Tag Archives: wildlife

The behavior of men and elk…

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Out here on these acres of ranch land there are things I know are there and places I roam everyday. I know there are cattle somewhere between the east and west pastures, if the sneaky animals haven’t found a hole in the fence. I know that if I let the pug out too early in the morning without a bowl of food he will high tail it off down the red road to my parent’s garage where his girlfriend lives with one of those automatic dog feeders.

I know how to catch a horse and where the creek winds. I know where my favorite birch tree lives….and my favorite oak. I know there is a pair of geese that live in the dam in front of where we will put our new house. I know that they mate for life. When it comes to chokecherry picking, I know where to look. The same goes with plums, raspberries, tiger lilies and Christmas trees. I know who rides what saddle and to expect my pops, if he’s home on the weekend, down in the horse pens as soon as the light and weather will allow.

These things I know, these places I have shown you. I have taken you picking those berries, cutting that Christmas tree, down through that winding creek. I have introduced you to my favorite tree and shown you a photo of those geese. I have complained about the pug. These are things I can speak to, I can describe adequately and take you along through words and photos and feelings.

But on Friday evening as I saddled my horse and followed husband out of the barnyard and down the road to meet pops, I realized I haven’t successfully explained or portrayed to you my role out here on these rolling, rugged acres among the men of the Veeder Ranch.  Especially during a season that calls to their inner mountain men, that keeps their eyes wide open, their ears perked, their binoculars close to their sides and rifles tuned.

Yes, it’s nearing hunting season, and if I was ever a tag along, a nod and a “uh, huh” or “yeah, sure,” in their lives during the rest of the year as they explained to me where the fence was down and where the cattle were out, how to manage the water tank situation, how not to run over the biggest rock in the yard with the lawn mower, or where to stand and how to wave my hands when helping one of them back a pickup up to a trailer, ’tis truly the month for observation now, for quiet cheering, for watching these two men finally get a chance to play, to breathe, to flex their man muscles after a year filled with work and stresses.

So on Friday that’s what they did, we saddled up our horses and went scouting for elk–the elk that have been roaming in and out of our lives mysteriously all year, the elk that were behind our little brown house, across our road, by the cattle guard between the two places and then magically appear by my parents’ mailbox.

Because pops has his license this year, a kind of “once in a lifetime” chance at this majestic creature who he can hear bugling in his pastures in the evenings. But here’s the thing that I have learned about pops in my years of sitting next to him in the pickup as he leans his head out the window, his binoculars to his face…as much as the man is looking forward to the season and to the prospect of elk meat in his fridge for the winter,  what means more to him is the observation of this creature. He thrives on learning about their patterns of movement, where they water, where they bed down for the night, where they can be expected…or how they can be so unexpected.

And he wants to share in the experience, tell his story, see if he can show you the same thing. Which is precisely what we were doing on Friday as pops lead the way to the west pasture, talking quietly about how he came right up on these elk on Tuesday evening and got to watch them graze and hear them bugle from nearly 250 yards away. It made his month, that encounter, and he intended to find them again.

To watch.

To learn.

To listen.

And so I followed as the two men lead me down through the creek bottoms, up a rocky pass  across a grassy pasture and through a draw to the top of the hill where pops expected he might find the herd again. I followed as they whispered about guns and bows and where husband shot his whitetail deer a few seasons back. I watched them as they watched the hills, pulled binoculars to their faces, stopped short at the cracking of a tree branch or rustle of the leaves. They pointed things out to one another or stopped in a draw to whisper a few stories, pointers, to say what they expect or hope to see.

It as inspiring really as I moseyed behind, snapping photos and breathing in the fall air. These two men–one who raised me, one who I grew up with–have taught me things I may have never learned without them. Here they were, friends. Best friends out here under the sun that was setting fast and turning golden trees to dark shadows…best friends on an age-old mission, a ritual.

As we pushed our horses up to the top of the butte and dismounted, I watched as the two of them snuck to the edge of the hill, dark silhouettes of men out in an element that was made for them, silent and peering out into the big oak draws below.

My heart pumped hard as husband spun around with that expression I know means business and the two men nearly jogged back to the horses to get a closer look…they had heard the bulging and we were going to get a closer look.

Now here I would like to explain to you what that was like, sitting at the top of that hill with a herd of elk grazing and moving along the trees below us. I want to tell you what these men were saying and describe how the breeze was heavy, the light was low, how I was holding my breath nearly the entire time as the horses grazed behind us, listening for that unmistakable, mysterious bugle. I would have loved for you to be there, really, to learn a little about the behavior of elk in the men’s sporadic and enthused but quiet conversation about what they were seeing.

I could have sat there forever like that surrounded by good things, with the moon above and the grass under my body. I could have listened to these men in their best moments, watched these unsuspecting animals so far away in their habitat, doing what they do to survive out here.


I could have listened to those coyotes howl all night and fallen asleep under the stars at the feet of my horse.

That’s how I felt. 

