Montana's Big Sky

The first indication of warning was from the Montana Department of Transportation.  The portable road sign with its changeable message flashed, “Wildfire Situation Ahead. Do not stop along the shoulders. Reduced speed enforced.”  The next message was about a mile farther, painted on a wooden plank and propped against a tree in someone’s front yard.  It read: “Thank you firefighters. Stay safe.” 

Unbeknownst to us, we were driving into a wildfire zone.  I suppose under normal situations, the haze and smoke would have been indicators, but we’d been in Montana for several days and were leaving Glacier National Park, which had been dealing with recent wildfires that started the day before we arrived.  As a result of a severe thunderstorm, 150 lightning strikes sparked several wildfires due to very dry conditions, so the haze had been part of our visit.  Three fires in the park are still burning, with officials speculating that the larger one won’t be completely contained until the first snowfall of the season.

Sperry Chalet on July 21 - Photo by Bret Bouda

But this particular wildfire had been burning longer and continues to spread.  The Rice Ridge Fire in the Lolo National Forest started July 24.  It, too, was triggered by lightning.  Driving south along Highway 83 and nearing the town of Seeley Lake, we saw and smelled what residents had been dealing with for a while.  As one local said to us, shrugging, “You get used to it, but it’s frustrating.  What are you going to do? Lightning.”

As of this writing, the Rice Ridge Fire is still burning, consuming over 139,500 acres and the town of Seeley Lake has been evacuated.  Its residents not only have the worry of what might happen to their homes and businesses, they also have been breathing some unhealthy and toxic air for weeks.  Yet very little about this or any of the forty-eight active wildfires that are ravaging the state have been reported nationally.

Sperry Chalet/Sprague Wildfire - Glacier Natl Park Photo

Our visit to Montana originated in Salt Lake City, Utah.  As my husband and I drove closer to Idaho, the haze became part of the landscape and stayed with us until we headed home from North Dakota.  Except for one afternoon.  Clear visibility occurred the day after some heavy rains cleared the smoke for a bit in Glacier National Park.  It briefly revealed to us what I had traveled there to see.  Stunning vistas, rugged terrain and Montana’s big sky.  However, those rains didn’t contain one little fire.  From the shores of Lake McDonald at Apgar Village during those clear-sky hours, we saw the Sprague fire smoldering just behind some peaks, its smoke rising into the sky as if being released from a smokestack or chimney.  Nothing more.  However, it became a lot more.  It has now burned over 14,000 acres, destroying a National Historic Landmark, Sperry Chalet (built 1914), in the park and forcing early closure of nearby McDonald Lodge and the west entrance to the Going-to-the-Sun Road.  It’s the fire that some think that only Mother Nature can entirely contain with snowfall.  That might seem fitting since Mother Nature was its cause.

My iPhone photos of Lake McDonald 

I had originally planned for this blog post to be about our visit to Montana, with descriptions of the beautiful scenery accompanied by photographs I had taken.  I couldn’t wait to see “Big Bend” along the Going-to-the-Sun Road, its carpet of wildflowers leading down to a valley, with four separate mountains and peaks jutting against blue sky and white clouds along the horizon.  It wasn’t to be. The breathtaking drive up to Logan Pass in one of the park’s official Red Buses (something I highly recommend doing given the narrowness of the Going-to-the-Sun Road and the amount of traffic on it) was special.  But “Big Bend” couldn’t offer the usual spectacular view, as haze and clouds hung low like curtains shuttering away the setting behind it.  Logan Pass was the same.  Mother Nature’s theatre was dark.  Still, glimpses of the grandeur were there, better caught with my eyes and my imagination, if not with my camera.  And while I had hoped for more photo opportunities of that big sky, I feel it was good to see first-hand what was happening, and unfortunately what was to come.   

Montana is burning.  As are Oregon, Washington, California, Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, and Nevada.  Over eight million acres burned thus far; people, wildlife, homes, buildings and livelihoods continue to be affected, with air quality unfit in many places.  Lives have been lost. And the word needs to spread, just as rampantly as those fires have.  The nation’s attention has been focused on the hurricane devastations in the south, and rightly so.  But there is need and attention north and west, and it’s a desperate situation.

In addition to The American Red Cross, there are other donation and giving opportunities available in Montana such as The Missoula United Way, the 406 Family Aid Foundation, Garfield County Fire Foundation Relief Fund (via fundly.com), Bear Paw Volunteer Fire Department (on its Facebook page), Lolo MT Community Outreach Group, Eureka Chamber of Commerce and the Libby Ministerial Association. The same exists for all of the other states affected, as well.  Simply do a google search to find what’s best for you.  Everything helps, and pass the word.  Share the need, this post, news articles and the like to your Facebook and Twitter pages.  Tell your friends and families.  Hopefully, the media will take notice.  

