Howling at the Moon: A Night Out in the Big Hole

[Note: photos follow this essay, unlike my usual style of interspersing them with the text.]

The clamor of voices in my head was getting a little loud, so I followed Thoreau's advice, "In wildness is the preservation of the world." Or of my sanity, at least. To Thoreau's dictum, Leopold added, "Perhaps this is the hidden meaning in the howl of the wolf..." Or of the coyote, at least.

And so I went a camping on the Big Hole River side of the pass over the Continental Divide formed by Mill Creek (a Clark Fork River tributary) and Deep Creek. It is a special place, with the steep West Slope contrasting with the gentle East Slope. It was a traditional route for Native Peoples between the summer hunting grounds of the Big Hole and the pleasant wintering grounds (and warm springs) of the Deer Lodge Valley.

Walking this ground, you feel the footsteps of people long ago. Tipi rings, hunting trails, a jasper mine, tremendous views to both sides of the valley. Before I know it I sense it: I am standing in the center of a tipi ring. At my feet, a large milky quartz pebble that fits perfectly the palm of my hand. A hammerstone. And on the frost heaved ground, flakes of red jasper.

Walking this ground, you feel the eternal beauty of things long dead and forever coming to life. Petrified wood from a forest long ago, spring blossoming of wild flowers, elk on their calving grounds, meadows lush and wet and greening, cycles ancient and repeated since the Pleistocene.

The sun set into the mountains, the moon rose through a bank of clouds, the coyotes howled. They woke me up. RTD is even deafer than I am, these days. She slept soundly until I crawled past her to step out of the tent, take a piss, and join the song dogs for the chorus. A bull elk joined in with a long, lilting whistle (yes, they do whistle in the spring, maybe in response to all those new calves?). We even stirred a sandhill crane, though from its cries I think it was telling us to shut the hell up and let it sleep.

A chill dawn, hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee, a long hike up the valley, catch a mess of trout for lunch, I'm ready to go home. Well, not ready. But it's time to go home. Time.

Thankfully this holy ground has become public land, and not fallen into the hands of developers and McMansionites like the piece just down the valley. Here, a failed ranch built up by pioneering homesteaders, our white forefathers who seemed to know only how to take from the land and not how to live sustainably with it. Like the new trophy homes down the valley that will rot away with time and the high price of fossil fuels, this old homestead was a mere flash in time's pan.

What am I saying, "this old homestead?" It was established barely a hundred years ago and is now long gone. Four generations from rags to riches to rust. And in the brief time they were here, they were hard as hell on the land.

The Native Peoples walked this ground for ten thousand years. Four hundred generations, maybe longer. They didn't leave things so bad. What will our children, ten thousand years hence, say about us?

What a view from camp! Pintler peaks from Saddle Mountain (East/West Goat) on the left to Mt Haggin on the right:

Elk on calving grounds:


Curious antelope come over to check out our camp:


Big mosquitoes, first of the spring:


Sunset into the Pintler peaks:


Petrified wood (this specimen is chalky, unlike the usual glassy specimens found here--must be like the transformation of chalk to chert/flint):

Mountain buttercup (Ranunculus nivalis):

Pretty shooting star aka "Roosterheads" (Dodecathon pulchellum, though this could be the related desert species), purple:

And white:

Spring beauty (Claytonia spp.):

Wyoming kittentails (Besseya wyomingensis):

Biscuitroot (Lomatium cous), and important food of Native Peoples:

Milky quartz hammerstone, from a tipi ring with a views to both sides of the broad valley:

Red jasper flakes from tool making/sharpening:

A mess of brook trout for lunch:

RTD cooling her belly while I fish:

Remnant of a not-so-old homestead:

Sunset behind the Anaconda smelter stack on the way home:

The Moulton Journal: A Winter's Tale

This morning, our world of sin is blanketed with the most amazing snowfall--light, feathery little bundles of interlocked flakes; four inches deep on the front sidewalk, but easily swept away with a broom. There is not a breath of wind, and walking along the flanks of Big Butte I was mesmerized watching this fluff fall from the sky, drifting down at less than a meter per second.

Yesterday dawned cold and clear. Here's the view west, with the sun just beginning to light the higher peaks of the Pintler:

The -14 deg F temperature at The Moulton made for slow skiing, but on such a day it is a joy to be outside. I warmed quickly skiing up the main access road from the parking lot, and it felt good to linger here and there where the sun lit up an opening in the trees. Breath, perspiration, and snot freeze on contact with the frigid air; cold fingers pry into the lingering soul:

The cow moose that has been hanging out in the willow bottom near the parking lot moved down the valley. Did even she feel the cold last night, or has she some intuition of deeper snow to come? Poor man that would presume to know the mind of a moose. Here she is, just a mile or so above Walkerville:

On a cold morning such as this, warm vapors rise from the Berkeley Pit (the world's largest toxic lake) and form the notorious "Pit Fog." Here it is, like brute matter brought to life, towering over the town:

The Moulton Journal: Winter Solstice Party, Moonlight Ski

How often does the Winter Solstice occur with a full moon? With that happy coincidence this year, and a dump of fresh snow, a large group of friends converged on Don & Andrea Stierle's ("DnA") cabin at The Moulton. Highlights of the party included food (of course), dancing naked around a pyre (well, just kidding about that naked dancing), and moonlight skiing. Here's Andrea, the gracious hostess (for info on DnA's research, see the recent New York Times article at http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/09/us/09pit-.html):

At least one of two things is necessary, I think, if you are going to live in Montana. ONE, you need to like snowy, cold weather and the kind of outdoor activities (such as skiing) that go along with it. And/or TWO, you need a good circle of friends with whom to socialize. Without at least one of these, you will gradually succumb to cabin fever as the blustery storms of November turn to the long dark days of December, or when the bright and sunny but frigid cold days of January and February turn to the brief false hopes of spring that come in March, or when winter settles back in for the duration of April only to give way to renewed false hopes of spring in May which leads to a big snowstorm in June that bends your lilac blossoms to the ground.

