A Pale-Faced Moose

Desiree spotted a moose just off the highway as we were whisked along the highway through the Upper Blackfoot Valley on the way to the cabin yesterday. Fortunately, a nearby spur from the highway allowed us to crank back around and backtrack for a photograph.

Moose are not particularly abundant in our part of Montana, so sighting one is a treat. Surprisingly, Desiree has developed a knack for spotting them. She has spotted the last three we have encountered, whereas I would have driven by without notice.

The photograph we managed is not of great quality, but it plainly shows the mottled coloring and outright shaggy appearance of an animal in the process of molting. Moose molt, or shed, their guard hair twice a year, once in spring and then again in early fall. Summer guard hairs are shorter and grow very dense, which helps to protect moose skin from biting insects. At this stage of molting, our moose looks a bit tattered, but handsome enough for a quick portrait.

Pale-Faced Moose

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Groucho Marx Said

Groucho Marx (1890–1977) is one of my favorite humorists. Mustachioed and animated, he was known for his razor-sharp wit, rapid-fire wordplay, and subversive humor that skewered social conventions. His signature style combined clever puns, biting sarcasm, and an irreverent disregard for authority figures—especially the pompous or powerful—making him a favorite among audiences seeking laughter that felt both smart and rebellious. With his leering eyebrows, rolling eyes, and ever-present cigar, Groucho delivered zingers that walked the line between absurdity and insight, often mocking high society while celebrating the underdog. His humor was deeply verbal and intellectual, drawing on vaudeville timing and a playful, anarchic spirit.

Following are three Marx quotes:

—"Those are my principles, and if you don't like them... well, I have others.”

—"One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know.”

—"Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.”

—Mitchell Hegman

The Long Wait

I can barely stand to wait for water to boil. The longer I stare at the pot, the more personal it feels — as if the water is resisting all my efforts to boil it. I soon find myself triple-checking the temperature setting, fidgeting with nearby cooking utensils, wandering off, and snapping back. The same unease occurs at the grocery store checkout, where I shift my weight from foot to foot, convinced the line next to me is moving faster.

And yet, for reasons I can’t entirely explain, I will happily plant an apple tree, pat the soil around its lean trunk — as I did not long ago — and wait five years or more for it to bear any meaningful fruit. Somehow, the long waits that matter most don’t feel like waiting at all.

What, exactly, defines the difference in these activities? What tempers my expectations? Maybe it’s because the important things ask us to be part of something bigger than our own schedule. Maybe it's because hope, once planted, grows quietly without needing constant proof. In the end, I think it's the small waits that test my patience — but the long ones that grow it.

Freshly Planted Apple Tree

—Mitchell Hegman

Syllogistic Reasoning

Syllogistic reasoning is a type of logical thinking that uses deductive reasoning to arrive at a conclusion based on two premises (statements) assumed to be true.

It was first formally studied by Aristotle.

The basic structure looks like this:

• Major Premise: A general statement or universal truth.
• Minor Premise: A more specific statement related to the major premise.
• Conclusion: A logical result based on the two premises.

Here’s a classic example:

• All humans are mortal.
• Socrates is a human.
• Therefore, Socrates is mortal.

Electricians have a slightly different type of logic that applies when a ditch is required for routing an underground cable:

• Major Premise: Someone needs to dig a ditch.
• Minor Premise: Digging a ditch sucks.
• Conclusion: I just pulled a brain muscle; therefore, I can’t dig the ditch.

—Mitchell Hegman

Lemon Tree Update: Still Weird

I haven’t provided a lemon tree update in a while, but we have good news. The tree entered another growth spell a few weeks ago and has extended forth considerable development.

Lemon trees are weird. For one thing, they’re incompetent as thorn trees. It’s more like: Look at me try, Mom! I mean, they grow a few random thorns, but nothing in any systematic fashion that would act as a righteous deterrent. They’re also known to support buds, blossoms, and ripe fruit all at once. They’re extremely sensitive to change. Move a potted lemon tree or alter its routine, and it might panic-drop all its leaves.

