The air is filled with smoke.
Good days follow hard rain, or at least enough to rid the sky of haze. I always used to wonder if it smelled like a campfire, and I can now assure you it doesn’t. It’s a rotten smell - like mixing paint into your kindling. The smell that doesn’t leave your nose or your t-shirt immediately. I made the mistake of leaving my bedroom windows open one day last week and woke up with the same headache that put me to sleep. A headache derived from paint, trees and hot air. I often wonder how the animals react to it. I mean, the wolves are still howling, the bison are bellowing. Occasionally I’ll find a prairie falcon chasing ducks out in the valley, so I know the birds are doing fine. The light is flat and filtered, which seems fitting. It takes the life out my images, a direct reflection of life taken from the trees that are burning. Again, that smell.
Every once in a while I get in a creative mindset and hope to put a few words down somewhere. This is probably the eighth attempt at doing so this summer, though I haven’t been able to pull my fumbled thoughts together adequately enough. And I feel this one slipping as I write it. I worry about the state of the world, more often than I probably should. Then again, shouldn’t the state of the world be at the forefront of our minds, all the time? This is our planet that’s being mistreated by the people who we elect, and who we trust. The truth is, the climate is changing rapidly, so much so that in twenty-four years of life I’ve noticed the change. Sure, I read the science, I look at the charts, I interpret the CO2 we’re putting into our atmosphere at all time highs as the primary issue, I learned it all in school from credible sources and formed my own thoughts and opinions on the truth that was given to me; but at the end of the day I’m noticing the change with my own two eyes, and that is scary.
Montana, Idaho and Wyoming are waging a war on wolves. The U.S. Forest Service is cutting the trees I fell in love with. The pandemic is gaining strength again. But you know what? I am happy. Never in my life have I been more happy than this. I’ve never had a job that has been more fulfilling not only for myself but for the dozens of strangers I meet per week. I get to wake up early, see the stars, race into the park and hear wolves howl at dawn. I get to walk with American bison as they have done so for thousands of years here. I get to share my stories, create stories with new people and then friends and leave this place knowing I left it a little better than it was before I got here. That is fulfilling. This is all fulfilling. I am happy.
I watched these wolves a few nights ago. Bellies stuffed with bison meat, they moved on from the crowd they had drawn and ran into the night. The smoke took the life out of the image, a direct reflection of life taken from the trees that are burning. Again, that smell. We smelt it the whole way home. And some more today.
My mind races. This is August. I can’t wait for September.
