.  When I arrived here at the house, I scurried about and opened windows before crashing into my bed, hoping to bring fresh air into my house.

This morning, I woke to cool air pouring across my bed.  A glance outside, however, revealed a blue-gray haze in the sky. 

I have come home to fire season.

Fire season is an expected quantity when you live out West.  Searching today's news, I found summaries of two wildfires not far from Lincoln, a fire near Canyon Ferry, and a fire near Elliston, just across the Continental Divide.

We are both early and dry in this season.

--Mitchell Hegman

Glassing the Lake

While stopping to rest at a small beach on our drive along the shore of Lake Erie, I found myself sitting under a shady maple tree with binoculars in hand.  The straw-colored beach in front of me teemed with people milling or sunning along the water’s edge.  Beyond them, the lake spread below the cloudless day with all the sensibilities of an ocean.

I scanned the perfect pencil-line horizon with the binoculars and found big ships and smaller craft melting into the length of the distant water horizon.

Erie is the fourth-largest of the Great Lakes.  At the point where I sat, the shore on the Canadian (Ontario) side lay fifty-some miles across the water’s surface.  The Iroquoian tribe called the lake “Erige” (“cat”) due to the unpredictable nature of the lake’s waters, but as I scanned the surface for boats the lake lay becalmed.

I sat watching ships and boats until my three traveling companions were ready to climb back in our vehicle and drive on.  Only when we were driving off through some shoreside mansions did the thought occur that I had neglected to scan the beach for scantily clad women.  Now a decision must be rendered.  Did I not glass the beach for women because I have matured?  Or am I exercising the first signs of senility?

--Mitchell Hegman

Angel Horse

We need to talk about rocks.  Big rocks.  Little rocks.

Yesterday, that girl, I, her sister, and her brother-in-law took a ferry from the shore of Lake Erie to Put-In-Bay on South Bass Island.  The island is only five miles from the Canadian border, which bisects the lake.  We golf-carted around the island for most of the day.  South Bass Island is rock number one in our story about rocks.

Upright atop the island stands the world’s most massive Doric column.  The column, rock number two, is a monument made from granite shipped in across the waters of Lake Erie.  The 352 foot column (essentially a lighthouse) is the main feature at Perry’s Victory and International Peace Memorial.  The memorial commemorates Commodore Oliver Hazard Perry’s victory in a naval battle on Lake Erie during the War of 1812.  It also stands as in celebration of the lasting peace between the United States, Canada, and Great Britain.

The island’s climate is moderated by the warm waters (relatively speaking) of the lake and is perfect for growing grapes.  In 1888 Gustav Heineman founded Heineman’s Winery on the island.  The winery is still owned by Gustav’s direct descendants.  On the winery grounds today you can tour Crystal Cave.  Crystal Cave, rock number three in our story, is the largest known geode in the world.  A geode, in simple terms, is a hollow rock lined with crystals.  In the case of Crystal Cave, the crystals range in size from that of cellphones to the size of small appliances and the cave is 30 feet in diameter.  The crystals are comprised of celestite strontium sulfate—a blush mineral seeping from the surrounding limestone.  The crystals were at one time harvested for making fireworks.  They produce red in firework displays.

Rock number four (see the photographs posted below) is a mystery.  While scouring a small beach looking for “sea glass,” that girl found Angel Horse at the water’s edge.  Someone drew Angel Horse on a smooth flat stone with an indelible marker and wrote the name on the back side of the stone.

The discovery of Angel Horse is the highlight of my trip to Ohio thus far (with the notable exception of seeing Miss Mackenna, Queen of all Ohio, of course).

I favor the thought that someone—a woman or girl—left the stone there in hopes that someone would discover it.  Obviously, the stone has not suffered a great deal of weather and wear and had not been there for long.

More obviously, Angel Horse will be traveling back to Montana for a lasting home away from the water.

Please note, the photographs of that girl have been posted with her permission. 

--Mitchell Hegman

Immediate Concerns

In some ways, traveling and staying in places far from home can be a bit traumatic.  For me, one of the weightiest concerns is waking early in the morning.  Mind you, the waking part isn’t all that disconcerting—it’s lying there wondering how and where I will get my first cup of coffee.

Not having coffee in the morning is simply unimaginable.

That girl and I are presently staying with her sister, brother-in-law, and their son, Taylor.  Within a few days of staying here, I learned from keen observation (coffee stalking) that the first person to wake and move about the house brews coffee.  Unfortunately, I tend to wake a bit earlier than everyone else.

For the last few days I have had to get out of bed, poke at my computer for a bit, and wait for someone to wake so I could sneak out and grab a cup of coffee.

This morning, because our window was open throughout the night, I woke early to a ridiculously happy bird in my ear.