Let it also be known that poets are weird. I’ve been reading about the lives of some of last century’s notable poets, but I’m not sure I’ll be any better for it. Consider Lowell, Roethke, Berryman, Jarrell, Thomas, and others—wounded men, drunkards. Men chasing words through the brambles, stabbing at them, cursing them, abusing classic structure. They lived messy lives, hurt spouses, and crashed in and out of jobs.

The lemon tree is weird, as previously mentioned, but has fortunately shown no tendencies toward poetry. Just the same, I’m keeping a close watch on it. If it starts leaning into poetic ambitions, I’ll conduct an intervention at once.

I’m sharing a photograph of the lemon tree with a Cold Smoke beer next to it for some sense of relative size.

—Mitchell Hegman

Wombat Cubes

Some facts, though they may be weird, remain facts nonetheless. Here is a case in point: wombat droppings are cube-shaped—something akin to little brown dice. Apparently, this helps them not roll away, which is useful for marking territory. As a measure of decency, I am sharing a photograph of a wombat and not its droppings. You are welcome to find your own picture of wombat poo cubes.

A Wombat (Wikipedia)

—Mitchell Hegman

Keeping Busy

As a boy, I was the hyperactive type. I didn’t quite reach the attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) spectrum, but I fluttered around it. I drove everyone crazy with my constant tapping, fidgeting, and squirming. “I’m bored” proved my constant refrain.

As I grew older, my hyperactivity found release in the world of employment. I truly liked working and burned through a series of jobs (one of which found me killing gonorrhea and syphilis by means of an autoclave in a health department laboratory) before finding a fully engaging and productive career as an electrician.

Now that I’m nominally retired, I regularly need to invent something to keep me busy. To that end, I dig holes for things, pull noxious weeds, remodel rooms in the house, and so forth.

In more recent days, I have busied myself by axing chunks of lodgepole and fir down to narrow lengths of kindling for the woodstove. I’ve nearly filled a four-foot rack just outside my back door with plinking pieces of wood.

Surprisingly satisfying, this.

My Rack of Kindling

—Mitchell Hegman

The Hot Tub Incident

I had an incident in my hot tub.

Before we get into that, though, I need to tell you about my back. Something weird happened as I got older—hair started growing out of it. Not a lot, but the individual hairs are robust and over an inch long.

Okay, back to the hot tub. My model features several sets of jets that spin as they blast water into the tub. I like those a lot, and I often sit with my back against them. The other day, when I drifted over to a set of spinning jets and settled in, I felt a sharp pain.

I literally winced. When I leaned away, the pain vanished. Naturally, I chalked it up to a muscle spasm. But later that day, the pain came pinching back—especially when I reached up. After enough of that nonsense, I found Desiree and pointed over my shoulder.

“You need to lift my shirt and look at my back. Something’s bothering me. It started in the hot tub this morning.”

Welp, one glance confirmed I’d need surgery. At the first opportunity, Desiree fetched a pair of scissors and went to work snipping hairs. Somehow, one of her free-ranging long black strands had basket-woven with mine and cinched tight when I leaned into the jet.

Better than a porta-potty incident... but not by much.

—Mitchell Hegman

Salix Discolor (Pussy Willows)

Pussy willows are among the first woody plants to express signs of life after a long Montana winter. They’ve got a quiet kind of magic about them, and they don’t wait for warmth or permission to begin growing for the season. Pussy willows will produce their fuzzy catkins—those soft, silvery-gray buds they are known for—even when snow still blankets the ground. Catkins are actually flower clusters, and they’re designed to brave late-season frosts.

Pussy willows love to keep their feet wet, making them perfectly at home along Montana's mountain streams, floodplains, and beaver ponds. They’re adapted to waterlogged soils and even tolerate seasonal flooding. Their roots help stabilize stream banks, earning them the title of “nature’s sandbags.”

Sex is not a problem for pussy willows, since they are dioecious—meaning each plant is either male or female. The fluffy catkins are usually male, are covered in soft hairs and pollen. Female catkins are more slender and less showy, but will develop seeds in tiny capsules once pollinated.

On an Easter Sunday excursion to the cabin, Desiree and I found our streamside willows on full display. I spent several minutes poking around along the creek, admiring them. They’re our first invitation to overnight at the cabin. For early-emerging pollinators, they're about the only game in town.

