North-East Montana

When I first arrived it was mostly brown. Not an exciting color. But the romantic in me saw it as the golden-brown of fields in the time of harvest. Such a distinction gave this drab landscape a purpose and an importance, and therefore a beauty.

There are no mountains this far east of the Rockies. Only rolling hills with occasional plateaus that drop off suddenly into creek-bed crevasses, bone dry in the prairie sun.

The vast expanse is the thing that really gets me. I grew up in the Willamette Valley at the foot of Mt. Hood; surrounded by forests and peaks. There was a limit to the eye's scope. The horizon was found in the tops of trees. A true, unfiltered sunrise was a rare thing.

Here the human eye is limited only by its own disabilities and the curvature of the great sphere. You look out and you see the big world that you grew up hearing about in stories and watching in the old westerns. The eye surveys the vast emptiness, but the heart sees the wild frontier; full of adventure and life; at once both wild and wonderful.

Back in the city, there is a lot of work to be done, and it seems so important and prestigious (at times). But this is the land, the dirt, the soil. This is where hard work, good work is put forth to survive and to prosper. There is no Starbucks around every corner, or even a grocery store for that matter. This is not a land of convenience or amusement. It is a harder land, a simpler land, and in that sense, a purer land.

And then there is the snow. In Oregon snow comes down, lands, and either melts at once, or waits a matter of hours (maybe a day) before fading into the puddles and creeks. It is wet, and it is dead. 

The snow in Montana is very different. It often comes in flurries as legions of flakes riding the great winds over the plains. Even if it comes to land in some location, there is every chance that it will jump right up onto the back of the breeze and carry on its way. And in this frigged haze the world turns from gold to white. The very floor of nature becomes a blank page on which the adventures of two children, three tabby cats, and a black-capped chickadee can be written and easily read. Every footprint is crisp in the making and clear in the leaving. The expanse is all bright and dark as the shadows of the rolling plains are cast here and there across the land's fresh blanket.

As the fog sets in and a bitter chill begins to creep from west to east, castle spires form on every upright surface. Soon half the world is white with crystallized fog while the other side remains both dark and colorful. Giant, half-flocked, Christmas trees stand with the appearance of dwelling in two worlds: One of sun-bathed forests and the other of winter-laden lands.

This is the mysterious and majestic land in which I now dwell. The creativity and power of God is present in every moment; every biting breeze; every passing cloud; every waving field. God is here.

And now, so am I.