The Locking Stick

I’m a big fan of using whatever materials are available to fix a problem. In some circles, this is referred to as “jury-rigging.” In certain instances, the tackiest solution to a problem works well enough that you adopt it permanently. Such is the case for the locking stick I use on the gate at the entrance to my cabin property.

When I first installed the gate, I simply chained and locked it to a post to keep it closed. Unfortunately, this allowed the wind to rattle the gate, creating a racket that could be heard up and down the narrow valley. To solve that problem, I figured out a way to slip a ¾-inch conduit into the gate to hold it in place. This worked up to a certain point, but persistent wind would eventually work the conduit free.

About 15 years ago, I found a pistol-shaped stick, whose “barrel” I can holster alongside the conduit to lock it in place. It’s a good stick, and it has not failed me once. I’m sharing a photograph of my locking stick.

The Locking Stick

—Mitchell Hegman

What If?

What if the only two things that truly define are: first, that Peter was my favorite member of The Monkees, and second, that I spent most of my life calling roller coasters "rollee" coasters?

—Mitchell Hegman

A Pack Rat in Voleville

 

Pack rats, also known as wood rats, are found throughout the American West, from deserts to forests. They are known for building large, complex nests called middens, made from twigs, leaves, and other debris. These rodents have a diverse diet, feeding on seeds, fruits, leaves, and even small animals. One of their more unique behaviors is their obsession with collecting and hoarding shiny objects. They will often swap items they carry for something more appealing—especially something shiny.

When I was a young boy, my father had a cabin in the mountains of western Montana that was overrun by pack rats. On several occasions, I left fishing lures on a ledge on the cabin’s porch after an afternoon of fishing on the nearby Thompson River. The following morning, instead of finding my lures, I found small pine cones left by the pack rats that had pilfered my tackle during the night.

The other day, something flashed past Desiree as she climbed out of the hot tub. “It was pretty big,” she assured me. “I think it was a pack rat.”

We don’t need a pack rat setting up shop at our house and stealing our shiny stuff. Operating on Desiree’s assumption that she had seen a pack rat, I set the live trap. Sure enough, within a couple of hours, I captured one. I took a few pictures of the rat before driving it a distance down the road to release it in a gully we have named Voleville, due to the number of voles I’ve similarly released there.

—Mitchell Hegman

Entering the “Ber”

Our calendar is pretty well set in stone. Switching months around or renaming them is not really an option. If you have a Filipino in your life, you’ll witness a remarkable thing during the “ber” months: September, October, November, and December. Filipinos eagerly begin decorating for Christmas as early as September, marking the start of these "ber" months. A festive atmosphere is especially important to the islanders. This early celebration reflects the deep significance of Christmas in Filipino culture, making it the longest holiday season in the world.

Desiree is especially keen on decorations. True to form, my island girl got a modest start on decorating for Christmas before September slipped away. I’m sharing two photographs of her handiwork. I must confess: I actually like what she’s done here.

Desiree Hanging Garland at the Front Entry

Decorations at the Hall

—Mitchell Hegman

Made Invisible

Sometimes, early in the morning, when my mind is in a fog, I pull a book from my poetry shelf and read only one line to consider—and construct thoughts around—for the rest of the day. Today, I read this from Richard Brautigan’s poem War Horse: “He has been made invisible by his own wounds.”

This may be too much to consider.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Rain Shadow

Living on the east side of the Continental Divide, I reside in what is generously known as the “rain shadow.” In plain English, this means we don’t get much rainfall. The rain shadow effect occurs because the mountains of the Continental Divide, just west of us, essentially rob moisture from the air traveling eastward from the Pacific Coast. As the air rises on the west side of the divide to clear the high mountains, it cools and releases moisture as precipitation, leaving drier air to descend on the eastern side. This results in significantly less rainfall in areas east of the divide, creating a semi-arid climate near Helena, where I live. Among other things, this leaves our region prone to wildfires.

Yesterday, as part of a fire mitigation scheme, a prescribed burn was conducted on a few hundred acres near American Bar, an area perhaps a dozen miles from me as the crow flies. I first noticed an arm of smoke reaching up from the mountains there in mid-morning. The smoke persisted throughout the day but waned toward the evening, which seems to indicate a successful, limited burn to reduce fuel. Hopefully, this is the case.

Living in the rain shadow, you need to accept wildfire as a natural part of what shapes our landscape, but you can never become fully comfortable with it. I am posting a couple of photographs I captured from my house:

Smoke Rising Up in the Distance

Smoke as Seen from my Back Deck

—Mitchell Hegman

Communication (Falling Behind)

Welp, we have now reached the point where even my propane tank has outpaced me in its ability to communicate. I rather expected my television to best me technologically, and I begrudgingly accepted my cellphone becoming smarter than I am, but witnessing my propane tank whiz beyond me is shocking, to say the least.

Yesterday, a propane company dude came to my house and affixed a transmitter to my propane tank so the tank can communicate with the “mothership” via satellite. The tank will now regularly report its fill status. There is no longer any need for me to call for a refill if I fear the level of propane is a bit low. Meanwhile, I need to locate my misplaced smartphone so I can make my next move, whatever that is.

The Hegman Propane Tank

The Transmitter

—Mitchell Hegman

How We Saved the Universe

Over the weekend, I think I might have bought the universe a bit more time by starting and maintaining a pretty ambitious campfire.

For those of you unaware, the “heat death of the universe” is a phenomenon to anticipate. At some point in the future, the universe’s expansion will drive galaxies further apart, extinguishing the very sources of light and warmth. As the universe reaches its final stage, all stars shall burn out, leaving behind only black holes and cold, dim remnants of what once was. Energy will disperse, and the relentless march of entropy will reduce everything to a vast, empty expanse where no light, heat, or life can exist. Eventually, even black holes shall evaporate, leaving a cold, dark, and silent cosmos frozen in eternal stillness.

Well, this will not happen as long as I’m here with a lighter and a few downed trees to burn.

For the better part of an afternoon and into the deep blue night, I fed willow and fir into a ring of flames as a collection of friends gathered around to bask in the heat and light of my making. Children poked colors into the flames with thin sticks, while adults sipped their beers. And in this way, we saved the universe.

A Cabin Campfire

On the Rocks

—Mitchell Hegman

A Mountain Mermaid

While hanging out at the cabin, I was lucky enough to chance upon seeing a rare but lovely creature: a mountain mermaid. Fortunately, I managed to get a photograph before the mermaid slipped away.

A mountain Mermaid

—Mitchell Hegman 

The Jobsite

I stopped by the shop of a contractor friend of mine. After visiting with him for a while, he invited me to join him on a visit to one of his nearby commercial building projects.

I eagerly accepted.

The jobsite turned out to be a mix of earth-moving equipment completing landscaping and crews conducting finishing work inside and outside of the structure. Some spaces in the building were finished, while other areas still revealed all the mechanical and electrical contrivances (the guts, if you will) that make the building function.

I enjoyed my work as an electrician. There is profound satisfaction in hoisting up a building from raw earth and seeing it all the way through to the finish. I miss burying conduits in the ground, running racks of pipe into mechanical rooms, pulling wires through raceways, and so much more. I have always loved a good project.

I’m thinking I should make regular visits to jobsites with my contractor friend. Just visiting provides sustenance.

Conduit in a Mechanical Room

—Mitchell Hegman

September

The nights are marching against us. Each day now, we shed two or three minutes of daylight. And yet, September remains one of my favorite months. I appreciate the cooler mornings and warm evenings. The dust of summer has settled, and a clarity has come to the sky. In the last two weeks, a blush of yellow and orange has appeared on trees and brush at higher elevations.

I understand that we are crawling toward the blowing snows of winter, but for now, give me these days when I can warm myself by a campfire and think about what Buckminster Fuller said: “Fire is the sun unwinding from the tree’s log.” Give me the creeks running clear, and the smaller critters scampering around me as they work to fill their caches. Finally, give me the autumn moon. Never as warm as the sun, this moon, but ever faithful and mild.

—Mitchell Hegman

Anger Management

While at the county courthouse for some business yesterday, I spotted a couple of notices fixed on the wall. One of them offered information about an anger management course. The notice was the type with tear-off tabs with contact information at the bottom. Judging by the manner in which the tabs had been removed, whoever tore off the tabs really needs to take the course.

Anger Management

—Mitchell Hegman

The Trimming (A Lemon Tree Update)

Desiree announced yesterday that she would trim the lemon tree. This is something we both agreed needed to be done in recent conversations. The tree had become decidedly spindly—rather like it wanted to grow at the extremities and shed all its leaves in the middle. I was not present when Desiree took to the tree with her snippers, and I was surprised, when I finally saw it, to find she’d trimmed it down to the equivalent of a lodgepole pine. I like a lodgepole pine. I’m not sure what the lemon tree thinks about lodgepole pines, but I’m hoping it responds favorably to using this look as a new starting point.

I’m sharing a photograph of Desiree holding her snippers and trimmed branches, and a second photograph of her holding a Cold Smoke Beer I presented to her, for an accurate reference to the relative size of things.

Desiree with Her Trimmings

Desiree Holding a Cold Smoke Beer

—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

Windsor Knot

The Windsor Knot, a popular necktie knot, is named after the Duke of Windsor, though he didn't actually use it. People began using the Windsor Knot in the 1930s and 1940s. Its large, triangular shape became a symbol of elegance and formality, making it a popular choice for business and ceremonial attire. The Windsor remains popular to this day.

I rarely wear a tie, but I needed to wear one yesterday for a wedding (as part of the wedding party). Knots, whether they be in life-saving ropes, macramé, or a sporty dress tie, have always evaded me. With this in mind, I practiced tying a Windsor on the tie I needed for the wedding ahead of time. I am posting a photograph of my effort.

Hopefully, nobody will require me to tie a life-saving knot for them anytime soon.

First Effort

At the Wedding   

—Mitchell Hegman

The Class of 1974

Yesterday, Desiree and I attended the 50-year reunion for the Helena High Class of 1974. We represent the largest graduating class in the school’s history, with students from across the entire valley, numbering over 600. The following year, the graduating class split between Helena High and the first-ever graduating class of Capital High, established in 1973.

We could not have gathered on a more beautiful afternoon. Racks of soft-bottom clouds slowly sailed over the Montana City venue, and the nearby Elkhorn Mountains wore their best late summer colors.

The years between our graduation and now have knocked all the hard edges off us. Today, we are mostly a mingling of gray, and our voices don’t carry as far. Dozens of us have found our way to the other side. But those of us mingling together yesterday experienced a rare and complete reprieve from all local and worldly complications. Yesterday, we were a great singularity: the Class of 1974. Perhaps you remember us.

Gathering for a Class Photograph

After the Class Photograph

Groups in Conversation

Desiree and Scott St. Clair

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Serious Robin Williams Said

-- "You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it."

-- "I used to think that the worst thing in life was to end up alone. It's not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people who make you feel alone.”

-- “I’m sorry, if you were right, I'd agree with you.”

To a Good End

Allow this to be our supplication:

Grant us days when great mountains fully support the corners of the sky, and the scent of sage holds back the wind. Give us nights in which dreams are made under a congregation of glittering stars. Let rivers return to themselves. Grant the poor child his sincerest wish, and give the weak strength. Allow horses to run in all directions. Let white ships shelter in a becalmed bay, and may all roads lead us to the same place, where our friends and family have gathered.

—Mitchell Hegman

Stolen Ideas

I am convinced that most of the things we call inventions are merely ideas and products stolen from nature, then stuffed into boxes fashioned by human hands.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Pine Tree

This summer, Desiree and I have had our skirmishes with voles, chipmunks, and a single packrat trying to make dinner of our flowers and raspberries. With concerted efforts, we chased away the packrat and then captured and released at a distance the swarms of voles and chipmunks. Our various plants are no longer under attack, but I find myself regularly reflecting on a conversation I had with another tradesman some years ago. We were talking about the struggles of family life when he told me this:

"My family," he said, shaking his head contemplatively. "It's always been a struggle for us. Last year, for the first time since we'd all grown up, we gathered under one roof at my sister's place. She didn't have any trees around the house, so we pitched in, bought a nice pine tree, and worked together to plant it. The next day, the neighbor's goat came over and ate it."

—Mitchell Hegman

Did I Break a World Record?

While cutting firewood near my cabin, I came under a vicious attack by houndstongue. Specifically, the seed pod burs from this invasive plant fell upon me as I was sawing rounds from a downed fir tree. By the time I finished collecting the rounds and loading them into my truck, my long-sleeved shirt was covered with burs. However, it wasn’t until I got home and tried to remove my shoes that I discovered the shoelaces were smothered in burs. In fact, I think I might have shattered a world record for collecting burs with my left foot. I’m not sure if this is something registered with Guinness World Records, but the loops in the laces of my left shoe captured 45 burs in something like 20 minutes.

Untying my laces proved quite challenging. I clearly recall my objections and frustrations the day my mother took it upon herself to teach me how to tie my shoes. At the time, I didn’t have a good argument against tying shoes. Now, even if I’m not recognized for breaking a world record, I’ve certainly found a solid argument for wearing slip-on shoes.