Close Up

Pussy Willow Clusters

Desiree’s Dam

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Thomas Jefferson Said

 —  “In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principle, stand like a rock.”

—  “The boisterous sea of liberty is never without a wave,”

—  “When angry count to ten before you speak. If very angry, count to one hundred.”

Birds in the Apparatus

We recently purchased a new refrigerator to replace one originally bought somewhere between twenty and thirty years ago. The new refrigerator is a different sort of beast. It’s big, reflective, and the freezer is on the bottom rather than on the top.

Most remarkable is how quietly the new refrigerator operates. When our old refrigerator fell into a cooling cycle, it ticked and gurgled loudly enough to be heard from nearly anywhere in the house. The new appliance can be heard only if you are nearby—and even then, the cycle begins with what sounds like a pair of songbirds lightly fluttering down inside the appliance.

That’s progress right there.

Our New Refrigerator

—Mitchell Hegman

Living on the Outside

Yesterday, contractors for the power company cut down a twenty-some-foot ponderosa pine growing under the powerline festooned across a section of my property. After the workers rumbled off in their oversized trucks, I walked down to the now empty place where the tree once stood.

In a sense, a living tree harbors the ghost of itself inside. The inner rings of growth—the heartwood—are actually dead. They no longer carry water or nutrients. The true life of the tree happens just beneath the bark, in the narrow outermost layers, which are shockingly thin. Each year, a new layer forms and swells, then surrenders to the next.

I thought about this as I studied the stump and a half-dozen lengths of trunk scattered alongside. I suppose we are the same as a tree in some manner. We, too, grow on thin layers of today, while inside us we carry a host of rigid memories and experiences—the ghosts of our growth. They both support us and confine us to who we are.

Tree Rings

Tree Stump

—Mitchell Hegman

A History with Wind

Yesterday afternoon, bruising winds shouldered hard against the house—some gusts so strong they made the framing crack its knuckles. Outside, low clouds were swept along, and even the sturdiest pine trees flailed without pause.

In a single word: scary.

The word for fear of the wind is anemophobia. As a kid, I had it—though I didn’t know the name. What troubled me most was how wind, an invisible force, could shove the world around so violently. And when it came, it came for the whole valley.

I remember one especially fierce storm: limbs torn from trees by unseen hands, a bucket skittering full speed down the street. The strongest gales hit the house like sacks of sand. And twice in my life, I’ve been deep in the forest when a microburst muscled through the pines, making them sway and twist, groaning and cracking as they bent. Both times, I froze in place—shocked and confused—as several lodgepole pines toppled right in front of me.

In a word: anemophobia.

—Mitchell Hegman

By the Numbers

• Write one sticky note to remind myself to buy more sticky notes.
• Check twice to see if the door is locked.
• Eat three types of vegetables.
• Spend four minutes thinking about all the lost loved ones.
• Tell wifey I love her a minimum of five times.

—Mitchell Hegman

Shot Into Space

A host of newly viable private aerospace companies—such as SpaceX, Virgin Galactic, and Blue Origin—are allowing the ultra-rich and celebrities to pay hefty fees for the chance to be shot into space. On the downside, these flights also bring them back down again.

PHOTO: solar-mems.com

—Mitchell Hegman

Orderly Shopping

I think I’m charting new levels on the obsessive-compulsive disorder spectrum. While grocery shopping the other day, I first straightened out a display of cereal boxes that had been knocked askew. Then, an aisle later, I scooped up a bag of chips that had been knocked to the floor and patted it back in place on a shelf above.

If this keeps up, I may be wiping down display cases before summer ends.

—Mitchell Hegman

Jasper

Jasper is an opaque, microcrystalline variety of quartz—specifically, chalcedony—that’s often richly colored due to the presence of various mineral impurities. It comes in virtually every color, but red, brown, yellow, and green are the most common. Some varieties, like picture jasper, feature striking banded, orbicular, or scenic patterns.