A Person Grows Old While Waiting for Her Book to Get Published

My manuscript for Williamsburg Hill

The month has almost slipped away and I've yet to make a blog post for August, so here it is. I'd planned on sharing some things about a recent trip I took to Montana and Glacier National Park (including info on wildfires, smoke and haze, too), but I've only written a couple of paragraphs, so hopefully it'll be ready for September.  Other things have occupied my time and mind, so I've not been able to finish the post yet. Updates on my work will have to fill this space for now.

My book, Williamsburg Hill, continues to be considered. The manuscript remains in the possession of literary agents and publishers and the timeframe is out of my hands. Truth: A person grows old while waiting for her book to get published.  However, I've been working on some other projects.  I wrote a blog post recently called "Stardust" that's actually a short story. It's an idea of where my next book will go, and the book is in the outlining/planning/research stage, but I'm almost ready to go with it.  I'll have to prioritize with this one though, as it's competing with a couple of other ideas: rewriting a book (that has never been published) that I'd finished about fifteen years ago into a stage play; and I've an idea for a musical, so I'm close to starting the book for it.

I continue to add photographs I've taken to Fine Art America. Please visit my page at www.veronica-batterson.pixels.com to view them.  Any purchases are always appreciated.

My books Daniel's Esperanza, Funny Pages, and Billy's First Dance are still available in paperback and as ebooks. The easiest place to find them is on Amazon.  I appreciate those purchases, as well.  If you're inclined to leave positive reviews for them, give shout-outs and such, all the better. Thank you.

Finally, I posted an abbreviated version of this on Twitter recently (hey, you only have so many characters there):

Things aren't always as they seem or appear.  Simply having an internet platform doesn't make you an authority on something; the ability to make comments online doesn't make you an expert either.  Neither of these gives anyone the right to harass, make threats or ruin reputations or lives.  Think before you speak, type, or "fly off the handle".  Words can do damage.

We should all remember and live by this. As always, thanks for reading my blog.

Cowboy Ridge and Honor

The view of the roads, one early Chicago morning, December 2015

It's interesting how music can spur an idea, and I'm not sure if other writers visualize a story before they put words to it, but I do. This short story started forming recently while we drove from Chicago to Memphis. Leaving a snowstorm with white-out conditions behind us, listening to Robert Earl Keen on the iPod (particularly "I'm Comin' Home" and "Gringo Honeymoon"), and driving toward new beginnings, the idea started formulating. While a story doesn't "wrap up" in my head and it only evolves (and changes) as I write, I get a general sense of what I'd like it to say as I think about it. This story really isn't a reflection of the music I listened to that day, but I guess the songs set the tone and direction.

It feels good to get back to work after a long break. Also, I'm looking forward to getting back to writing and finishing my next book, Williamsburg Hill...it was coming along nicely until a little thing called "moving" happened.

January 2016 is an anniversary of sorts for me. Four years ago, I started this blog and thought it wouldn't last. But I'm still around and posting stuff. Thanks for reading my stories and musings. I hope you enjoy Cowboy Ridge and Honor and, as always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Cowboy Ridge and Honor

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

His horse pawed the earth, scraping away snow and foraging for grass to eat.  Spring thaws were starting and bits of green, suddenly awake after a long winter’s sleep, sprouted through the slush.  Soon the ground would be a muddy mess and he’d be digging muck out of hooves, boots and from more things than he cared to consider.

“Not much to eat here, old boy,” he said, patting the neck of the gelding that had been his companion for over a decade.  The horse looked up at the sound of his voice, its ears swiveling. 

It wasn’t far now. The old schoolhouse was just around the bend; he imagined smoke billowing from its chimney, and the bell ringing through the hollow signaling the start of a school day in what was now an abandoned structure.  He guessed Honor had remembered it that way, too, as it had been the man’s history.

It had taken him nearly a week to complete this final trip with his friend.  “Six days, thirteen hours and roughly twenty minutes,” he muttered, glancing at the pocket watch Honor had given him.  It was almost over.  Soon he would be home in the arms of his wife and sitting by a warm fire. 

