View from Polebridge, Montana 
Bowman Lake 
Building supplies for a nest 
McDonald Creek, Glacier National Park 
McDonald Creek 
McDonald Creek 
McDonald Creek 
Lake McDonald, Glacier National Park 
Mountain Goats 
Mountain Goats 
Moose 
New foal 
Glacier National Park 
Saint Mary Lake, Glacier National Park 
In the clouds at Glacier National Park 
St. Mary Overlook, East Glacier 
Big Horn Sheep 
A great rock shop in Bynum, Montana 
Cliffs along the Missouri River 
Gates of the Mountains 
The elephant, on the Missouri River, Gates of the Mountains, Montana 
Pictographs along the Missouri River at Gates of the Mountains 
Taking boat tour at Gates of the Mountains 
In remembrance of those who lost their lives fighting the Mann Gulch Fire 
From the journals of Lewis & Clark 
Back road hospitality 
Bald Eagle and her nest 
Horses grazing along Swingley Road, a great scenic drive 
Antelope 
Ready to ride 
Yellow-headed Blackbird 
Russian Olive windbreak planted by the Knapps 
The Bailey Place, Tin Can Hill 
Mama bear and her two cubs 
This deer had twins 
Mama deer and her fawn 
Grazing 
Looking to the mountains 
Gommie’s Lake 
Gommie’s Lake 
Crazy Mountains 
Antelope 
Grazing along Swingley Road 
Judith River Backcountry Drive 
Sweet Grass Creek 
Sweet Grass Ranch 
Sweet Grass Creek in the Crazy Mountains, Montana 
Soft evening light 
Horses graze under the evening sky 
Wormser School 
Sunset over the Crazy Mountains 
Horses catching the updraft 
Haying 
Scene from a little coastal town in the Pacific Northwest 
Flying a kite at Roosevelt Beach, Washington 
Roosevelt Beach, Washington 
Quinault River, Glacier National Park 
Quinault River, Glacier National Park 
Beach flowers, Rialto Beach 
Rialto Beach, Washington 
LaPush, Washington 
Washington Coast 
Cape Flattery 
Cape Flattery 
Cape Flattery, Neah Bay 
Cape Flattery 
Lake Crescent, Glacier National Park 
Cape Flattery 
Glacier National Park 
Along Hwy 2 
Glacier National Park 
Crazy Mountains 
Horses grazing at Melville, Montana 
Saint Mary’s Lake, Glacier National Park 
McDonald Creek, Glacier National Park 
Madison Buffalo Jump State Park 
Buffalo jump 
Rialto Beach 
James Island, La Push 
La Push 
Boardwalk to Cape Flattery 
Cape Flattery 
Lake Crescent 
Olympic National Park 
La Push, Washington 
Gates of the Mountains, Montana 
La Push, Washington
Porch Days
Some of the best adventures are found on the front porch. There is something special about a porch, don’t you think? It’s a great place to take time just to sit a few moments to relax and sort your thoughts. It’s also the place to take a trip without even going anywhere.
There have been many days when the grandkids would sit with me on the porch and ask for stories. They have asked for stories about my ancestors from days long gone and of their wild west adventures. I’ve also been asked to tell familiar childhood stories in the voice of the big bad wolf or one of the three little pigs.
Porches add to our arsenal of memories. When I was a kid, I loved to sit on the porch with my granddad. I’d rub his bald head so his hair would grow. He would let me roll his Bull Durham tobacco cigarettes. They were so loose the ashes would fall on his shirt and burn little holes. We’d swing for hours. Whenever a storm came, he would go sit on the porch swing, and I’d go with him. I’d be scared to death because of the thunder and lightning and would stay tucked up under his armpit. He taught me respect for the storms. That’s where I learned that nitrogen came from lightning and nourished the soil for the crops. We all need the rain. I learned that storms come along in our lives, and they are for our good to teach us lessons of life. That’s also where I heard tales from long gone times of his childhood and youth. I heard stories of his “batching” days when he and old John followed the harvest season all the way into Canada to work on the threshing crews.
