Creekside

There is a certain luxury in having a creek within a stone’s throw of where you are.

First, you should hear creek as “crik,” as I learned to pronounce it in my beer-drinking hometown of East Helena, Montana.

Second, I am presently at my cabin, which places me well within the aforementioned range of proximity to a creek.

Creeks are ever in motion and always busy with the task of seeking downhill. The creek near my cabin is running high at present. The water is over-eager and slap-happy as it reaches through tangles of willow, or dashes across the steeplechase of stone, logs, and earth laid before it.

You can hear the chattering of the creek from a great distance.

Desiree and I walked along a length of the creek yesterday afternoon. The meadow grass is only beginning to thread up through last year’s thatch of dun grass, now laid flat after a winter under snow. The pussy willows are fuzzy with blossoms, providing a place for early bees and butterflies to dine and dance together.

A walk along our section of creek is really a tale of dams. One made of stone, carefully stacked by Desiree; several others made of sticks and mud by beavers. No matter the maker, the water shimmers and blanches, clearing dams. The waters in the pools above are deep and swirled with mystery.

Trout live there.

A creek with trout is a complete thing.

Holy.

Desiree’s Dam

A Beaver Dam

—Mitchell Hegman

Splitting a Geode

If you are any kind of rockhound, you cannot miss a “rock show.” Yesterday, to maintain our rockhound status, Desiree, my sister Deb, and I took time to check out the annual Helena Mineral Society Gem and Mineral Show.

Among all the vendors of fossils, gems, cut stones, and unique mineral specimens, we found a guy selling loads of geodes. Geodes are nature’s little treasure chests—plain on the outside, wholly extravagant within. When you split one open, it feels like the earth hid a galaxy in a rock, then chucked it off to the side.

Making the geode experience far more interesting was the fact that you picked your own whole stone and then cracked it open yourself using a chain that applied great pressure when you turned a ship’s helm wheel, all of which was mounted on an old wooden barrel.

The geodes were formed first as a bubble of gas trapped in cooling lava, leaving a hollow behind as the volcano released its heat. Then, over long stretches of time, mineral-rich water seeped into that cavity, and through crystallization, layers of quartz slowly formed along the inner walls.

After watching a couple of other people crack open geodes, Desiree purchased one and took a turn at the wheel. As the vendor held the stone in position, she cranked down the pressure until the geode popped into two.

Ta-da! Each half bloomed with a dazzling array of crystals.

The Rock Show Floor as Seen from the Mezzanine

Desiree Splitting a Geode

Inside the Geode

—Mitchell Hegman

My Legacy

Each of us will likely have one thing we’ve done that casts the longest shadow after we’re gone. It may be something generous or hard-earned, or just as easily something accidental, set in motion by a moment we didn’t fully understand at the time.

That’s the unsettling part of it. We don’t necessarily get to choose what will be our legacy.

I’d like to think mine will be something deliberate, say, related to the cabin I built over the span of two decades. But what if it’s something else, the result of a quick mistake I’ve made that hasn’t yet come to light?

A sobering thought, that.

So I find myself hoping, quietly and somewhat practically, that my “one big thing” isn’t something I miswired out there, something set to fizzle or explode at a date uncertain.

—Mitchell Hegman

One Finger Striking Out on Its Own

I don’t think being an idiot is my biggest problem, though it does slow me down at times. I think my biggest problem is my fingers. More precisely, my problem is suffering from Raynaud's phenomenon, which is not a good phenomenon in the vein of, say, the Northern Lights.

I’ve posted a photograph I captured of my hand the other day. The dead-looking finger is the work of Raynaud’s. The finger is cold, entirely numb, and without blood circulation. My hands contacting cold water triggered it. Commonly, all of my fingers will do this when an episode is triggered. In my case, I have two triggers for a Raynaud’s event: contact with something cold or gripping something for an extended time.

Raynaud's is essentially my body overreacting, throwing up its hands and running away screaming, pun intended, as if the world were harsher than it is. A sudden chill or passing stress, and the small arteries in the fingers constrict, limiting blood flow and draining the skin of color as though drawing the shades against an imagined storm. It is less a clear-cut disease than an overcautious reflex, the nervous system pressing the brakes too hard.