Jasper forms when silica-rich solutions—often from volcanic ash or sediment—seep into cracks and pockets in the Earth’s crust. These solutions carry along a whole cocktail of minerals that contribute to the wild variety of hues and markings. Over thousands, even millions, of years, these silica solutions harden into microcrystalline quartz—layer by layer, pattern by pattern. The result is jasper: stone born from slow-moving water and fire.

And it’s everywhere. Jasper is not rare—it can be found on nearly every continent. From the windswept coasts of Madagascar to the convulsing mountains of Montana, it shows up in all its regional variations. In addition to being blessed with striking colors, jasper takes and holds a polish remarkably well.

Yesterday, on my annual visit to the Helena Mineral Society’s Gem, Mineral, and Fossil Show, I felt compelled to buy four specimens of jasper. Two are from Madagascar, one was fished from Montana’s Blackfoot River, and one is of unknown origin. No matter. All are lovely. I am sharing a photo of the stones here today.

Jasper

—Mitchell Hegman

Another Random Thought

Technically speaking, it’s perfectly appropriate to say of a donkey breeder, 'She has a nice ass' if you are referring to one of her donkeys.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Beautiful Fire

If you want a beautiful fire, you need beautiful wood.

I absolutely have that—in the form of Western Juniper. I’ve been thinning out a few dead junipers on my property and, in the process, converting some of the larger trunks and branches into lengths of firewood to feed my woodstove next winter. When split, the lengths are both colorful and decidedly aromatic

Western Juniper is equally beautiful in survival. It thrives in the arid regions of the western United States. Some trees are over a thousand years old, their trunks twisted and gnarled by centuries of wind and weather. The wood of juniper is rot-resistant and fragrant, making it valuable for fence posts, furniture, and even incense. For me, it will make a beautiful, warming fire.

Split Lengths of Juniper

Grain Detail

A Western Juniper at the Back of My House

—Mitchell Hegman

Ghost Keys

I’ve posted a photograph of a key ring and its scattered collection of keys. They are interesting keys. By interesting, I mean that—save one—I no longer remember what any of them are for. I keep them in the glovebox of my truck, as I have in each truck I’ve owned since the mid-1980s. The one key I still use belongs to a 40-year-old padlock that secures a shed at the lakefront.

The others are ghost keys—keys to toolboxes that no longer exist, doors long out of reach, and padlocks that have long since rusted into memory.

Until yesterday, it never occurred to me that I should peel the ghost keys away. Doing so proved surprisingly poignant. It felt as if I were shrinking my life in some quiet, tangible way—letting go of places and things that once mattered deeply to me.

Ghost Keys

—Mitchell Hegman

My Good Fortune

It’s been well over fifty years since I last fell out of a tree. I just want everyone to know that my good fortune continues—another day has passed, and I didn’t fall out of a tree.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Multipurpose Appliance

Desiree is otherworldly good at cooking. That said, she is at least 15% messier in the process, and she often uses unconventional methods. For example, she uses small bottles to roll swatches of dough for rolls and wraps. She sometimes uses a drinking glass to mash potatoes. And there is the somewhat standard island technique of folding morsels of food in banana leaves to make neat packages for cooking.

In the most recent presentation of Desiree practicing unusual cooking methods, I found a hair dryer alongside her as she was preparing something to bake.

“Are you using the hair dryer for cooking?” I asked.

“Yes,” Desiree answered.

“I gotta know… what are you using it for, exactly?”

“Melting butter.”

“Gotcha.”

As an electrician, this made perfect sense to me. I fetched a beer from the refrigerator and carried on.

The Hair Dryer at Our Kitchen Sink

—Mitchell Hegman

Our Blue Oven

We purchased a new electric kitchen range, and yesterday I modified the kitchen countertop so we could slide it into place. The most remarkable feature of the range is the cobalt blue oven interior.

In recent years, manufacturers have offered blue enamel for oven interiors not just for style, but for function—its smooth, reflective surface enhances heat distribution and helps food cook more evenly. Just as importantly, the rich blue provides excellent contrast, making it easier to see your culinary creations when bathed in light.

Our new range also came with a critical operation warning: “Never attempt to dry a pet in the oven.”

That’s good information.