Sometimes the porch swing brought other memorable events. One such day, we were sitting in the swing and my brother crossed the road into the pasture. My grandfather told him, as he had many times before, to stay away from the mama cow. She had a new calf. Well, any of you who know my brother also know that he is his own adjective. If one of the kids are told they act like or look like Uncle B, they know exactly what that means! Anyway, he had that grin plastered on his face and decided to tempt fate and that mama cow. He sauntered toward that calf. Down went the mama cow’s head! She pawed the ground and started for him. Daddy Bee hollered and told that boy he’d “better get.” Well, he “got” as fast as he could, running all out toward the barbed wire fence. The mama cow was faster, but my brother had a head start. He barely made it to the fence and slid under the bottom wire. I know exactly what is meant when someone says they “escaped by the seat of their pants.” If he had been any bigger or his britches any looser, they would have gotten snagged by that barb and the rest of him would have been snagged by that mad mama cow.
Ah…. porch days … I think I may need an afternoon trip. Any takers?
Is This a Shortcut?
A reverent silence lay like the morning mist on the tombstones of the old cemetery. An occasional rustle of dry leaves in the cool winter breeze and a bird’s soulful song could be heard. I stood still taking in the scene before me. Dry broom straw and tall grass with tiny white plumes grew in patches. Scattered gravel rested on barren ground where nothing grew. The hilltop was scattered with headstones. Many had been forgotten over the years. Grass and wild blackberry vines grew among the stones. Broken headstones lay half buried in the weeds. Fire ants set up housekeeping beside old stumps and broken stones. Faded silk flowers were scattered in the tall grass. Some headstones were intricate in design while others were mere unadorned rocks taken from the lake shoreline just a stone’s throw away. Yet both were lovingly placed to mark where a loved one had taken final rest. Names and dates were worn away by time, though some did not even have that luxury. Some names were hidden under moss that grew in the etched letters.
My imagination ran away with me. I saw grieving families by freshly dug graves. I heard the soft “thud” as dirt fell onto the wooden casket that lay in the ground. I smelled fresh roses splashed with daisies that covered the dirt mound. I felt the tears fall like raindrops as last goodbyes were spoken.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet on bare ground. I lifted my eyes and saw a stooped old man. He walked with a cane, poking it along in front of him to find solid ground on which to place his unsteady feet. He leaned on his cane and peered over a tombstone. I studied the scene before me. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, but as age creeps upon us, each breath brings us one step closer to our mortality. Life is fleeting.
I watched the little man as he wandered through the tombstones. He would bend to look at one, then another. I wondered what was going through his mind. Was he, too, brought face to face with our mortality? His 89 years had been lived to the fullest. He had stories to tell, memories to share, wisdom to impart.
The little bent man had told me just minutes before that the first 80 years of life were traveled on the designated road. Everything after that was a shortcut – some were just longer than others. I certainly understood his words. I had traveled with him many times. He would take the road off the beaten path. His shortcuts turned into long-cuts, but they were laden with adventures. I did not begrudge any of those shortcuts. Now he rode with me on my adventures and would often ask, “Is this a shortcut?”
written 2015
Back Door Visits
Whenever I looked out my back window and saw my mother walking up the driveway, I knew some tale awaited. Either she had been to town and saw a fat woman at the food bar or Daddy wouldn’t do something she thought he should. It was usually the fat woman. My mother had an aversion to fat. Actually, I think it was more deep-seated than that. It was more of a self-esteem issue that stemmed from her childhood. She thought she was too fat – which she wasn’t. She thought she wasn’t as pretty or smart or friendly as others. She was a people watcher and, more often than not, judged accordingly. Understand that words others judged as her being judgmental were actually spoken as constructive criticism. She never intentionally hurt someone’s feelings though they may have walked away with shoulders sagging a bit because of the weight of her words.