Sometimes I must dip my hands in warm water for several minutes to get blood flowing again.

—Mitchell Hegman

Solutions

Problem: I keep compiling my various mistakes in my head and then constantly wade through them.

Solution #1: Stop making mistakes.

Solution #2: Drop a tab of LSD and alter reality.

Problem: I’m small on the outside.

Solution: Be big on the inside.

Problem: I take myself too seriously.

Solution: Remember I am, in fact, a temporary arrangement of opinions.

Problem: I often fail at properly pronouncing “rotisserie.”

Solution: Beer.

—Mitchell Hegman

Dee-Dee, Doo-Doo (A Conversation)

While soaking in our outdoor hot tub, Desiree looked out toward the pine trees on the hillside below. Steam lifted around us in slowly spiraling ribbons.

“What kind of bird is that?”

“What bird?” I asked, scanning the trees and finding nothing but branches and shadow.

“The one singing.”

“I don’t hear a bird.”

“You don’t hear the bird?”

“Nope. I’ve lost a lot of the high-pitched stuff from my range of hearing.”

“I know you don’t hear crickets.”

“Not unless I’m right on top of them. What does the bird sound like?”

“It’s just a simple song. Kinda like a chickadee.”

“We should get one of those smartphone apps that identifies birds by their songs. I actually had one for a while. There’s a bird I used to hear all the time that’s been missing for the last few years. I figured it had vanished from here. I downloaded the app and whistled the song, just to see what kind of bird it was. The app immediately responded: ‘That sounds like a human.’”

Desiree and I laughed.

“It’s a simple song, too,” I said, and then I whistled it for her: dee-dee, doo-doo.

Desiree brightened. “That’s it! That’s what I’m hearing!”

I whistled it again.

“That’s it,” she said.

“So they didn’t vanish. I just stopped hearing them. I used to hear them constantly in the trees below, years ago.”

I whistled again: dee-dee, doo-doo.

The sound floated out over the hillside, human from beginning to end, answering a bird I could no longer hear.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood

The making of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood Scotch is less a straight line and more a long, patient waltz between wood and time. It begins at The Balvenie Distillery in the Dufftown area of Speyside, Scotland, where the rhythm is set early and never rushed.

The process begins with malted barley, mashed, fermented, and distilled in copper stills into a bright, eager spirit. That spirit is then laid to rest for many years in traditional oak casks, where it gathers honeyed warmth, soft vanilla, and a gentle structure. In time, the signature turn arrives: the whisky is transferred, or “finished,” in casks that once held rich ruby port from Portugal, drawing in notes of dried fruit, spice, and a quiet, wine-dark sweetness. After 21 years of this slow exchange between spirit and seasoned wood, the result is a Scotch that feels composed, balanced, and just a touch indulgent.

The taste of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood is smooth and layered, with honey and oak giving way to a soft, earthy sweetness that lingers without overstaying its welcome.

Many would describe this Scotch in a much simpler, unsubtle manner: expensive! For my birthday, a group of Desiree’s Filipina friends, whom I affectionately call my “sister wives,” chipped in and purchased me a bottle of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood.

Let me assure you, this is a big deal. Thank you, girls!

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sapphire Bucket

One look inside my garage will tell you I’m a fan of 5-gallon buckets. On my last count, I had 17 of them in some form of use. Still, none of them quite compare to the “sapphire bucket” I received as a birthday gift.

This one-of-a-kind, customized bucket was fashioned by fellow rockhound Tad St. Clair. It serves as a complete kit for gleaning sapphires from pay gravel gathered from deposits along the Missouri River near my house, a simple idea turned elegant.

The kit includes a clear glass plate that rests on the rim of the bucket, a battery-powered LED light glowing up from within, and a small plastic container with tweezers and compartments for the safekeeping of any promising finds. Gravel is spread across the glass, and with a little patience and a careful eye, the light reveals what the river has chosen to keep hidden.

