One Nation, Under God
One Nation, Under God
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I’m waiting for one of the political candidates running for office in Montana to bring up an issue that actually affects me. While the mess on the southern border continues unabated, we have no crush of immigrants where I live. I read and hear about male athletes crossing the line to play women’s sports, but that’s hardly a concern here. My freedoms are not being infringed upon. I can legally pack a gun, buy weed, and gamble, although I’m not sure those were freedoms that concerned our foundin...
I like to drive. It’s how I got here. I left Indiana following high school graduation in 1970 behind the wheel of my 1958 Ford big window pickup. Planning to drive all the way to Alaska for a pipeline job, I ran short of money in Montana, got a job with an outfitter in Cooke City, and thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I sold the pickup that fall to a guy who worked road construction. He wrecked the truck shortly thereafter and it became fill on the Beartooth Highway. After a short stint in...
Following an aborted hitch-hiking trip to Alaska that ended with a night in jail in Eureka, I found myself in Livingston waiting for a ride to Cooke City where I had work. It was hours before dawn and there was no traffic. I curled up next to my backpack and closed my eyes. The sound of tires crunching gravel woke me with a start. A Livingston police cruiser had stopped just feet away, and a cop, holding the passenger door open, said get in. He drove me a few miles south of town, told me to get...
We knew it was too soon, but we wanted to fish. The ice had come off early and the temperatures had already reached into the 70s. Something had to be biting. Right? Not necessarily. We pitched crankbaits, pulled bottom bouncers, and dropped jigs all with the same result. Nothing. Taj Mahal was apparently wrong when he sang “All fish bites if you got good bait.” Fort Peck Lake has a reputation as one of the top walleye fisheries in the nation, but you wouldn’t know it watching us. Me, I could...
It’s time to put Ace down. In the morning I’ll call the vet and make an appointment. I hoped he’d die in his sleep. That would have been so much easier for both of us, especially me. Instead, he was standing outside the bedroom door this morning waiting to be fed. He still eats his kibble and follows me around the house and yard, but he’s unsteady on his feet. Twice in recent days he fell and couldn’t get up. I heard his frantic cries and rescued him, lifting him back to his feet and holding h...
I hoped I was simply late for the party. It wouldn’t be the first time. But where I used to watch dozens of male sage grouse dance each spring on my birthday there were now only six, scattered across the lek. Twenty years ago sage grouse were common in the country I hunt in north-central Montana. I didn’t shoot many, but they were another species of prairie game bird I hunted along with sharptail grouse, Hungarian partridge and pheasants. These days I’m just happy to see one. Vanishing sageb...
I’m ready for the color to return. I’m tired of all the washed-out hues -- browns, greys and off-whites melding on the horizon into a dull, featureless sky. Flowers have yet to bloom. Leaves have yet to pop. The residue of winter has yet to be washed from the land by spring rains. In town, the streets are dirty from a winter of sanding. Yards are showing only the slightest hint of green as four months' accumulation of dog poop makes its appearance after being hidden under the cover of snow. Fri...
My father-in-law, Harry Johnson, left Texas in 1953 and moved to Gallatin County. Quickly falling in love with the Big Sky state, he made Montana home, raising a son and daughter here. He died in Ennis in 1995. But as much as Harry loved Montana, he didn’t care for the winters, which he thought were too long, too cold, too confining. A mason, he’d take his family south each winter, picking up jobs laying brick and stone in the desert before returning to Montana in the spring. Once back home Bar...
I was asked during a recent doctor’s appointment if I fear falling. I hesitated before answering, worried that I was being set up. After all, I’d earlier been given a cognitive test to check my memory. It had been years since I’d seen a doctor and, during that time I’d aged enough that now the exam seemed to be focused on my mental acuity instead of any physical abilities I once had. I feared a wrong answer might result in me being sent to a home. “Of course, I fear falling,” I snapped. “It’s wi...
The first grizzly bear of the year was spotted last week by a skier on Specimen Ridge in Yellowstone Park. It’s probably not the same bear I ran into there some years ago but it may be his kin. Following an elk trail along the ridge through waist-deep snow, I caught movement ahead of me in the trees and froze in my tracks. A bear was headed in my direction on the same trail. Dark-colored and enormous, there was no doubt as to which flavor he was. I’d heard it said that black bears are often mis...
While working at the Bozeman Chronicle some 20-odd years ago I was offered the chance to take part in an adventure race. Not knowing exactly what an adventure race entailed, I nonetheless jumped at the opportunity to get out of the office for a week. A multi-discipline, team affair, the race consisted of mountain biking, hiking, rafting, riding horses, and rappelling along a 200-mile course through the surrounding mountains. I was quite comfortable with everything except rappelling, about which...
It’s that time of year when Barb and I head south. By the end of February, we’ve had enough snow and cold. Warmer climes begin to call. For decades we pulled a boat to Florida, fishing the salt on both the Atlantic and Gulf coasts. Most years we camped on barrier islands under the palms. Eventually, however, that trip became too long, Florida too crowded, and too many days on the road to get there. We began spending time in the California desert about five years ago. While it lacked the fis...
I have a fear of falling. It’s not age-related. I just don’t like to fall. It often hurts. During hunting season I’m especially careful. The ground is uneven if not steep, the footing precarious. If I take a misstep and lose my balance I always protect the gun, letting my elbows and backside hit the ground instead of the fancy walnut stock. That approach has served me well. While my elbows and backside may be scarred and bruised, my 20-gauge, Italian over-and-under only bears a couple of hard-...
Ace turned 13 today. There were times over the last six months I didn’t think he would make it. Not that there was anything specifically wrong with him, he’s just old -- for a hunting dog anyway. And he is that. Ace has been hunting since he was seven months. On Jan. 1 he completed his 12th season. Never the best dog in the pack, he blended in over the years hunting behind more aggressive, more talented dogs. Now it’s just him and Dot, a three-year-old who far surpasses him in the field. Hunti...
Some years ago while working for the Bozeman Chronicle I was told by a computer tech there that folks would soon be reading the news on their phones. I laughed at such a far-fetched notion, coming as it did from a computer nerd. What did he know about news? This was a few years before the demise of the daily newspaper. I couldn’t yet see the end. Now I’m lost without my phone, which provides me with up-to-the-minute news, sports, weather and nonsense. It also offers a constant distraction fro...
A friend recently said her husband was in the process of passing along his collection of firearms to their grandchildren. She said she hopes the guns don’t get taken away, but confiscation remains a fear. I suppose that’s because the threat of the government taking our guns is nearly as old as me. Despite the fact that no one has ever taken our guns in this country, confiscation of firearms remains a right-wing talking point. As a result we have a populace armed with military-style weapons rea...
It’s hard to stay active in the middle of winter. Snow and bitter cold keep me inside the house, sunken deep in my favorite chair, mesmerized by ball games of little consequence. My watch, however, keeps me going. It tells me to stand if I’ve been sitting too long. It compliments me on the progress I make toward pre-programmed exercise goals, and it nags me to keep it up. “You can do it, Parker!” It records my daily mile walk, announcing the time elapsed through so many layers of clothing I have...
This must be why folks move to Arizona. For a few days now the temperature has hovered between barely survivable and colder-than-anyone-remembers. The minus 30 something I woke to this morning was a rerun of yesterday’s bitter cold. It’s been even colder in other parts of the state and I take solace in that. It’s seldom the case. Living on the Hi-line I’ve grown accustomed to the cold. I dress for it, donning long johns in October and not taking them off until spring, which up here means M...
While packing up my hunting gear at the end of the season I realized Dot’s e-collar was switched on, the green light still blinking feebly. I turned it off and started to put it back in its box then realized I might need it again before next fall. Commonly referred to as a “shock” collar, it’s what I use to keep Dot in range, an electronic leash of sorts. Among the options on the controller are two small buttons for tone and vibrate, and a larger one that administers an electric shock. I call...
The ground was white with frost when I climbed out of the truck. It almost looked as if it had snowed. In an hour, however, it would be gone, the ground bare and dry again under another cloudless sky. Dot sat patiently as I fastened the e-collar around her neck. Ace wandered to the other side of the truck, lifting his leg on the tire. I tested the beep on the collar and Dot squealed and started hoovering the grass at the edge of the cattails. Her attention was only a button away. Ace, deaf and...
Folks in Malta took the opportunity to vent about the hunting season last week during a visit from the right wing Montana Talks radio show. Apparently, out-of-state hunters — particularly those from Washington — killed what deer were left in Phillips County. This, after they trespassed, littered, and packed the parking lot at the local grocery store. All the evidence was anecdotal which fits the show’s format. Actual facts and figures simply get in the way. While host Aaron Flint and his guest...
Halfway through the fourth and final month of the hunting season, I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of dread. In a couple of weeks, I’ll no longer be able to answer “Yep” when Barb asks me if I’m hunting that day. Instead, I’ll have to go into detail about the projects around the house that require my attention: the ceiling that’s falling in; the floors that need refinishing; the light fixtures that need replaced. It’s an endless list that keeps growing. But since the first of September, my w...
Every time I visit Bozeman I’m reminded of why I left. At the time I blamed the opening of a store specializing in nothing but batteries as the final straw. That was nearly 20 years ago. Bozeman has grown by leaps and bounds since then. There are probably a couple of battery stores in town now. Malta, on the other hand, where Barb and I moved, has seen a decline in population, as has much of rural Montana. Newcomers, it seems, may talk about moving to the rugged West, but most of them actually w...
I learned today of the death of my friend and longtime colleague Joan Haines. A reporter at the Bozeman Chronicle for many years Joan followed her own path even if it strayed from that suggested by her editors. As the Chronicle’s features editor, I butted heads with her on more than one occasion. I well remember meeting with Joan and our managing editor in the Chronicle conference room concerning a story she didn’t want to cover. Joan sat down, placed a tape recorder on the table, looked at the...
With swarms of feral hogs massing on our northern border, it’s time to take stock of our options. Montana wildlife officials warn against shooting them. Hunting, we’re told, only makes hogs harder to control. Trapping is the preferred alternative. A column I wrote a couple of years ago to that effect prompted a flood of responses. The mere suggestion that feral hogs be trapped instead of shot outraged an entire community of folks who are rabid about shooting pigs. Perhaps Montana should loo...
