Last Thursday at 3:45 a.m. I boarded an airport van that took me to Logan and an early flight to Chicago. There I changed airlines (and terminals) for Bozeman where my son Alec is a graduate student in physics at Montana State University. At the airport it was a fifteen-minute walk but an easy connection to find: I just followed the camouflage. Over half the passengers were hunters eager to arrive for the opening of elk season. Except for the bearded, rotund gentleman on my left reading a book about walking with Christ in all your relationships, I was surrounded by excited talk of guns and game.
And I learned a couple of things. This was the first question posed among the men: If you are attacked by a bear should you shoot it or use bear pepper spray? My first impulse was to chime in that it would depend on which way the wind was blowing. After all, if it was blowing towards you, wouldn't you likely wind up a pre-seasoned piece of spicy luncheon meat? But, then again, if you are looking at a grizzly looking back at you, are you going to have time to spit on your finger and hold it up to the wind to find out? I remained silent and listened. A bear galloping straight for you is all legs and head. The chest area--and optimum target--becomes small and elusive in a thirty mile-an-hour charge. You may get some pepper spray in your eyes but the animal will run into a large corridor of it and, most likely, will run away leaving you intact if temporarily blind.
The discussion then turned to game meat and a particular town in Montana that hosts an annual outdoor game meat barbeque: bear, elk, mule deer, whitetail deer, moose and mountain lion. Here is a piece of the conversation:
"Mountain Lion?!" queried one hunter.
"What's that taste like?" asked another.
"Stringy and elastic--like you'd expect any cat to taste.
Various forms of affirmative grunts responded. (I myself--in all my years--hadn't thought once about the flavor of kitties, hence had formed no such expectations.)
A pen was passed around and the name of this enticing little town eagerly taken down. I myself instantly repressed its name, so, Readers, if you are hankering for cougar kebabs, you are on your own.
We landed at lovely Bozeman Airport. It is modest in size, new, and large-paned windows allow you to view the snow-capped mountains that surround it and the town of Bozeman. But there was a problem: the snowboard I was transporting for my friend to give to his son was rotating about the baggage carousel in all its awkward glory, but not my suitcase. After considerable back and fourths at the ticket counter, it was determined that it had mistakenly been sent back to O'Hare. The agent wouldn't commit to when it would be returned--just that it would.
Alec drove me to my hotel then returned to his department to complete some work. Though I was anxious for a visit, I welcomed the chance for a shower and to lie down. I had only had four hours sleep the night before and, though it was just shortly after three p.m., I fell asleep, not waking up until shortly before five the next morning. I checked with the front desk--no bag. I pondered my plight. All I had were the clothes I'd worn the day before, my camera bag and an five-foot long snowboard in a great big bag with wheels. I couldn't even use the fitness room, let alone the pool or much-needed jacuzzi. Well, there was nothing I could do about it then, so I made myself some coffee, crawled back under the covers, and read from my Kindle.
At seven a.m. I had a breakfast of biscuits and eggs in the restaurant. A sympathetic waitress told me there was a good second-hand shop around the corner. Okay, if my bag hadn't arrived by ten a.m. I would go there and see if I could at least get something in which to work out.
It hadn't, so off I went to the thrift shop and then onto Main Street where I immediately located a western clothing shop that had a second-hand floor where I found two long-sleeved pearl buttoned shirts. Purchases in hand, I continued down Main Street. Bozeman is a charming place, influenced by a complex mix of university students, faculty, ranchers, hunters, and fly fishermen. In fact, in other parts of Montana, Bozeman is considered quite the cosmopolitan spot---tres shi-shi! Certainly, the restaurants bore this out. "Mongolian-Style Buffalo," "Buffalo Stroganoff," and "Buffalo Marsala" were featured on the menu boards of some of the restaurants I passed. Western fusion.