“#*%# you, bird!” I thought.  And I lay there waiting to hear the sound of someone brewing coffee.

At first, I heard nothing.

Fortunately, Taylor drives a small truck with an exceptionally loud exhaust system.  Well, technically, the loud exhaust is not the fortunate part.  The fortunate part was hearing Taylor’s truck firing up and then sputtering in the drive outside.

There was coffee in the immediate universe!

I snuck downstairs and grabbed my first cup of coffee.  I have since snuck more.

Now this: What if I run out of coffee before someone else wakes?

--Mitchell Hegman

Nature Realm and the Queen of all Ohio

Nature Realm is one of the many parks in something of a constant string of parks extending through the city of Akron, Ohio along the Cuyahoga River Valley.  Nature Realm offers well-maintained interpretive walking trails, a visitor’s center, and a variety of landscapes.  Yesterday, I walked a few of the trails there with that girl and family—including the Queen of all Ohio.

Posted today are a couple photographs taken along the walk and a photograph of a certain Miss Mackenna.  Miss Mackenna is presently the Queen of all Ohio.

--Mitchell Hegman

A Righteous Neighborhood

I have lived in my far-flung country home for twenty-six years at this point.  In the mornings there, the sun itself is my nearest neighbor to the east.  To the south, as I sit at my sofa looking out my bay windows, I seen nothing but an open expanse of prairie.  Far off in the distance, the jade-colored Elkhorn Mountains climb against the sky.  Mornings there are mostly silence punctuated by the sounds of familiar birds or a breeze sifting through the pines out back.

Waking here in Medina, Ohio, is not anything like waking at home.  Here, I wake to a righteous neighborhood.  Cars hoowish by our open windows with tires thap-thapping across every cold joint in the concrete street.  The air conditioner from the house next door hums a low steady tune.  When a warm, humid breeze parts the chiffon curtains of our bedroom, a postcard perfection of neat homes and sidewalks and leafy trees appears outside.  Cars without their people rest quietly in neat rows of basketball-hoop drives.  Even early in the morning, an occasional man walking his dog or a young woman with a stroller will appear and glide right through the postcard perfection.  Unseen birds chip and wheeet from the maple immediately beyond our window.  Here, the mornings are a somewhat muted symphony of sounds punctuated by a much softer silence.  Different, but pleasant just the same.

--Mitchell Hegman

Not an Advantage for a Big Man with a Big Beard

I could not possibly know this (because I am a small man without a beard), but I am guessing that being a big man with a big beard has its advantages.  Having said that, I think I can safely submit there is no advantage in struggling through a crowded airport for a big man with a big beard.

I make this observation after having witnessed a big man with a big, dark beard trolling along though a sea of shorter people in O’Hare Airport the other day.

For one thing, the big man’s face floated along looking at least thirty percent unhappier and fifty percent beardier (my word) than the faces in the sea of humanity below him because he was at least seventy percent more visible.  Also, having a face high above the seething crowd turned him into something of a grim beacon.  When the beard stopped moving or shifted in direction the nearby crowd soon suffered the same.

Everyone was watching him to know their fate.

At some point, I drifted off to the stagnant fringe of the flowing crowd in the concourse and watched the big man with the big beard slowly drift away.  He never looked behind himself, or aside.  I suppose he, more than anyone, recognized that in an end-to-end crowd your fate is to drift along and only incrementally change the route to your final destination.          

Honestly I had the distinct impression the big man with the big beard could have used a big hug from someone.  Maybe, as a preemptive measure, someone could run up and hug the next big man with a big beard they find.

Small people can make a difference, too.

--Mitchell Hegman

A Lousy Bedroom

If spending a night sleeping in the “C” Concourse at O’Hare Airport in Chicago is on your bucket list, I would suggest you scratch it off the list immediately without giving it a go.  O’Hare is not bad for an airport, but so far as a bedroom it’s not very good.  For one thing, the chairs in the gate waiting areas are not even comfortable for sitting, let alone sleeping on.  Worse than that, the housekeeping staff will vacuum the floors all around you and the PA system warns you—all through the night—that liquid personal items in your carry-on must be limited to three ounces and must be inside a plastic bag.

Here is the story: a storm in Chicago shutdown all flights to and from O’Hare yesterday.  That girl and I spent nearly eight hours at the airport in Bozeman yesterday, delayed on departure for Chicago only to fly in last night and become stranded here.

Huge crowds filled the concourses until about midnight last night.  After they departed on planes that were stacked outside, we walked to a far corner of the “C” Concourse to sleep.

It is now about 3:00 AM and I have given up on sleeping.  That girl and I will soon find our way to the “F” Concourse to catch our final flight to Akron, Ohio.

I have posted a photo of the path we are about to take.