Tad also included a small bag of pay gravel from a trip we made to the local gem and mineral society dig near Lakeside. I am posting photographs of the bucket and of Desiree making a run with a handful of pay. No sapphires surfaced this time, but that feels beside the point. We will gather more gravel soon and let the light try again.

The Sapphire Bucket Complete

The Kit on Display

Desiree Looking for Sapphires

—Mitchell Hegman

You Can’t Please Everyone

I figured out a long time ago that the aphorism about not being able to please everyone is an absolute truth. But I’ve since determined that you can annoy everyone with remarkable efficiency, either by making weird noises constantly or by singing Bob Dylan songs even worse than he sings them.

—Mitchell Hegman

NOTE: I’m a huge Dylan fan.

Something Fran Lebowitz Said

—    “Children are the most desirable opponents at scrabble as they are both easy to beat and fun to cheat.”

—    “Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.”

—    “Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about wine.”

Normal Instructor

My friend and, for quite some time, coworker, Kenny, perished after a fairly long bout with cancer. But that did not keep him from appearing in a dream I had last night. In the dream, I found myself walking down the street of an unknown city. I was a little uneasy because I had lost my cellphone. Just as I turned a corner on a sidewalk in a residential part of the city, I saw my friend Kenny walking partway down the street on the opposite side. Naturally, I called to him and waved.

He stopped and allowed me to approach. “Kenny! I have not seen you for ages. How are you?” 

“Doing great,” Kenny answered, smiling.

“I’m having a bad day,” I admitted. “I lost my cellphone. But you look fantastic. Really good!” I found myself amazed by how fit he looked. He had a notable glow of health about him. Kenny is not the hugging type, so I gave him a playful punch to the shoulder. “What have you been up to?”

“I started two trucking companies,” he said without hesitation. “I threw in with a partner on one of the companies, and we are in the process of selling it.”

“That’s good. Who is your business partner?”

“Normal Instructor.”

I paused, squinting a little, as if the meaning might come into focus if I adjusted my eyes. “Your business partner’s name is Normal Instructor?”

“Yes. Normal Instructor.”

I cannot quite decide if it was good fortune or bad timing, but that is the precise moment I woke up, left standing there with him, and with that name, like a door that had just begun to open. 

—Mitchell Hegman

Tomb Raiders

Alejandro Cambronero Albaladejo is angry. No, he’s not angry about the syllabic train wreck that is his name, though he has every reason to be. He’s miffed because he no longer holds the Guinness World Record for the largest collection of Tomb Raider games.

He was unseated by Amy Dyson, a British woman who bested the Spanish collector with a count of 291 unique copies of games in the franchise, including special editions, the same game across multiple consoles, and foreign-language releases. AL (for the sake of ease, I’m calling Alejandro Cambronero Albaladejo “AL”) had a collection that tallied 215 back in 2017.

Amy said the video game helps her deal with functional neurological disorder, which causes symptoms including brain fog, tics, tremors, and paralysis.

Interesting, the brain fog and tics. Might that explain why Amy purchased so many copies of the game, propelling her to a world record?

Maybe so.

But how do we explain AL?

Amy With Her Games

—Mitchell Hegman

Source of Original Story and Photo: UPI (Ben Harper)

Precious Dirt

At no point as a creek-fishing, apple-throwing, bike-riding kid in East Helena, Montana, did I entertain any thoughts about buying dirt. Well, as an adult living on a pile of rocks, I find myself buying dirt on a fairly regular basis. And just yesterday, Desiree and I bought a yard of it for several spring planting projects.

First up, we planted an October Glory maple in front of the house. Desiree has been dazzled by fall colors since joining me here in the North Country, where autumn declares itself in dramatic colors. Maples, especially, have held her attention, their leaves turning like quiet signals from another season.

To plant trees around my house, you need to begin by digging a hole (read: prying out rocks here) so you can surround the root ball with some semblance of dirt. In this case, once we had an appropriate hole, we dropped the tree in, and I shoveled dirt down from the back of my truck while Desiree tended the tree and kept it properly oriented (leafy side up, thank you).

I’m sharing photographs of our work.

Up next: fall colors.

Desiree Digging

Me Shoveling Precious Dirt

Desiree Tending the Tree

Desiree with the Planted Tree

—Mitchell Hegman

An All-Thumbs English Conversion

“All thumbs” is one of those phrases that stumbled into English in the late nineteenth to early twentieth century, a modest little expression for the universal condition of clumsiness. If someone is “all thumbs,” they are fumbling the small mechanics of life, missing buttons, dropping screws, or turning a simple task into a train derailment, as if their fingers had all fattened into a bulky array of thumbs.

In light of all this, I need to share my absolute amazement at the ability of many young people I know to text on their smartphone with a single thumb. Not only do they text, but they do so accurately at lightning speed. I have witnessed some people one-thumbing a flawless text while driving. Never mind that they should not text and drive at once.

This skill is utterly beyond me. Just for fun, I tried a practice text a few moments ago to check my skill level. Here is what I thumbed on my smartphone: “Do hoof ddigg.”

An all-thumbs English conversion.

Here is what I was attempting to write: “Do good stuff.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Smoke and Cold Smoke

Desiree and I smoked an 11-pound pork shoulder roast. The strategy for smoking meat is to cook at low temperatures while infusing smoke flavor. Smoking meat is less cooking than persuasion, a quiet agreement between low heat and drifting smoke. I generally try to operate at 225°F, which can lead to extended cooking times, especially when targeting an internal temperature of 195°F to ensure maximum tenderness.

In this instance, I slipped the roast into the smoker (with an internal temperature of 40°F) at 5:00 in the morning and didn’t pull it out until 9:00 in the evening.

Sixteen hours is a long vigil for a piece of meat, but that is the bargain we struck.

One of the things that extends the cooking time is “the stall.” The stall is the pork roast’s way of hitting the pause button around 150–170°F, when moisture rises to the surface and evaporates, cooling it like a built-in air conditioner while your smoker keeps trying to heat it up. From the outside, it looks like nothing’s happening, but inside, collagen is slowly melting into gelatin and the meat is quietly becoming tender. Eventually, the moisture runs low, the cooling effect fades, and the roast wakes up from its little spa day and starts climbing in temperature again. The temperature of our roast held stubbornly steady for several hours before it began to rise again.

When it was finished, the pork was tender enough to fall apart at a suggestion, wrapped in a dark, lovely bark formed from little more than salt, pepper, and time. I’m sharing photographs of the roast with the requisite Cold Smoke beer alongside.

Before Smoking

Pulling the Roast at 9:00

After Smoking

—Mitchell Hegman

Plants Growing Naked and Sideways

Given the title of this blog, I owe a bit of explanation.

We are, in fact, discussing a houseplant. A five-finger plant, to be precise. It recently endured an overwatering incident of some consequence and, in what feels like a small act of protest, shed its final two leaves. What remains is a living thing, certainly, but also a bare stalk with aspirations.

In an effort to spare it from drowning and suffering the slow creep of root rot, Desiree tipped the entire operation sideways on the floor, allowing the excess water to seep away.

Practical, yes.

Still, there is something faintly unsettling about coming across a plant lying on its side, as if it has simply decided it has had enough of vertical life.

I’m hoping it rallies, finds its footing, and produces a leaf or two in defiance of recent events. I feel a little sorry for it. For now, though, I can live with naked and sideways.

Naked and Sideways

 —Mitchell Hegman

The Sky Is My Garden (2026 Version)

The sky is my garden, though it refuses all fences. By day, the wind tends it, herding clouds and scattering birds across an open blue field.

By night, it blooms righteous. Stars press outward, electrified above the dark strokes of the mountains, steady and unhurried.

They call this Montana, “Big Sky Country,” but the phrase feels far too small. In summer, the air shimmers and bends, sending ravens warping across the prairie. In winter, at twenty below, the sky sharpens to crystal while the frozen lake below groans in reply.

Clouds rise. Clouds scurry. Clouds roil. Clouds pause. Clouds drift away.

It is a garden that grows in motion and color and gesture, and we are only ever passing through.

Fiery Garden

Stormy Garden

Soft Garden

—Mitchell Hegman

One Hour

Flying from Manila to Seattle is a strange proposition. On paper, our most recent flight between the two points, with an aircraft transfer in Tokyo, required only one hour. That’s pretty astonishing for traveling 6,650 miles.

There are a few dynamics involved here. For one thing, you are flying against the sun, passing backward through various time zones. Also, somewhere near the midpoint, you cross the international date line and encounter the very beginning of the same day you just left behind.

In our case (see the photograph of our itinerary posted below), we departed Manila at 10:05 a.m. on Tuesday, April 2. After 16 hours in the air and in transit, we arrived in Seattle at 11:05 a.m. on Tuesday, April 2. One hour later, by the clock.

I can assure you, it did not feel like merely an hour had passed by the time we landed. Even now, two days on, things remain slightly out of joint. My Rocky Mountain days are still trying, stubbornly, to be Manila nights.

Our Itinerary

—Mitchell Hegman

Parting Shots

Desiree and I have returned from over a month in the Philippines. I have settled back into my place in the Rocky Mountains, reclaiming my sofa and my own peculiar brew of coffee.

Montana, being Montana, saw fit to greet me properly. I woke early this morning to a skiff of fresh snow and a clean-edged chill in the air.

This is why I love you, Montana. No one tells you how to behave when it comes to springtime weather. You do as you please. Thank you for the welcome home.

Today, I’m sharing a few final photographs. Two are courtesy of Desiree’s daughter, Bea. The last features Desiree with a spread of dry goods and other treasures she gathered in the Philippines and we dragged home in our luggage.

Lunch with Desiree’s Family Under Sister May’s Avocado Tree

Ladders Are Us (Bea)

More Post Overload (Bea)

Me and a Glass of Wine on the Tower Balcony

Desiree and Her Freshly Unpacked Goodies

—Mitchell Hegman

Things I love About the Philippines

I love the ringing voices of the half-feral children in provincial Malabugas.

I love the families that bind parent to child, brother to sister, cousin to cousin.

I love the elders receiving the respect they deserve.

I love the soft weight of freshly picked Philippine mangoes.

I love the sting of flavor delivered by a thumb-sized calamansi lime.

I love the city street cats and the curly-tailed dogs commanding the province.

I love the muscular fish, metallic and fresh from the sea.

I love the hum and crawl of the city forty stories below me in my tower.

I love riding tricycles in Bayawan.

I love the sea grasping at, but never claiming, the white sands on the beach.

I love the palm trees.

I love my island wife,

         and her girls

               and

everyone they hold near.

Rain in Malabugas (2024)

Fish at the Market

Catching a Tricycle in Bayawan

—Mitchell Hegman

Venice Grand Canal Mall

The American singer-songwriter Roger Miller famously proposed, in the form of lyrics, “you can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd.” As someone who has seen my share of buffalo herds, I would suggest this is sage advice. Along similar lines, you would not travel to the Philippines to see Venice, Italy, but it’s actually more plausible than the skating thing.

As a point of fact, you can find a small chunk of Venice in Metro Manila.

If you happen to land in the bustle of Taguig’s McKinley Hill, you might bump into the Venice Grand Canal Mall. The mall is a playful, pastel-tinted echo of its Italian namesake. Inside, you’ll find cobblestone paths, arched bridges, and Italian-styled architecture gathered around a winding, aquamarine canal. Here, gondolas drift beneath striped mooring posts while gondoliers occasionally break into song. It is part theme park, part shopping haven, part daydream, where cafés spill out onto the water’s edge and your mind can drift untethered.

It’s Venice.

The day before yesterday, Desiree, I, and her girls spent an afternoon in the mall. We wandered along the canal, nibbled goodies from a few small eateries, stopped in a few shops, and, of all things, Desiree had her feet checked for possible orthotics. I enjoyed the time there. We interacted with several street performers, including one of the stilt walkers, who graced us with a selfie for a modest tip. All enjoyable.

The Canal

Heart, Desiree, and Bea, at a Crane Drop Game

A Stilt-Walker

Selfie (With the Lot of Us Below)

—Mitchell Hegman