Walking the Lower Half

Yesterday afternoon, I spent an hour or so wandering around the lower half of my property.  Mostly, I inspected the creek.  A beaver has been at work on my section of the stream.  Some of the holes and mini ponds created by the beaver are quite impressive.  At one bend in the creek, the water levels have risen enough the make the nearby banks of grass and meadow rue very spongy—like you are walking on pillows.  The ground was so soft, I was able to simply knock down a short length of legacy fence to nowhere that I have never really appreciated.

I left the creek shortly after that and walked along the road.  There, I found myself strobing between shade and light as I walked along through lodgepole pine forest.   I particularly enjoy that sensation for some reason.  And it was along that part of my walk where I stopped and talked to a single wild rose blossom alongside the road.

“Look at you,” I said to the rose blossom.  “You are screaming color at me.”

I have posted a photograph of the rose.  I’m sure you will agree it is screaming.

—Mitchell Hegman

Not Saved by the Bell

There is likely no certain way to quantify this, but it’s possible I dislike the 1990s sitcom “Saved by the Bell” more than anyone you know.  The character “Screech” annoyed me to no end.  And every comedic situation struck me as too contrived.

Now that I have that off my chest let’s talk about Kevin Bacon.

No, not the actor.

I’m talking about the Kevin Bacon from Vermont who recently sideswiped a Thetford Police Department squad car.

Yeah, that one.

Apparently mister (Vermont) Kevin Bacon struck the cop car and then (sort of) sped off for a short distance before pulling over.

The reason Kevin Bacon smacked the car is more distressing than actually smacking it.

Apparently, Mr. Bacon, age 55, was attempting to find a particular episode of “Saved by the Bell” on his way-smarter-than-he-is-phone when he drifted into the patrol car.  The episode Bacon was seeking, by his own admission, was a certain “Screech’s Spaghetti Sauce.”

A sure miss for me.  Too much Screech, I’m sure.

I cannot fathom a grown man trying to drive a car while watching Screech flit around the place.  At least not on purpose.  To me, it’s a foreign concept—one equally as strange as enjoying popping your knuckles.

Oh, and a quick update on Dustin Diamond, the actor who portrayed Screech on “Saved by the Bell.”  In the after-wash of his fame, he was arrested and later incarcerated for three months for stabbing a dude in a bar fight.  He was arrested a second time for parole violations.  He also made a cringe-worthy sex tape and attempted standup comedy.

—Mitchell Hegman

Skunks and Elbows

Somewhere along the line, I read where skunks are—pound for pound--better mousers than cats.

For some reason, I woke this morning with that very thing at the forefront of my mind.

And here is another thing: It is physically impossible for you to lick your elbow. 

You’re welcome.

—Mitchell Hegman

Pale Blue Dot

Carl Sagan—astronomer, astrophysicist, and author—insisted on reaching out as far as we can in both thought and exploration.  At the same time, he wished for us to always reflect all explorations back at ourselves.

We are, after all, a lucky, fragile, and miraculous lot here on our blue planet.  

Perhaps one of Sagan’s greatest contributions to humanity was a single photograph called “Pale Blue Dot.”

On February 14, 1990, at the request of Carl Sagan, scientists in command of the Voyager 1 space probe turned its camera back around to take one last photograph of earth—this just as the craft skirted Neptune and whisked out of our Solar System.

Leaving our Solar System was the probe's primary mission.

Looking back was humbling.

Posted below is the photograph Sagan requested.  Earth is but a tiny blue mote of dust in a band of sunlight across the camera lens.

For Sagan’s own words, watch the three-minute video of Carl Sagan’s “Pale Blue Dot” posted here.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GO5FwsblpT8

My Road

I find strange comfort in walking the empty road where it cuts through the ranchlands.  I am accompanied only by dust and surety that I will meet no one else.  To the west, the sun knits pink fringes into the cloud bottoms.

Though a thousand roads might be accessed from my road, I require but this one.  I need the corner where my wife and I once stood together watching twin fawn deer bucking in play against the sage and green grass.  I need the hill where I had to shoo an ambling porcupine off into the juniper.  I need the long open stretch where I imagine everyone I have lost still alive in another time or place.

I don’t mind the setting sun.  The cool shadows stretching across the low hills and tall mountains beyond inspire a necessary calm.  Harbingers of full night.

Walking my road alone, I can count my blessing as if they were birds stitching flights before me.  I can whistle if I want.   And I can stride on until the stars themselves embrace me.   

—Mitchell Hegman

Along The Lewis and Clark Trail

Yesterday, I and a few friends climbed aboard my pontoon boat and explored the main body of Hauser Lake.  The main body occupies a channel through the Big Belt Mountains carved out by the Missouri River on its odd journey north before hooking back around to find its way down to the Gulf of Mexico.  We followed the water just as Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery did in July of 1805.

Gumbo Lily (Evening Primrose) Along the Shore

Prickly Pear Cactus

The Channel Narrows

Pushing Upriver

—Mitchell Hegman

All That Really Matters

Early in the morning, I am visited with an awesome silence around me and a certain clarity of mind.  This clarity of mind does not exist at any other time and I use it to sift aside all the unimportant clutter clogging my thoughts.    

And that’s how I focus so hard on making coffee.

Because coffee is all that really matters.

Without coffee, we are all headed for doom.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Orchids Return

Somewhere around ten years ago, a small patch of lady’s slipper orchids growing very near my cabin stopped blooming.  This occurred about the same time I had the property logged due to a brace of insects killing my trees.  Both spruce budworms and pine beetles were attacking my trees and thinning was my best option.

I attributed the loss of the orchids to a dramatic change in levels of daylight and heat following the logging.  The patch where the orchids grew had not been disturbed. 

Every year since thinning the forest, I have traipsed over to where the patch of orchids thrived, hoping for their return.

About five years ago, I concluded they were gone forever, but I faithfully returned to the patch in late June and early July out of habit.

Yesterday, because I was wandering around assessing the arnica, lupine, forget-me-not, and sticky geranium, I decided to check the patch again.

Well, one should never count the ladies out.

My orchids have returned.

The lady’s slipper orchid at my cabin, mountain lady’s slipper, is one among twelve species found in the United States.  Some of the orchids presently reside in “threatened” status.  Most are rare to find. 

As all my wildflowers, I guard these jealously.  Now, more so than ever.

Posted are some photographs from my orchid patch.

—Mitchell Hegman

Most Interesting

Which of the following do you find most interesting?

1. A pound of white feathers

2. A pound of mixed-flavor jellybeans

3. A pound of blank letter-sized paper

4. Ben Franklin’s pound of cure

—Mitchell Hegman

Summer Arrives in Montana

So here we are.  The first day of summer in Montana.  Upon waking this morning, my first move was to turn up the heat inside my house.

Second thing?

Check the weather forecast.

Result?

Winter storm advisories for parts of the state (with snow accumulation estimates of up to 10 inches) at higher elevations.

Summer arrives in Montana and leaves within the hour.

—Mitchell Hegman

These, the Names of Birds

These, the names of birds:

Teal

Say’s Phoebe, and Stint

Hobby, Dipper, and Swallow

Nightjar

Crane, Godwit, and Swift

Solitaire

Thrasher and Trush

Poorwill, Pipit , and Plover

Puffin, Tit, Tern, and Tattler

Bunting and Rail

Redstart

Creeper and Crossbill

—Mitchell Hegman

Small-Bigger and Small-Smaller

I discovered a horde of the small (maybe a half inch long) green, dragonflyish insects congregating on my white 500-gallon propane tank the other day.  For whatever reason, they were drawn to the white. 

Upon finding the insects, I decided to take a photograph of one with my smarter-than-me-phone.   After loading a photograph of the insect on my computer and enlarging the image I discovered I had also captured a super small—maybe a bit larger than the head of a stick pin—insect just below and a little to the right of the “bigger” insect.

I don’t know what kind of insect either the bigger or smaller is, but I like ‘em.

Both Insects

The Little Fella

—Mitchell Hegman

A Squeak

I recently finished installing circular-sawn flooring in my cabin.  In the time since completion of that project, I have overnighted there twice.  I did so this past Saturday.

The thing about my cabin floor is this: I made every precaution to guarantee squeaks did not develop in the floor.  To keep things quiet, I applied an expensive underlayment material before installing the tongue-and-groove fir boards.  I smacked, and sometimes pried, every board into place to assure a tight fit at all joints.  I nailed the boards every eight inches.

The other morning, after waking in the bedroom at the cabin, I walked out to start coffee in the open kitchen and living area.  Near the middle of that space, one of the boards squeaked when I stepped on it.

I stopped.

I placed a foot on the board and rocked back and forth.  

Skwee, skwee, skwee.

I smiled.

Had that been at my house I would have been furious.

But at the cabin?

Cabins need character.

Squeaks are character and I have one.

—Mitchell Hegman

Dame’s Rocket

Dame’s Rocket is an exceptionally tall (three foot), biennial.  The leaves of the plant are said to edible.  I tried eating a leaf but found the texture—rather like Velcro—somewhat appalling.  The leaf was mostly flavorless.

The plant, a member of the mustard family, is native to Eurasia, and considered invasive in some regions, including nearby Alberta, Canada.  Dame’s rocket is a prolific seed producer and can quickly escape your garden.

I first saw the plant growing in spectacular fashion alongside the wall of a house near where I exited I-15 to access Lincoln Road on my daily return home from work.  One afternoon, I saw an elderly man watering the plants as I drove by.  I quickly flipped my truck around and pulled into the place.   I rolled down my truck window to talk with the man.  “Excuse me.  I have been driving by those flowers and admiring them.  What are those?”

The man stopped spraying water at the base of the plants.  “They are Dame’s rocket.”

“They are so vivid.”

“You want some?”

“Sure!”

“I’ll grab a shovel and we can dig some up for you.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Nope.  You just have to make sure they go to seed to keep ‘em going.”

That was somewhere back around 1993.

I planted the rocket in a small “flowerish” bed near the back deck in my xeriscape yard.  The plants happily survived there for all these years in a small but stable patch.  In the last two years, however, the rocket has escaped and sprouted up in front of my house and in a few places in back.

I really love the beauty of this plant and only recently discovered rocket to be considered invasive.  I am thinking I may need to chase it back to my stable little patch and eventually find something native to fill its place.

Posted are two photographs of my escaped rocket flowers.

—Mitchell Hegman

List of What I Found Under My Bridge Decking

For the better part of this last week, I have been tearing out and replacing the rotting and splintering decking on the bridge across the creek at my cabin.   Here is a list of things I found under the planks:

One seven-inch garter snake

Two nurseries for tiny sugar ant larvae

Lots and lots of nails bent over and mashed askew back into the top of the support beams

At least 1000 too many shiny, creepy, scurrying, hanging-on-to-the-underside-of-board type spiders

A carpenter ant colony occupying the last plank on the west end of the deck

Various cocoons

Sprawling colonies of white mold

Here is a list of what I dropped into the creek and was forced to retrieve from the water while working on the project:

Electric drill (still attached to the cord and my running generator)

Hammer (three times)

Pry bar (twice)

Pencil (on its way to the west coast now)   

—Mitchell Hegman

The Wildflower Way

To reach my nearest “neighbors” on their fourteen acre parcel adjoining my cabin property, I have two options.

The first option is a two-mile drive.  The first mile follows Hogum Creek down along the base of a mountain as it prances toward the Blackfoot River.  At a fork in the road, you must make a 180 degree turn and then climb another mile up a forest service road through heavy lodgepole forest.  Near the end of this climb, you cross through my twenty acre parcel and open a gate at the southern boundary.

The second option, always my preferred choice, is a 200-yard hike from my cabin to their place.  The hike involves a steep climb through deadfall and crosses directly from my property to theirs. 

The second option can be a tough go.  But the slower pass through our forest makes it worthwhile.   An astounding diversity of wildflowers are in bloom right now.  As my father would have put it, the place is “lousy with wildflowers.”

At present, Indian paintbrush, Oregon grape, arnica, virgin’s bower, lupine, wild strawberry, and fairy slipper orchids are flourishing.  It is possible to see all of these flowers sharing the same patch of sunlight at the feet of the lodgepole trees.

Posted are photographs captured from a meeting with my neighbors halfway up the mountain yesterday.

Flower Diversity

Paintbrush

Fairy Slipper

Meeting the Neighbors

—Mitchell Hegman

The Cabin, the Creek, and Two Birds

Spending a night alone at my cabin in the mountains—cradled by peaks holding snow—I have time to think.  I can assess what I have done in this life.

What have I done?

Consider.

With a thrown handful of stones, I knocked a baby robin out of a tree when I was ten.  I kissed the wrong girl three times.  The first time I heard Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues, I quite literally stopped in my tracks and I listened to the song pouring from a store I was passing until the song ended.  I held cats until they squirmed in discomfort.  I made my grandmother laugh with my dumbest jokes.  I sanded boards against the grain.  I gave money to people when they needed it.  I hugged my dog and wept the night before my mother put him to sleep because he was too aggressive in protecting me.  I held Uyen’s hand while the final silence drew her voice and her perfect smile away from me.  I carried the ashes of my sister before we committed her to the wildflowers on an open hillside.  With my own hands, I constructed my house and this cabin where I now sit writing.  

Last evening, I walked along the murmuring waters of the creek.  Two pine siskins followed me—swinging from tree to tree as if on invisible pendulums.  In the west, the sun had crashed against something unseen and erupted in orange and pink.  Hordes of yellow arnica flowers nodded at me along the forest floor beyond the creek.  “I love you,” I said to the birds.

So, what have I done?

I have walked along the creek with two birds.  I walked them into their darkness and mine.  And now, early this morning, light is discovering me here in this misty mountain valley.  Today, as every day, I begin anew.

—Mitchell Hegman

No Mail Today

Long ago, we established I don’t like spiders.

Spiders have too many legs and they don’t make any sound.  That’s creepy.

Spiders also hide under stuff waiting to ambush somebody.

They scurry across the floors when you turn off the lights.

They make traps out of webs to catch hapless little things just zipping about and minding their own business.

And how can you trust an organism garnering names such as “black widow” or “aggressive house spider?”

Posted today is a photograph of one of the mailboxes located next to mine on the road out of the ranchlands.

Don’t be looking for mail here, folks!

—Mitchell Hegman

When Dermatologists Agree with my Outdoorsy Friends

Not sure exactly how I managed this, but I recently chanced upon an online article about taking showers.  Specifically, the article listed recommendations for how to take a shower according to dermatologists.

Growing up in East Helena, Montana, I had more than a few “outdoorsy” friends.  By outdoorsy, I mean they had an aversion for spending any time indoors during the summer.  They also had an aversion for such things as clean sheets and taking showers regularly.

Turns out, my outdoorsy buddies somewhat align with dermatologists in their thinking about showers.  Among the recommendations for showering are these:

1. Don’t shower too often.

2.  Keep it short.

3. Don’t wash your hair too much.

If my friends were the reading type, they would most certainly revel in this dermatological advice.

My friends clearly did not shower too often.  While the article did not firmly define “too often,” I don’t suspect my friends would have been harmed by an added shower somewhere there during the summer months.

My outdoorsy buddies definitely had the “keep it short” stuff figured out.  Often, their showers were more a “walk-through” than anything.

Nobody—and I mean NOBODY—would have accused any of my friends of washing their hair too often.  Hair management involved choosing the appropriate hat and nothing more.  To this day, I have one friend who will call his brother on the phone every few weeks just to say this: “It’s time to wash your hair.”

I am now wondering if dermatologists are the outdoorsy type.

—Mitchell Hegman

Fight!

Somewhere after 3:00 AM, I came straight up out of my sleep.  Outside my house, in the back, I heard yowling and screeching.

My cat!

My cat and something else.

I leapt to my feet, scrambled to find my robe, and ran to the back door.  Upon opening the door, the yowling amplified.

“Splash!” I yelled to my cat.

The screaming intensified, quadruplified.  My cat and something else began clashing wholesale in the darkness just beyond my deck.

I suspected a fox.

I turned on the outside light.  Light washed across my deck.  Chairs appeared from darkness.  “Splash!”

The unseen fight intensified.

With the door open, I ran back to the utility room to grab a pair of shoes.  When I returned to the back door, Splash was there.   Quiet had returned to the night.

“Come on in, Buddy.”

Splash stared at me.

“Come on.”

After a few moments, Splash slowly walked inside, but he would not allow me to get close.  He remained firmly set in fight mode.

I went back to bed.

At first light this morning, I went out back to investigate.  I found a trail of fur tufts down the hill and leading up to the deck.

My cat seemed uninjured and wanted back out.

I am still unsure of the other combatant.  I am really thinking fox.

My cat is now out there, waiting for a return.

—Mitchell Hegman