Burs caught in my Shoelaces

Burs in my Palm

—Mitchell Hegman

Speed Square

Between my house and the cabin, I must have six or seven caulking guns by now. I only need one at each location, but as big and conspicuous as they are, I somehow regularly pack them away in boxes, bins, or five-gallon buckets and lose track of them, which forces me to buy a new one when the need arises.

Weirdly enough, I have the same issue with speed squares. The fact that speed squares are flat means they can easily hide underneath other things. I believe I have four speed squares by this point. In fact, I purchased a new one less than a month ago, only to inadvertently find one I already had a day or so later.

I am sharing a photograph of a speed square I recently located at my cabin. I think I am going to do something outlandish and hang it in a conspicuous location on the side of the shelving unit where I store some of my tools. If I manage to locate a caulking gun, I may do the same with that.

A Speed Square

—Mitchell Hegman

Unsupervised Furniture Assembly

Desiree left me unsupervised for the better part of a day. This turned out to be quite challenging when UPS arrived early with a package for us. The parcel contained a wooden stool requiring assembly. It’s risky for me to assemble anything without Desiree there to read the instructions and oversee me, but I didn’t let that stop me. As a precaution against rushing the assembly, I poured myself a wee dram of Scotch before grabbing my tools and getting to work.

Scotch is good stuff. During the American Prohibition (1920–1933), Scotch whisky was smuggled into the U.S., fueling underground markets. Speakeasies and bootleggers thrived, with some famous figures, like Al Capone, relying on Scotch imports. This period solidified Scotch's allure in America.

Today, I am doing my part to keep Scotch shiny and relevant.

Meanwhile, the stool (a product of Vietnam) proved pretty easy to piece together. And so, I now have this idea: what if Ikea started shipping a wee dram of Scotch alongside each piece of furniture they sent out for assembly?

Goodies Fresh from the Box

Assembly Overview

Finished Product

—Mitchell Hegman

Sticking Together

Desiree and I have been watching Married at First Sight, a reality series that follows a social experiment where complete strangers are matched by a team of relationship experts, including psychologists, sociologists, and spiritual advisors, and agree to marry upon meeting for the first time. The couples meet for the first time at the altar, where they exchange vows.

Most often, the couples struggle with one issue or another before tearing apart in the end. After watching an episode, Desiree and I discussed the obvious failure of most couples to either compromise or fully commit emotionally to one another.

“I’m glad that’s not us,” I remarked. “We stick together.”

“We do,” she said. “Our love is Gorilla Tape.”

—Mitchell Hegman

The Rebloom

The rebloom is upon us. Most of our Montana native flowers don’t favor our hot, dry summers. They tolerate them, but either reduce or entirely cease blooming as a survival tactic. As the heat wanes and longer nights drag themselves over the days, the flowers stir again and eagerly put forth blossoms.

This is the last hurrah.

In the narrow strip of soil between the approach to my garage doors, we have encouraged several native plants to flourish. In the last few weeks, as the mornings and evenings have cooled, three of these have roused for the rebloom: Gaillardia, gumweed, and flax.

Gaillardia (Indian Blanket)

Gumweed

Flax

—Mitchell Hegman

An Average Woman

Someone asked artificial intelligence (AI) to generate an image of what an “average” woman from each country looks like. I discovered a set of these images while poking around on the internet. After browsing through the pictures, I am convinced AI failed to translate “average” properly. Following are six examples from the “Average Woman” series:

Pakistan

USA

Ukraine

England

Wales

India

—Mitchell Hegman

The Real Question

So, the real question still remains: are onion skins only a thing for the purpose of being annoying?

—Mitchell Hegman

How Many Puzzles?

During the coldest winter months, Desiree and I typically work on jigsaw puzzles as a way to pass the time. Our preference is for 1,000-piece puzzles. We work sporadically and usually finish a puzzle about two weeks after starting. However, there is an added twist to the process this year. A couple of weeks ago, we installed a wood-burning stove in the corner of the dining room, not far from the table where we assemble our puzzles.

I expect we will be drawn to the heat (and the puzzle by default) on cold winter nights. Our puzzle-building time may be reduced to less than two weeks.

While at the cabin yesterday, I cut and chopped a load of wood to load into my truck. After Desiree took a picture of me and the wood, I asked, “So how many puzzles do you think we can put together while burning this load?”

“Three or four puzzles,” she said after some deliberation.

“I’m thinking four or five,” I said.

All of this is pure guesswork, of course, and I’m not diligent enough to actually track this particular load of wood. Only one thing is certain: I’m going to recognize some of the hard-to-split, knotted chunks when I finally get to feed them to the stove.

The New Wood Stove

Truckload of Wood

—Mitchell Hegman