Often when she came to my back door, she brought along the excuse for her visit which was to bring some little trinket, an article to read or an occasional loaf of fresh homemade bread. She did make the best bread ever! Daddy would listen with a “humph” or “un-huh” that didn’t satisfy her need for conversation, so I became her sounding board. After she talked nonstop for a while, she would pull her scarf around her head, tie it under her chin and walk back up to her house.
One afternoon she came to the house wearing a big smile and a new necklace daddy had given her for their 60th anniversary. She was absolutely glowing. That was the first and only time I had seen her look like a teenager. She talked about the trip they had taken to a little Bavarian town for their anniversary. They had visited little shops, and she had to tell me about each one. She told me about some dishes she would like to have gotten for me if she “had enough money.” They went into one store that had a long counter that had come from the general store of one of the little towns where Daddy had preached years earlier. I don’t think I ever saw my mother that excited. It was as if years had been erased, and the hands of time had been turned back to the mid ‘40’s. That was one of the last visits she made to my house. Little did I know that within a couple of weeks her life would be taken prematurely. As I sat by her death bed and held her hand, I did not begrudge one of her backdoor visits. Sometimes I still look out my back window and imagine a shadowy figure wearing a scarf coming to my back door.
Cape Flattery
The Pacific Northwest is a place where enchanted lush rain forests carpeted with wild ferns and moss draped evergreens meet the rugged shoreline of the Pacific Ocean. Jagged pinnacles rise from the ocean floor along the rocky beaches. Weathered sea stacks stand against the crashing waves and winds of time.
A scenic highway weaves through this magical world. Rialto Beach, Ruby Beach, Hoh Rainforest, Olympic National Park, Lake Crescent, Lake Quinault, trails and scenic drives await the traveler seeking beauty and adventure. The road leads to Neah Bay where you find the furthest northwest point in the contiguous United States. A short hike through the forest winds down trails and weathered boardwalks. Three platforms offer views of Cape Flattery. Birds nest on ledges of the sheer cliffs that drop into the pounding surf. Sea caves gurgle and echo haunting utterances from the bowels of the earth. Looking across the bay, a lonely lighthouse stands as a beacon on Tatoosh Island.
The sound of the crashing waves as they rise and fall is mesmerizing. The stark contrast of the jade tidal waters, rocks, trees and sea is like none I have ever seen. This place is captivating. A surreal peace is present here at the tip of the world. If I chose one word as description it would be “sacred.” Surely this is a Cathedral of God.
I stood at the edge of the world
where land meets the sea
I looked over open waters
and breathed in this majesty
Waters crashed against the cliffs
bathing the rocks with waves
they sang a slow mournful song
as they echoed from the caves
Limbs of green reached out their arms
a light showed the way
ancient forests carpeted the path
bidding me to stay
I sighed a sigh of deep content
in the magical world apart
I embraced the moments left to me
and gave away my heart
I still stand in wide-eyed wonder
forever this place will be
a timeless solace to my soul
ever etched in memory.
2014
Flag of Freedom
While traveling with my daughter and her family, we saw a duck. That stirred a memory of when my daughter was small. I told the grandkids that once when their mama and uncle were little, we went to Montana with Daddy Buck & Grandma Buck. We drove down the road, and a duck flew into the windshield. Daddy Buck ducked as the duck hit the window. Then I said, “And that was a true story.”
I told of the time when we were traveling on that same road and chased a jackrabbit down the road for about a mile. I added, “And that was a true story.”
My youngest granddaughter took may hand and said, “Tell us another story.” I tried to think about stories that included their mama. Soon one came to mind.
This was the story as told to the littlest granddaughter: “When your mama was a little girl we were going to the mountains with Daddy Buck to go camping. So we started off that way. Your mom had curly hair and she had on a flannel shirt and had this great big old backpack. We got up there to the cabin, ready to go into the mountains, and she started crying. ‘I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.’ So I said, ‘It’s too late now because we don’t have a way to get you back to town.’ We started up the trail, and she had the big backpack on her back and a hat on.”
“We got up close to the lake where there’s an old hay rake. Your mom had her picture made there. She was about to quit crying, but I think her stomach was hurting. We started up the trail and came to Eagle Park. That’s where we camped for the night. I got a picture of your mama and uncle in the river with their underwear on. The water was really cold.”