PART II

The story continued (4:30 AM):

When we walked down to the “F” Concourse, we found the entire place filled with people who had been provided with cots, blankets, and pillows for their stay overnight.  Apparently, this is where you go when stranded at O’Hare. 

Please add that to your bucket list.

--Mitchell Hegman

Underground

Only now do I fathom the magnitude of my misunderstanding.

Though I planted the linden and sage and the needle-and-thread grass individually,

though I see a juniper here and a rabbitbrush there,

seemingly occupying separate space,

underground they have connected.

Within the earth,

amidst diluvium and sweet dust and something more ancient,

the roots of sage and grass and tree have clasped together,

sharing fresh water and savoring vital minerals.

If these trees and grasses could sing,

their song would rise up in chorus from the roots.

Not the come and go leaves.

Not the rare seed.

--Mitchell Hegman

Don’t be Alarmed, this is (Almost) Normal in Montana

“Normal,” in terms of human behavior, is something of a moving target.  Shrinking heads, for example, might be considered normal behavior in Papau New Guinea, but likely will not fly well in, say, Wales.  Although it must be quantified that in certain pubs in Wrexham, Wales, particularly after a brutal soccer match, most anything goes.

It is also notable that here within the U.S.A. subtle to striking differences in what one considers normal might be found from state to state.  In Hawaii, eating Spam is quite acceptable; while in Iowa they are still trying to determine what, exactly, Spam is.

Is it some kind of meat?  Or is Spam, as some in nearby Kansas suggest, a jiggly byproduct of the rubber-making process.

In more general terms, anything goes in California, while in North Dakota nothing goes.

Here in Montana, we tend to accept somewhat quirky behavior.  We feel that any human behavior is acceptable providing it does not frighten cattle or make the temperature in trout streams rise to harmful levels.

Frankly, I could go on for days telling you stories of what I have found people here in Montana doing.  As illustration, there was that time—while driving our shop truck back to Helena from the Hi-Line—when my co-worker engaged in a kind of drag race with the official Oscar Meyer Wienermobile in I-15.

You might be surprised as how well the Wienermobile cranks in the quarter-mile.         

The other day I saw something interesting.  When I took a couple steps up to the porch deck of a friend’s house, I found a bison’s head in a tub sitting there.  I suppose that might be a bit frightening in some places, but I simply grabbed my smarter-than-me-phone and captured an image.

Just so you know, I didn’t ask my friend a lot of questions.  And the nearby cattle didn’t seemed alarmed in the least.

--Mitchell Hegman

Good to Know

—A mouse can squeeze through openings as narrow as a pencil.

—Humans can develop hairballs.

—Montana is big enough that you can fit Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, and New York within its borders and still have room enough left to spin a doughnut in your truck.

—Delaware is not interested in fitting into Montana.

—For eight years, the password for accessing computer control of the U.S. nuclear missile stock was “00000000.”

--Mitchell Hegman

NOTE: I was unable to verify the veracity of all the above—particularly the password.

The Cooling Game

At five in the morning, the game begins.  I open all windows and drag box fans and oscillating fans to some of the open windows, placing the fans so cooler air is drawn in and warm air is forced out.

Soon, my entire house hums and whirs.

Papers on counters and tabletops gently flutter and fluff themselves like new birds in a nest.

Walking amid all the flowing air feels like walking right through a living thing.  Streams of cool air yield and part as I ghost from room to room.  The moving air probes at my skin, maybe tasting me.   

Yesterday was brutally hot: 102° according to the local newspaper.  The heat invaded daytime shade and persisted long into the star-stirred darkness.  Last night, I slept on the sofa with nothing covering me.  I did not dream and I woke often.  My 20 pounds of housecat circulated around me for most of the night.  Three times he walked across my back.

This morning, after my coffee brewed, I poured a cup and then stood in front of a box fan, wearing nothing but a pair of silky shorts.  As I drank from my cup, the fan wavered chill and delicious shawls of cool air all around me.

On a morning like this, at my age, this is more satisfying than sex.

--Mitchell Hegman

Elegant Day Moth

Some critters don’t live up to their name.  A male squirrel, for example, is called a buck.

“Look at that majestic buck!” is hardly what comes to mind when I see a tiny squirrel bouncing across a mountain road like a fussy apostrophe.

It’s a squirrel.

The elegant day moth does live up to its name.  This moth, sometimes called an elegant sheep moth, is found in mountain meadows throughout the mid-section of the Rocky Mountains.  According to one of the online articles I found online, sighting an elegant moth might be a rare event.  This description is certainly apt in my experience.  Yesterday, I found a pair of elegant day moths mating on a stem of tall grass in the meadow near my cabin.

I don’t recall having ever seen them before yesterday.  I immediately retrieved my camera and captured the images posted here today.  I only discovered the name of the moths by searching the internet based on my images.