Alec and I had lunch at "La Tinga," a tasty, inexpensive family-run Mexican restaurant. It was delicious and the atmosphere festive. We also hiked "The M," a one-and-a-half-mile trail up Bridger Canyon to a huge slab of rock that has been painted with an enormous white letter "M," first in 1915 by MSU students. It has since been maintained by subsequent generations of students. Just coming off a three-week long cold and now finding myself at 5,000 feet with a few hundred more vertical ones to climb, I needed to stop and catch my breath a number of times. But it was worth it. Here's the view:
And of our descent:
Late that afternoon Alec and I drove up into the hills east of Bozeman to visit his friend Jason and his wife Alaina at their home. Jason is also a graduate student in the MSU physics department. Alaina--who has lived in several Latin American countries---returned to her hometown of Bozeman where she now teaches Spanish. Jason built their house all by himself and--outfitted with solar panels--it is completely off-grid. And it was built around friendship. Several years previously, Jason and some of his buddies built a huge, heavy, and handsome dining table from planks of Douglas Fir for a Thanksgiving dinner for twenty-five. In fact, it was so huge, heavy, and handsome that none of the twenty-five could offer it a post-fete home; that is, except Jason. Having saved and saved as an undergraduate and graduate student, he'd recently purchased twenty acres and was about to start constructing a home. He decided to build it around the table. And so the house of friendship was built.
And they may own "just" twenty acres, but Jason and Alaina have thousands of acres to play in aboard their Paso Fino "Panacho" and a sorrel molly mule named "Bunny." Here is but one of their views:
Cowboy Jason and my son Alec:
Panacho and Jason:
And with Bunny:
We then repaired to the house and had a lovely venison dinner with a beautiful cake topped by a tasty sauce for desert. Before the evening ended Jason invited me to an go on a trail ride with him next afternoon. Alec would read, study and/or practice guitar in the house. As we left Jason and Alaina, and walked towards our car the soft lights of Bozeman lit up the lower clouds in such a way that I thought I was seeing a monochromatic version of the Northern Lights. It was stunning.
Next morning Alec and I headed to Gallatin National Forest, not far from Bozeman, to see Palisade Falls. Jason and Alaina recommended it since it was just a short drive. Even getting there produced stunning views:
Just inside the national forest:
And Palisade Falls:
On the way down I couldn't resist this solemn-faced but intrepid little hiker with her walking stick:
Afterwards we grabbed some over-priced under-sized Mexican take-out and drove to Justin's. (LaTinga was tastier, cheaper, and more homey but closed that day.) I had planned to take a picture of the beautiful Alaina--black hair and dark complexion (Mom Hispanic) with riveting blue eyes (Dad's a Swede) and a smile capable of lighting a Montana mile. But, sadly, she was in Bozeman teaching that afternoon, so to see her you will have to use your imagination coupled with my inadequate descriptive prompts.
Jason saddled up Panacho and Bunny (I'm a novice at western girths) and we rode off into the hills:
Yep, I'm not wearing a helmet, my hands are too high, and stirrups too long even for my dressage legs, but look at Jason--no stirrups! He's been riding all his life and competed as a child in reining. Hence, his great seat! Add to which, he's only had these two since critters in April when he got them from neighbors. And they had hardly ridden them at all. And since then, Jason rode Panacho more. Bunny was the least experienced of the two but certainly the calmer. And she was a dear and did listen--usually--to my elementary neck reining cues (my leg aids--not so much). She was definitely more "whoa" than "go." But, boy, was she comfortable. Jason had been told that she, too, was gaited, but I didn't feel it unless it was that bit of a shuffle she exhibited as she transitioned from walk to trot.
We trotted over the ridge and in varying degrees of distance were four mountain ranges: Tobacco, Roots, Bridger, Crazies and Absaroka Beartooths. Each view exceeded the last. Jason took some shots with his pocket camera and promised to send them soon. So I hope to put them up in a week or two.
We saw whitetail and mule deer but Jason told me you can also run into brown and black bears, smaller grizzlies, elk, coyote, and mountain lions. In fact, Alaina told me that a Mama cat and her three kittens frequently crossed their property: the last time she saw them the babies were nearly as big as Mom.