“The next day we hiked up to the waterfalls. Now, your mama pooted in her pants, and her underwear was dirty. We put a stick in the ground at the top of the cliff, a big stick, and I told your mom, ‘You’ve gotta take your panties off.’ We went down to the creek washed them out and hung them on the stick. We said, ‘This is the flag of freedom.’ Your mom said, ‘But I don’t have any underwear!’ ‘Just pull your pants up, and we’ll get them on the way back.’ So on the way back from our hike that day, we got her underwear, and they were dry. She put them on. Then we went back to Gommie’s cabin and spent the night.”
We continued our drive down the road. A little hand held mine as I told stories. That sweet little girl was mesmerized. Her eyes were intent on watching me. She would occasionally ask a question about the story, and then her sweet little voice said, “Tell me the story about the flag of freedom again.”
Oh Rats!
The summer of 1975, my sister and I embarked on a cross country trip. We had many adventures, met lots of interesting people, visited cousins we had never seen and made many memories. After several weeks of travel, we made it to Big Timber, Montana. We stayed with our grandmother for a few days and then headed up the Boulder to stay with cousin Babs.
She let us use their one room cabin that was up the road from the ranch. We parked our beat-up jalopy and waded the creek to our “new home.” There was no electricity. We did have running water right outside the door. We drank right from the creek. Our bathroom with a view was beside a tree. It was perfect!
We hung our kerosene lantern in the middle of the room, set up our Coleman stove, hauled in our cooler and threw our sleeping bags on the cots. We were there only a couple of nights when our sleep was interrupted by the gnawing teeth of mice – no, rats! The next morning, we went to the ranch and reported the night’s events to Babs. She laughed as I gave a detail description of the huge rats that infested our living quarters. She declared that there were no rats– only mice. Whatever it was, we didn’t like to share our little cabin. We took a maze trap back with us to capture the little beasts. We weren’t disappointed! The little critter visited right on time after we blew out the light. Those little fellows always sound larger and beastlier in the dark in the middle of the night. We heard clawing and pawing and gnawing as the little guy caught in the maze sought a way out. The cheese wasn’t worth it that night!
Imagine the scene in the middle of the night. Us girls slept in the bare essentials. When the mouse started its shenanigans, up we jumped. We lit the lantern that was hanging in the middle of the room from the ceiling. Sis grabbed a broom, jumped back up on her cot and started swinging at the poor little mouse in the maze trap. She did that with one hand while the other arm crossed her chest trying to hide her exposed self from unwanted eyes. I could do nothing but laugh. There were definitely no peeping toms out there! Only critters would look in that lone window by the creek. There was nothing else to do but wait until morning.
When dawn came, we got up and decided to dispose of the mouse properly. We’d drown it! We took the trap to the creek and submerged it in the icy cold water tumbling over the river rocks. That mouse didn’t drown! It floated to the top and started swimming. It got to the bank and crawled out of the water. Now what? It would come back that night if something wasn’t done! Sis grabbed a boot and started smacking the little gray-haired, long-tailed varmint. Finally, he gave up the ghost. We picked him up by the tail and sent him to his watery grave.
We went to the ranch for breakfast, and I recounted the animated tale to Babs. She laughed. No, she bellowed, hee-hawed, at our story. She had a hearty laugh and used every bit of it! We later went to town and got some real traps – those that snap their heads off.
Okefenokee Swamp
My mother never understood our need for adventure nor did she understand why Daddy always had to be in the middle of it. Our adventure into the Okefenokee Swamp was no different.
We got together around the table and by phone to coordinate schedules and pool ideas to formulate a plan. On two different occasions, we took a camping trip into the Okefenokee Swamp. Now I’m a mountain girl. Swamps and lowlands aren’t my first choice, but I couldn’t miss those trips!
We gathered up everything we needed to camp in the swamp – tents, rope, Coleman stove, lanterns, food, fishing gear, insect repellant, water. Once we arrived at our destination, we got our canoes and put in at the dock. We were off.
The swamp is a fascinating place that teems with life. Birds of various kinds flew from tree to tree. Fish in the canal jumped leaving behind ripples in water as dark as brewed tea. Flowers and foliage lined the banks. The reflection of the trees in the water was so vivid I couldn’t tell where the trees ended and the reflection began. There were logs floating in the canals. As we got closer we saw the logs had eyes. Then they just disappeared. Something scraped the bottom of the canoe, and the canoe started rocking. Those logs weren’t logs – they were gators!
I’ve been on trips with my sisters before, and I’ve learned some lessons: always have a secret stash hidden in my pack and never give all the food to just one person. On one particular swamp trip my brother-in-law was along. As we rowed through the main canal, we would take an occasional side waterway to explore deeper into the swamp. My brother-in-law’s canoe took another canal to fish. The rest of us went on ahead. It was getting close to time to find our campsite, get our tents set up and cook supper before dark. We found our site, docked and got our tent up on the assigned platform. After waiting a while for the others, we went ahead and gathered our supplies to fix supper. We had caught enough fish for a mess. Though my brother-in-law had many of the food items in his canoe, we managed to pool our stashed resources and came up with enough to supplement our catch. After getting everything cleaned up from supper, we tied up the other food items into the rafters of the platform. The others never did show up.
It got dark. Let me tell you, when it’s dark in the swamp, it is dark! There was no way the other travelers could see to make their way to us in the dark. We had the tents, stove and lanterns. There was nothing we could do, so we went and crawled into our sleeping bags for a good night’s sleep. We heard noises in the middle of the night. We all turned our flashlights on and saw raccoons using our tied up supplies as punching bags as they tried to grab a free meal.
Our intention was to do some exploring in the swamp. Instead, after a bite of breakfast, we loaded up and headed out to find our missing companions. We came to the main canal, made the turn, and there they were. There was a picnic table next to a small dock. They had made their way to the canal at dark and slept on the picnic tables. They didn’t get carried off by gators or skeeters. We left the swamp with many stories to share and add to our memories.
Sneaker Wave
Sometimes adventures take you unawares. While visiting the Pacific Northwestern coast, I met such an adventure. Thankfully, it was a short adventure but one worthy of retelling, if only for a warning.
We stopped at Rialto Beach. It was a foggy gray morning. The photos I shot looked like they were shot in black and white. The sky, ocean and beach all blended in together. Bleached pieces of driftwood, small pieces as well as full sized trees with roots intact, were drifted into piles along the shoreline, one butting against the other. Some were more weathered than others. The beach was covered with pebbles of various sizes. I was especially fascinated by the green smooth rocks scattered among the other smooth stones.
Waves battered large rock formations that jutted out of the water. They stood as cold beacons against the foreboding sky, unmoving and strong against the gray relentless waves. The incoming tide swallowed up the sandy beach leaving little choice but to walk in the rocks that lay on the beach. It was difficult to walk through the rocks and the occasional stretches of soft sand. My calves got tight, and I started to get warm. I soon took off my extra shirt and jacket.
After walking down the shoreline for a bit, we turned and headed back in the direction we came. I had seen some people walking at the edge of the surf. I took off my shoes, rolled up by pants legs and walked right at the edge of the water. As the tide came in, the sandy part of the shore was buried. I headed to the higher rocky shoreline. About that time, a sleeper wave, or sneaker wave, rushed in. I braced myself because I knew when the wave was sucked back into the water vacuum, it would try to take me with it. The power of the surf sucked the sand and stones from under my feet pulling me with it. It was like a sea monster had whipped its tentacles around my ankles and was pulling me back into its lair. I know it was quite a sight. I was in the water, but my left hand that held my camera and my 70-200 white lens was lifted high. I even took three upside-down pictures in the process (quite by accident). My traveling companion was quick to help. “Always get the shot” is the motto. It was okay if I was sucked out to sea as long as there was a photo to document it. Some help! I learned later that these sneaker waves are common in Northern California, Oregon and Washington. They can grab someone standing on the beach and pull them under and out to sea. The NOAA says, “Don’t turn your back on the ocean.”