Elegant day moth larvae feed on wild rose, willow, aspen, snowberry and other such trees and shrubs.  They are fast fliers, flapping about close to the ground about during the daylight hours of summer.

--Mitchell Hegman

Hobbies and Habits

You were asked to share particular hobbies.

“Fish,” you said.

“Fishing?” someone asked.

“No, fish.”

Had you been sewing, you would have just pricked your finger.

Had you been hiking, you would have just fallen from a cliff.

One of your habits is not answering the phone.

That’s not a hobby, it’s a habit.

It’s not fishing, either.

Both bad habits, actually.

And when you do answer your phone

you spout things nobody fully understands.

We all hold there on the other end of the line

hoping for elucidations, corrections,

confused when you speak and similarly confused when you are silent.

--Mitchell Hegman

The Awakenings

Following a day of dead heat, a brief but cooling rainfront came dark and thick as steel wool across the valley an hour or so before dusk last night.  That girl and I scurried throughout the house opening windows to draw in the cooler after-rain air.  I set a box fan on my workdesk near the window in the den and another at the window in the spare bedroom.  I crawled into bed shortly after, leaving that girl to her normal hour or two without me.

I came awake suddenly, knowing something had occurred to bring me awake, but not sure exactly what “something” was responsible.  Wind was crying through the screen of the window near my head.  That girl rushed through the light of the hall and entered the darkness of the bedroom. “What was that sound?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“The wind knocked the fan onto the floor in the den and blew the screen out of the living room window,” she said.  She left the room and patrolled most of the house, closing windows against the wind.  “It was door to the other bedroom slamming,” I heard her say from the hall a bit later.

I quickly slipped back asleep with the wind moaning a little at my yet open window.

I came awake suddenly.   That girl, now beside me in bed, asked: “What’s going on?”

“Earthquake,” I answered.

The entire bed trembled steadily.  The blinds in the windows seemed sloshing back and forth though they actually made a rattling sound.  A deep underlying rumble came from outside the house.  The quake grasped and shook our house for several seconds.

“What do we do?” that girl asked once the shaking stopped.

“Not much we can do,” I answered.  “Either that was very close to us or it was a big one somewhere else.”

“Maybe it was the West Coast.”

“If that was the West Coast,” I responded, “it just fell off.”

We felt two more aftershocks before I drifted off to sleep again. 

Early this morning, Kevin stopped by with my paper.  He told me his house shook so violently he got out of bed and ran for the front door.  “I made it all the way to the front door and the house was still shaking,” he noted.

This morning, I looked online and found information.  A magnitude 5.8 quake was recorded at 12:30 AM last night with an epicenter about 6 miles south of Lincoln, Montana.  This places the quake almost directly under our cabin in woods.

--Mitchell Hegman

Independence Day

Ours was a surprisingly quiet fall into darkness for a 4^th of July.  After a pleasant day spent here at the lake with some of my oldest friends and some of my newest friends and an evening spent with more friends in town, that girl and I sat on our back deck and watched stars slowly evolve in the oncoming cool of night.  Far behind us, in new subdivisions, along the Causeway, in the East Valley, fireworks popped (muffled by distance) almost continuously.

At one time, I considered fireworks the highlight of 4^th of July celebrations.  Last night, we didn’t even bother to sit on the other side of the house to watch them.  Instead, we sat in our own relative silence watching ripples smear reflections of artificial light on the surface of the lake far below.

I thought to myself: “Happy birthday, America!  You’re the best!  I have learned to love you the most when you are quiet.”

--Mitchell Hegman

An Hour of Light

Two thoughts occur to me while is sit outside my cabin door in the last hour of full light before the sun slips away across the mountains.

First, the glaciers of our last ice age predicted the sunlight would one day find me here.  If not predicted: assured I would one day be here.  The glaciers carved the proper mountain valley, setting aside rounded blue stones, depositing the silted drumlins, and shaping the spring-runs where shooting stars appear early each spring.

My second thought is that you would likely consider worshiping light—as I do—if you were to sit with me in the last hour of full sunlight at my cabin.

Something about how the light comes sifting down to reach my mountain place.  The straight lines of fir and lodgepole pine shadows taking measure along uneven forest floor.  When it finds them, the last light of day ignites a certain fire within elk thistle and red paintbrush.  Some flowers glow so intently you fear touching them might leave you with a burn.

The creek murmuring nearby.

The vaguely sweet scent of lupine filling the warm air.

In this last hour, as the insects twirl upward into the pine whorls, I think of every good day I have spent walking along the nomadic creek.  I think of the last deer I saw bounding across an open park.  I think of everyone who spent more than an hour here with me.

I tell you…the glaciers saw us coming.

Posted today is a photo I captured in the last hour of full light at my cabin.

--Mitchell Hegman