It's not my Montana -- with the dry martini crisp air that hurts lungs that have grown accustomed to city smog and Texas humidity. It's not the clear lakes that are so transparent you wonder for a split second if they are truly there or just a fairy tale. It's not the thrilling snow-capped dental crags that seem to desperately stretch for some unknown goal in the endless expanse of blue. It's not the camera flash of snow that leaves you half-blind in a sun-drenched instant in late January. It's not the ski hills crawling with wealthy adventuresome ants slipping downhill in search of excitement only to ride up to find it again. It's not untamed and serene wildlife calmly staring out of forest shadows shaming humans who live purposeless busy lives. It's not pristine forests of green varying in shades from emerald to jade to gold.
My Montana was the ever-present and pervading odor of cow poop that invades nostril hairs and permeates dreams. It's the stunning crystal lakes full of giardia and other possibly deadly and definitely uncomfortable and embarrassing bacteria just waiting to strike the unwary hiker. It's exhausting 14-mile hikes to the tops of those snow-capped mountains so we could have "family time." It's the sparkle of pristine snow from which you have to dig out the half-ton pickup that somehow managed to get stuck despite having four-wheel drive. It's the exhilarating and award-winning ski hill that injured my knee so badly in the seventh grade that it still aches when it rains. It's the fathomless depths of the doe's eyes staring unseeingly at me from the back of a pickup during hunting season of my brother's twelfth year. That was my Montana.
Now, it's the unreachable dream. It's the promise of livable summers that don't include scorching heat and unbearable humidity. It's the mountain views that still take my breath away without even trying. It's the unbearable beauty of cool shadows and sun-dappled fields that reminds me of why it's called God's country. It's the thrill of sinking into a river flowing with glacial water that was snow eight hours before. It is my past and my children's legacy. I wish it was my Montana again.
My Montana was the ever-present and pervading odor of cow poop that invades nostril hairs and permeates dreams. It's the stunning crystal lakes full of giardia and other possibly deadly and definitely uncomfortable and embarrassing bacteria just waiting to strike the unwary hiker. It's exhausting 14-mile hikes to the tops of those snow-capped mountains so we could have "family time." It's the sparkle of pristine snow from which you have to dig out the half-ton pickup that somehow managed to get stuck despite having four-wheel drive. It's the exhilarating and award-winning ski hill that injured my knee so badly in the seventh grade that it still aches when it rains. It's the fathomless depths of the doe's eyes staring unseeingly at me from the back of a pickup during hunting season of my brother's twelfth year. That was my Montana.
Now, it's the unreachable dream. It's the promise of livable summers that don't include scorching heat and unbearable humidity. It's the mountain views that still take my breath away without even trying. It's the unbearable beauty of cool shadows and sun-dappled fields that reminds me of why it's called God's country. It's the thrill of sinking into a river flowing with glacial water that was snow eight hours before. It is my past and my children's legacy. I wish it was my Montana again.
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