Magpie Welcoming
It was my first solo trip after years of remaining within my familiar region of the Midwest, my mind, and other cages I had welded around myself. Finally, after signing my life away to the rental car agency at the Missoula airport and getting the keys to my royal blue Kia Seltos, I was free. I put on John Denver and began my journey toward the mountains. I would be attending a Father John Misty concert in a couple nights, and in the meantime I would roam. The Garden of One Thousand Buddhas was a colorful stop to be cleansed by the wind and ground myself with the help of proverbs inscribed on boulders, a structure made of peace flags, and many other monuments, hence the name. As I've always found the west, wholesome as it is wild, there was a group of young cowboys practicing their lassoing skills in the field beyond the log archway that led back to my car.
When I pulled up to the gravel road that led to my tipi where I'd stay for the next two nights, there was a crow-like, white-chested bird with blue back feathers standing in the grass, aligned picturesquely beyond the center of the crossroads. This creature's essence was engrossed in the mysticism of the land, I felt this but confirmed with a bit of googling. The Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes named a mountain, creek, and other landmarks in the Flathead Reservation after the Magpie, and the bird is also a repeating and unwavering symbol of intelligence, mischief, and chaotic goodness in Native storytelling and folklore.
I quietly thanked the magpie, the land, and its people for hosting me while reflecting on my intentions for my time in Montana; to meet unfamiliar colors in nature and hear new birdsong, smell the forest earthiness, taste the huckleberries and feel the mountain breeze, to lean into the allure of rest and follow my intrigue at the same time. It was a certain homecoming; I'd been wandering for years and had finally arrived to the Mission Mountain Range, where I felt closest to having belonged then I had in quite a long time, welcomed by a winged jester of the woods.
Flathead National Forest, CSKT Bison Range
The mountains contain many worlds and seasons, all happening simultaneously. Cool winter landscapes stacked atop colorful piles of boulders, some covered with a snowy green blanket of pine trees and other timber, others looked more like meadows with the first of spring's wildflowers just beginning to show themselves.
It was hard to focus on the road while I was amazed by the grandiose views from every angle. Rocky horizon lines in the distance changed colors in the sunlight, morphing into new shapes and losing their old ones as I bound around curves and toppled hills.
Lake McDonald, GNP
I went to explore Glacier in March and although it was cold, it was perfect. I felt like I might be the last person on Earth as I stood at the rocky shoreline of Lake McDonald and peered out at the mountains and their equally monumental reflections, thankful I was here in the quiet off-season, but sorry to disturb the wildlife with my footsteps during a time when they must have been grateful to be without people, too.
The vastness of the stacks of trees in the valley all the way across the lake made me remember my presence, my banal human existence. I was so glad to be exactly where I was, but it is always difficult for me not to see such beauty as fleeting; I thought about the ice that is actively melting and everything else that we've done to hurt this beautiful place.
Give This Child A Home
Although this was the furthest I had wandered in awhile, it was the closest I'd felt to myself, perhaps ever. Alone with the magpies, bison, and mule deer; amongst huckleberries, bitterroot, and yellowbells, in the quiet grey, dewy sky that draped over Montana the early days of spring, I had that feeling of finally making it home after a long drive through a dark night.