Then Jason--and Bunny by implication--did lay down a gauntlet: Bunny, I was told, invariably declined to lope. Trotting was her preferred gait.
"Would you mind if I asked her to lope?"
"Not at all. If you can get her to, that'd be great."
So, at the base of the next gentle slope I squeezed. Nothing. I kicked and got a trot. Kicked again and got a more committed trot. I didn't have a crop, so I took the reins and flicked them quickly back and fourth across her withers. That did it! Senorita Bunny lunged into a canter, dragging us up the hill more by forelegs than hind. For the remainder of the ride Bunny was a lovely balance between "whoa" and "go."
That is, except when Jason's dog, General, appeared suddenly behind her, taking Bunny completely by surprise. Bunny shot up the hill after Panacho but didn't seem to be aware that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. She lunged left for a couple of strides then lunged right. Imagine riding a cutting horse uphill chasing a cow. The cow makes many changes in direction but she is invisible except to your horse (or mule). I confess that on one mighty lunge to the left I almost took a digger. Happily, I regained my balance and in a couple more strides Bunny was relieved to be able to halt right up, and almost into, Panacho's rear.
I learned that Alec--who can ride just a little--took the same route aboard Bunny. I was impressed. My son is athletic but to stay on through some challenging obstacles, including a sandy and shifting side of a draw, required not only faith in your mount's ability but in yours as well. Which brings me to Alec. I realized suddenly on this trip that in countries with high levels of health care, the majority of parents know their offspring as adults much longer than knowing them as children. I guess I always knew that, but this time I really felt it. When at college he was in Cambridge, which was followed by three years working at the Harvard-Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, also in Cambridge. He now lives--and will likely stay--in Montana for at least five years. All this just hit me like a freight train when I saw this 6' 2" man in a flannel shirt and jeans with the backdrop of the Rockies behind him.
And yet, though it was two decades ago, the memories of him as a child are so vivid, so lovingly held and cherished, that they press forward strongly. How he mispronounced helicopter as "hepicopter," exploring as "sploring," and tractor as "packter." And when at age four he got his little dog Toby--a Lhasa-Poodle cross, how he proudly told a friend that his new companion was half Lhasa, half Pluto. These are but two of the photos taken, the first shortly after Toby arrived at age ten months and Alec but five; the last days before Toby succumbed to a brain tumor at age twelve. Alec was seventeen.
And just one little story more. Alec is a wonderful tennis player, and when he was little he determined that he would go to
Wimbledon and practiced very hard. One very hot day he had been practicing against the backboard at our local club for over an hour and a half. So I brought him a drink. He sat down next to me and leaned against my shoulder. As he popped the tab he said in his best "grown-up" voice: "I may be nine years old, but I can still cuddle with my Mom."
Alec is now twenty-six but now and again, he still can cuddle with his Mom. I know those of you who have children have many of your own cherished memories, so I will end here.
It was a wrench to leave Alec but I was glad he had friends like Jason and Alaina. I also was able to meet his adviser Piet Martens, Piet's wife Kathleen, and four of their five beautiful children--three adopted and two biological. Alec was in good hands.
Alec will be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas but is planning to spend this coming summer working at his university. But Jim and I --and Marleny--are planning many more trips out to Big Sky Country. Maybe we'll go out for Easter. I would love to go on other trail rides with Jason and his two equines. Then I get to say I rode an Easter Bunny. (Sorry, couldn't pass that one up.)
I want to thank our neighbor David who made the lovely cross, and, of course, all of you who sent such kind messages about our beloved Bo. And those beautiful flowers! Unexpected but oh-so-happily received. Here they are:
A lot has gone on since my trip out to Montana, so I'm hoping to get another entry out to you in a few days. Here's a hint of news to come:
So, see you soon, and thank you for reading The Windflower Weekly--
Ainslie Sheridan