He’d been rough around the edges all those years ago when he first met Honor; he had plucked himself straight from the Chicago streets and landed in a hellish Montana winter without knowing a soul or understanding why he’d done it.  Smiling, he recalled his attempts at fitting in.  His new, brand-named outerwear didn’t fool anyone, nor did the shiny, leather cowboy boots that were in dire need of breaking in.  His feet had hurt so badly.  He recalled his first meeting with the man who would become his mentor.

“You ain’t from these parts, are you?” came the raspy drawl.  The man was leaning against the checkout counter of the only grocery store within a fifty-mile radius.

“So it’s that obvious,” he had replied.

“Well, I know most folks from around here, and I don’t know you.  So the odds of you being a stranger are pretty good,” the man smiled, lines deepening around his eyes and the tips of his full mustache lifting with his grin. 

“And I thought the way I was dressed was the giveaway,” he’d said.

“To some it would be.  To me, it looks like you’re trying too hard,” came the reply.

“Trying too hard at what?”

“Only you know that answer.  Maybe to blend in, maybe to get a fresh start at something new.  Nothing’s wrong with either one.”

“Guess I’d like to do both.”

“Well, let me give you a bit of advice.  You really going to eat that?” the man had nodded toward the food he held in his hand.

“Why else would I be buying it?”

“Maybe to kill a stray cat.  Look, old Sally runs a good store here, and she can generally cook a decent meal, but I wouldn’t say sushi is her specialty.  That ain’t exactly something that flies off the shelves.  Some might get a good laugh out of the city slicker who got sick off of old Sally’s concoctions.”

He’d looked down at the wrapped package and thought it appeared less appetizing than before.  A wave of homesickness washed over him at that moment and he wondered what had made him think he could ever make it out west.  Setting the food back on the shelf, he turned to the stranger.

“Thanks,” he’d said.

“My pleasure.  Name’s Honor, by the way,” the man had replied, extending his hand.

He remembered shaking Honor’s hand and thought how that one gesture could sum up a person as a human being.  Honor’s handshake was an indication of just who the man was.  Genuine, strong, dependable and devoted.  He’d known his friend for many years and Honor never swayed from being anything other than decent and good.  The name had defined him.

“How’d you end up with the name Honor anyway?” he recalled asking the man once.

“Left on the doorstep as a babe with the word pinned to my blanket.  I was raised by some good folks who simply used the name out of respect for whoever left me,” Honor had replied.

“You never wanted to find out who that was?  Where you came from?”

“Why?  I am who I am.”

And that was Honor.  From the old buckskin coat with the torn fringe, to the weathered cowboy hat he wore, you knew what you were getting.  And when his old friend, who never asked for any favors, drew his last breath, he knew what was needed.  To honor a request that had come from the heart.

“The woman I loved told me that I was as mule-headed of a man she ever met, but she loved me in spite of it,” Honor revealed once, and had laughed at the memory.

“Didn’t know you were ever married.”

“Didn’t say I was.  She and I never made it legal, but we lived together as man and wife up near a place we called Cowboy Ridge.”

“That far from here?”

“Pretty far.  You can only make it by horse.  Hard as heck building that little cabin, but we did it.  Just the two of us.”

 “Where is she now?”

“She’s buried up there.  Should’ve made it legal.”  Honor had hung his head at the regret.

 His mind came back to the present as he and the horse crossed into the valley.  There stood the remote and dilapidated schoolhouse that Honor had attended, standing stubbornly against time and the elements.  It had survived all who had crossed its threshold and served as one final visual of his friend.  He would probably never pass this way again. 

“Promise me something,” Honor’s voice gasped, as he had struggled to form the words at the end.

“Anything.”

“Spread my ashes at Cowboy Ridge.  I need to rest with her.”

He carried out his friend’s wishes in a manner he thought best.  Two days to make Cowboy Ridge, a couple more tending to the property and cabin, two additional days to get back.  The ashes were scattered without fuss near the gravesite of the woman Honor had loved, as rushing water from a nearby stream provided the only sound.  He was certain Honor would have been pleased.

“Time to go home now,” he said to the horse, as he gently nudged the animal onward.  “Bet there’ll be some nice mash waiting.  Beats mud and weeds, don’t you think?”  The horse nickered in response, nodding its head as if understanding.

 The schoolhouse behind them, he didn’t look back.  He’d done the right thing by Honor, who never regretted anything other than not marrying the woman he had loved.  A sense of urgency filled him, as if time were limited.  Soon his cabin appeared in sight, the warm glow of lights through the windows illuminating the twilight and warming his soul.  His wife was waiting for him.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson