It's not that I don't like people

As we drove north the temperature headed south.

We’d spent a few days visiting friends and family in Livingston, shopped a bit in Bozeman, and were on our way home to Malta.

It’s always fun to see the economic vitality and growth in that part of the state, but it’s become another one of those places that are nice to visit but I sure wouldn’t want to live there.

Instead, I live in a place few folks visit, and fewer still want to make their home. However, that’s a big part of the appeal for me.

It’s not that I don’t like people. I just don’t want to bump into them or get stuck in traffic with them or stand in long lines with them.

Being an hour and half from the closest Wal-Mart and twice that from the nearest Target tends to dampen the popularity of a place in this day and age. So do extended periods of sub-zero temperatures.

When we left Livingston at 8 a.m. on Christmas Eve it was 40 degrees and snowing sideways. By the time we crossed the Missouri River the mercury had fallen to half that. An hour later, as we pulled up to the house it was nine degrees.

It hasn’t been that balmy since, and isn’t expected to get above zero for a week with low temps in the minus-thirties. Only ice fisherman revel in such a forecast.

We were due.

Following a torridly hot summer complete with drought and an infestation of grasshoppers, fall had been dry and mild with temperatures so pleasant I was afraid the area would start to appeal to newcomers.

Winter anywhere in Montana used to deter most folks, but no longer. Everyone, it seems, has a four-wheel drive, snow removal services proliferate, and frankly, winter just isn’t what it used to be in much of the state.

Malta is the exception where nose-hair-freezing cold is the norm, and snow lingers until April on the tree-less prairie.

While newcomers flock to the state’s more popular areas, drawn by the scenic beauty of the mountains and our increasingly redneck political climate, few heed the call of the dying small towns.

I just happen to be one of the few, drawn by the remoteness of the place, and the severity of the weather. An unabashed oddball, I can’t imagine calling any other place home.

Even at thirty below.

Parker Heinlein is at [email protected]