Summer’s Surprises

After nearly five years of living in Montana, it’s all beginning to feel familiar. I take this as a positive, for I’m finally settled into the place that I once decided to call home on a whim without any friends, a place to live or a job to keep me here. Of course, those vacancies eventually filled themselves but not without some questioning from myself mainly, the person who decided that this was the best course of action. All of this to say, I still find moments here and there that make Montana feel new again - which now sounds ridiculous to say as I write this from a closed room in the fourth largest state in the nation, most of which I’ve yet to even glimpse.

Last night, following a hint from a good friend that she had seen an owl, I had myself one of those moments, for I had located a family group of great grays that I hadn’t met before. The rush was much like the first time I ever laid eyes on one of these large birds, in a different mountain range on the other side of valley. It was a good reminder of who this place really belongs to, as I had familiarized myself with those trees once or twice before. As it turns out, the trees don’t belong to us, the humanoids as I like to say, seeking shelter when it rains and heat when winter sets in. The trees belong to the wild ones - the owls own this place.

This Forest, Forever.

 
 

At this point, this forest feels like home. Behind me I see the hundreds of hours, the late nights and early mornings, the view from treetops and the thick understory, leaning back on logs and trunks and backpacks while waiting for time to pass. I see myself cussing at stinging nettle and rosehips along the creek every now and then, and I can feel my heart dropping as I jump a moose from the brush and a black bear from the meadow. I see the owl’s eyes lock with a mule deer’s, and a raven sailing overhead, wings cutting audibly through the air. I can see the silence, it’s visible, and I hear it, every now and then broken by the song of a sparrow, the wind along the Bridgers, the call of an owl. I keep expecting a spring to roll around when suddenly these birds aren’t here, when the wind carries them elsewhere, on big and beautiful wings. When the forest no longer greets me for the late nights and early mornings, with the views from treetops and thick understory. When I no longer lean back on logs and trunks and that sturdy backpack to wait for time to pass. When there’s no stinging nettle nor rosehips to cuss at, nor moose nor black bear. When I don’t watch the owl lock eyes with the deer, when the silence isn’t broken by anything.

When a reason to experience this place with my own eyes and ears is no longer presented, I won’t feel myself complete. The joy this space has brought me is purely and simply unequivocal. It is timeless. This entire forest is timeless. I believe that in one volume or another, my boots with crash through thick brush for as long these legs allow them. My hope is that it will be here in the Bridger Mountains. While I’ve never once wanted to experience something forever, I’m tempted to wish for that here. I could be around these owls, and their big and beautiful wings, swimming through these trees, forever.