I was sufficiently soaked. It’s a good thing I wore layers. Back at the vehicle, I put the floor mat on the seat, and traded some of my wet clothes for something dry. I had to have a shower to wash off the salt, got on some dry clothes, and we were off again on another adventure.
Rodeo Rider
It was a perfect day for a ride in the mountains. There was a charge of electricity in the air. Adventure rode on the breeze all around us. Yep, it promised to be a good day! Cousin Babs had matched us up with our steeds. My sister was atop Captain. True to his name, he was demanding and always vying for the lead. I was atop Ramona. She was a pretty sorrel. She would edge up beside Captain and he’d reward her with a bump of his rump or a swift kick.
Mounted up with our lunch packed on our saddles we started across the field. We passed the ranch crew already hard at work. We came to a downed wire. Babs stopped and pondered the situation. She led the way with Captain quick on her heels. When Ramona started over the wire Captain’s back hoof lifted the wire and tickled Ramona’s underside. She didn’t like that even a little bit and took off like a bucking bronc. Away we went – Ramona and me. The stirrups were too long for my short legs. There was no way I could brace my feet in the stirrups, so I clamped my knees into the sides of the saddle, grabbed the reins and waved my other hand in the air like a bucking bronc rider, my trusty backpacking hat flopping up and down in the breeze.
Ramona headed straight for a barbed wire fence. I pulled on the reins and yelled “whoa” along with words Babs had taught me on the cattle drive over the mountains. I learned the meaning of seeing daylight between rider and saddle – from the rider’s perspective! Ramona bucked her way closer to the fence. I caught a glimpse of cousin Babs out of the corner of my eye, sitting high in the saddle, arms propped over the saddle horn, hat in place, pasted smile on her face, roaring and jiggling with laughter. I wasn’t very amused but was in no position to discuss the matter. My immediate future flashed before my eyes. I could see myself flying over the saddle, crossing the top of the fence as Ramona hit the sharp barbs. She skidded to a stop just shy of the fence. I held on, determined to stay right-side-up. For the life of me, I don’t know how I stayed top-side.
The rest of the traveling rodeo watchers rode up and applauded the bucking bronc & rider. Well, I guess you can interpret uncontrolled laughter as applause! I pulled my knees out of the sides of the saddle leaving an impression behind and slid out of the saddle. I stroked Ramona’s lathered neck and sides and talked softly trying to calm both of us. I kicked the sod back in place over the skid marks and remounted.
We headed up the trail. It was a nice ride through the mountains. The horses were skittish and suspicious of every little noise and movement for the rest of the ride. We stopped for a picnic lunch and enjoyed the beautiful scenery and crisp mountain air.
We made our way over the ridge down the trail where we would cross the Boulder River. Babs went first to test the water and find the best path for horses’ hooves on the slippery river rocks. The rest of us followed. We got sufficiently wet, but all stayed atop our trusty steeds and made it across the river with no more incidents.
The dog refused to cross the cold river. Babs had no choice but to cross the river again and take the dog in tow. About that time, Captain decided to complete his bath by getting dried off. He shook and my sister shook with him. Before we could even blink, Captain went down. We all hollered for his rider to jump off. She just barely got her leg free and out of the saddle before Captain rolled over on his back, rolling in the dirt. When he got up he shook all over before being remounted. Babs wasn’t laughing quite as hard by this time because she was using her cattle drive language on the dog.
We started out again. Half way across the pasture, we were greeted by neighs and snorts. The horses seemed ready for a fight. We made it through and headed back toward the ranch. By this time, the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon. We came to a little bridge and the horses jumped and bumped and rumped together all the way across. By the time we turned into the yard, we were all ready to end the day’s adventures.
Note: No animals were hurt during the course of this story which took place in 1975. However, the bronc rider suffered bruises to the inside of her knees and had various other sore spots. Yep, it had been a good day.