Here are some of those friends, heading outside and circling a large pile of beetle-killed lodge pole pine slash:

Don't stand too close--that's Bill "The Pyromaniac" Macgregor dancing around the woodpile, pouring on the gasoline (we really should do an intervention next year, and hand him a can of #1 diesel instead):

Feel the burn. Without the annual winter solstice pyre, the days would grow shorter and shorter as the light of the sun and all are hopes grew dimmer and dimmer. Next thing you know, we'd all be building religious shrines on the ridges, such as "THEIR Lady of OUR Rockies" (see http://www.ourladyoftherockies.com/). Thankfully, that's not happening. This crowd will settle for a good old pagan bonfire:

And a ski, helped out by the Good Samaritan Groomer (aka Paul Sawyer) who spent that morning laying down the corduroy. Turns out there wasn't much moonlight, thanks to a heavy cloud cover that helped keep temperatures at a reltively balmy 8 or 10 deg F. Here's Butch Gerbrandt, Emily Munday, and RTD at Amalgamation Junction:

At the Winter Solstice we are like Robert Frost's traveler (or Emily), standing long and contemplating alternative futures for the New Year. All good wishes for whatever path you take:

The Moulton Journal: getting Head/y

A Heady day, contemplating the nature of teleology and B/being.

I like cross country skiing above all other sports because of its contemplative nature. For some, hunting and fishing also serve this role, but I tend to be an alert, focused predator while engaged in these pursuits. If I want a period of reverie, I'll sit under a tree while fishing or build a fire and lay back while hunting. When I am actually engaged in hunting or fishing, the less thought the better.

I played some baseball and then softball when I was younger, but that didn't really lend itself to philosophy either. You don't want to be contemplating the rights of nature when a line drive comes at you down the third base line or when you need to know where the play is at after snagging that hot grounder. Even as an engaged specatator, you are at any moment fathoming the possibilities of home run or double play or strike out. Can Willie Mays in centerfield actually get to that flyball? And, if he does, can he make the throw to home? My mind never wandered much at the ballpark.

But skiing, like hiking, lends itself to thought. Had the peripatetic Aristotle lived in Norway, he would have founded the skidhenistic school (from the Norwegian skidh)--with groups of thoughtful, naturalist-inclined, skiers touring the hills while engaged in lively discourse. Sure, there are those thrilling runs down through the trees when the cross country skier must be totally engaged in the moment. But for every downhill run there is an uphill climb. And for both there are lots of long flats where, in company, the rhythm of conversation is one with the swish-swish of kick & glide.

Had the peripatetic Aristotle lived in Norway, maybe he would have been Arne Naess http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arne_Næss ?

Today's skidhenism was about the role of teleology in the construction of self. It's not merely a question of "What makes life worth living?," but of "What outcomes are worth working for?" Sadly, I suppose, American society has devolved into a teleology & B/being defined through material acquisition. This observation is not the mere grumbling of a disgruntled post-Kantian. The increase in materialism is well confirmed in numerous studies, and is especially evident in our youth [see e.g. Easterlin & Crimmins (1991)(http://www.jstor.org/view/0033362x/dm991752/99p02367/0]. Students and young adults want to drive a new truck, listen to tunes on the latest iPod, and party over Spring Break in Jamaica. Much of this consumption is conspicuous: ear buds, big SUV, 10,000 square foot McMansion = success.

For some of us, at least (or perhaps for a generation soon to pass from the face of America), there is more to life than appearance. Gramps raised a family in the Depression and always found time for the kids' ballgame, an evening of fishing, or a Sunday picnic. Dad joined the Army Air Corps and put his ass on the line so sundry Europeans could have their country back. As an academic, I (well, at least until my recent crisis of faith) wanted to contribute to an institution that valued research, social criticism, and the pursuit of T/truth.

Some sociologists make the academic world an economy of intellectual capital. Well, for some scholars or maybe sometimes for all scholars, maybe. But in reading Harold Bloom and newly appreciating my love of literature, the quest becomes "How to read and why?" I can't tell students that someday they will make more money at the McOil Drilling Company because they have read Shakespeare's Tempest and understand the role of magic-as-technology in controlling the American wilderness. Instead, I ask them to read as a means of discovering and becoming who they are. For more and more students, that is a less and less persuasive reason. And that is OK, for that is the way the world is and I shall not change it. For the fewer and fewer students for whom this is a persuasive reason, I dedicate my life.

[The HeadT "backcountry skies" pictured here were bought in a Butte pawnshop for $15. They had been blocked in storage to retain their camber, and were brand new--never having had a set of binding mounted on them. Sweet.]