I guess you’ll need to use the cooktop if you want to dry Fluffy.

Our Blue Oven

—Mitchell Hegman

Small Triumphs

Here in Montana, we sometimes endure something called “false spring,” when winter does a head fake and offers a few days of improbable warmth in the depths of cold. Sunlight warms the ground. Snow recedes, and the air carries the scent of thaw. Then, just as everyone gathers their shorts and sunscreen, winter snaps back, freezing everything in place.

Thing is, real spring isn’t much better around here. Warming weeks are often bookended by freezing nights and snow squalls. This fickle weather is hard on plants. But one, in particular, thrives in the come-and-go spring: the bitterroot. This plant, with its three sets of double letters, is our state flower—and a stubborn one.

This time of year, bitterroot rosettes emerge at the feet of snowbanks. Compact and clinging to the freshly unthawed earth, they thrive in days of spare sun and unsettled air. It’s easy to miss these little jewels in a half-winter world.

Yesterday, walking our country road, I spotted dozens of healthy bitterroot. I’m sharing a photograph of a pair those, along with a photograph of a bank of snow that still lingers at the front of my house.

Bitterroot

The Drift Along the House

—Mitchell Hegman

The Ground Thing

Working as an electrician has ruined me in a very specific and weird way. I can’t watch a movie, video, or even look at photographs of a building’s interior without trying to see the orientation of the receptacle outlets. Have they been installed with the ground up or the ground down?

This is a pretty big deal for an electrician.

I’m telling you, if a video of Salma Hayek appeared in front of me in which she was strutting through a building in a skimpy bikini, I’m going to be distracted by every receptacle she wafts past.

Me? I’m ground down all day long. There are arguments both for and against this orientation. I’ll spare you details on that and just say that I was trained as an apprentice to mount receptacles with the ground down, and I continue to run with that.

Interestingly enough, the National Electrical Code is silent on this. Furthermore, neither receptacle manufacturers nor the National Electrical Manufacturers Association make any recommendation in either direction.

So, to all of you receptacles out there, I just want you to know—Salma Hayek or not—I’ve got my eye on you.

Ground Up

Ground Down

—Mitchell Hegman

Easily Manipulated

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m easily manipulated. The other day, for example, a fake profile of my dear wife, Desiree, surfaced on Facebook. Even though I knew the profile was bogus, I was tempted to catfish myself and send her a friend request—just because she looked so striking in the profile photograph.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Aging Process

I have never firmly established who they are, but they say that cheap wine doesn’t age well. That’s largely true, but when it comes to aging poorly, I think snowmen might be the worst. As a case in point, I give you Filipa, the snow-woman Desiree made the day before yesterday. By yesterday afternoon, the sun had reduced Filipa to a mound of snow.

I’ve posted some images of Filipa. I’m going to miss her standing on the back deck, but the grass below will be happy.

Filipa, Day Two (Morning)

Filipa, Day Two (Afternoon)

Filipa, Yesterday

—Mitchell Hegman

Filipa The Snow-Woman

Yesterday, while some folks in the country were scampering about in swimsuits—and possibly less—here in my corner of Montana, we were wading through nearly a foot of fresh, heavy snow. I woke in the morning to find pine trees transformed into snow ghosts. This particular snow proved perfect for making a snowman—more accurately, a snow-woman.

Technically, Desiree undertook the project of making the snow-woman. I mostly sat inside, drinking coffee, occasionally pressing my nose against the glass at my back door to check on her progress. I did help by hoisting the midsection snowball.

I’m pleased that Desiree has embraced our winter world. You’re not going to escape winter if you live in Montana for any length of time.

Desiree named the snow-woman Filipa.

Early Morning Ghost Trees

Desiree Rolling the Biggest Snowball

Desiree Holding Filipa’s Head

Desiree and Filipa

Filipa’s Face

An Apology

While soaking in my hot tub, it occurred to me that a bit over a year from now I will be embracing the age of seventy. Wow. That’s somewhat mind-boggling. Back when I was in my teens, I thought I would be old when I reached thirty. Now that I’ve reached this point, I think my teens owes my thirty an apology.

—Mitchell Hegman