This is what we saw…

And these are the sounds. They are something you may have never heard before so I wanted to share so badly. It’s nothing thrilling, no fast cars or complicated music, no political banter or celebrity gossip that you might typically find on an internet video. No. This is just the sound of quiet, of calm, of good men in awe of  nature, an elk bugling, coyotes howling and a woman listening…watching…observing the world through their eyes…

The sights and sounds of elk scouting with the men of the Veeder Ranch:

Alone and breathing in Theodore Roosevelt National Park

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Well fall came dancing along in all its glory around here and we sure didn’t need the calendar to tell us so. Just like the uncharacteristically warm weather, the leaves on the trees were not about to take the subtle approach to the season change. Overnight the ash leaves turned from greed to gold, the vines bright red, the grass and flowers exploded seeds and even the slow and steady oaks began letting go their acorns and turning one leaf over to gold at a time.

It has been magnificent. But that’s the way it is around these parts, when it comes to the landscape and the great outdoors, you really can’t accuse it of being understated.

So after a challenging week I was ready to celebrate autumn the way it deserved to be celebrated. I was ready to frolic in it, to let go my agenda and my worries, ignore my pain and troubles and just climb a big damn hill and feel the warm breeze in my hair. So on Friday after a trip to the big town for an appointment, I moseyed on down the busy highway filled with lines of trucks and pickups and SUVs. Vehicles that moved busy humans at full speed along that paved ribbon of road that winds through buttes and half cut wheat fields, across the Little Missouri River that sparkles and meanders under the big blue sky and slowly sinking sun. I wanted to meander too, I wanted to meander among the things out here that are allowed a slow change, a subtle move toward hibernation, a good long preparation for a show like no other, a recital of how to slow down gracefully.

And I couldn’t help but wonder while I tried hard to keep my eyes on the road, despite the neon yellow trees waving at me from the ditches, if these people who were sharing my path were seeing this. Did they notice that the tree was waving to them too? Were they commenting on how the crows have gathered? As we came down through the brakes that move us through the badlands of Western North Dakota, our home, did they notice how the layers of the buttes–the line of  red scoria, the black coal, the clay–did they notice how in the late afternoon light the landscape looked like a giant canvas and the buttes seemed created with wisps of an artist’s brush?

Did they see that river? I mean really see it when they passed over the bridge? Did they take note of how it has receded a bit? Did they feel like stopping beside it to rest for a while? And as they approached the sign that read “Theodore Roosevelt National Park-North Unit,” a sign that indicated they were indeed on the home stretch to their destination perhaps, only 15 miles to the town to stop for gas, to make it home, to take a rest on a long truck route, were they enticed like I was at all on that Friday afternoon to stop for a bit?

Because what could be better than breathing in fall from inside a place that exists raw and pure? A park. A reserve. A spot saved specifically to ensure that nature is allowed to go on doing what it does best while undisturbed by the agenda of the human race, which at that point on Friday afternoon I was firmly convinced didn’t have a grip or a handle or an inkling about how to live gracefully among a world designed for us…let alone accept and live harmoniously among what we can’t control or may not understand–like the change of weather and the seasons and the sun beating down on the hard earth we wish would soften, or a body we wish would heal and function properly.

And I was guilty as well of taking this for granted. I was guilty of driving by this spot time and time again as it called to me to take a rest, to visit, to have a walk or a seat or a climb.

But not Friday. Friday I needed its therapy. I needed to park my car and stretch my limbs and take a look around from the other side of my camera.

From the top of Battle Ship Butte.

From the trail at the river bottom.

From the flat where the bison graze.

So as I pulled my cap down and took to the familiar trail that wound up that big, daunting and famous butte along the road, I took notice of breeze clattering the drying leaves together, the birds frantically preparing for the chill, the grasshoppers flinging their bodies at the dried grass and rocks…

and then I noticed I was alone.

Alone out here in this wild place I’ve visited before as a tourist, as a resident of the area, on dates and outings, family functions and educational tours surrounded by inquiring minds and cameras.

But I’d never been out here alone.

Alone as I scrambled and pulled my tired body up the steep and rocky and slippery trail toward the top of my world  as twobison grazed on the flat below the buttes.

Alone as I reached my destination with no other ears around to hear me catch my breath and then sigh in awe at the colors and solitude.

Alone as I watched those bison move and graze, a spectator in a different world, a spy on a giant rock.

Alone as a ran my hand along the cannonball concretions, scrambled to keep my footing and wipe the sweat from my forehead on the way down.

Alone to take my time as I noticed how the trees sparkled on the river bottom against the sinking sun. No one to tell me that’s enough…enough photos, enough time, enough gazing.

Alone as I walked toward the river, keeping an eye on the time, but wishing there was no such thing. And there was no one there to stop me from following it a little bit further, to see what it looked like on the other side of the bend.

No one there but me and a head full of thoughts and worries that were being pushed out of the way to make room for the scenery, the quiet, the beauty, the wildlife tracks and magnificent colors and trails before me.

And because I was alone, because it was quite, because in here there was no speeding or trucks or access to my phone, because unlike on the ranch, I was unfamiliar with the trails and the directions I was forced to really pay attention, to use my senses, to make new discoveries,  I was able to notice that after a few weeks gone missing I was becoming myself again.

The self that understood this was my habitat, my home and surroundings. The self that knows the weather will be predictably unpredictable, but the seasons will always change, the leaves will dry up, the acorns will fall, the birds will fly away from the cold or prepare for it, the grasshoppers will finish their rituals, the snow will come and coat the hard earth, then melt with the warm sun, changing the landscape, if only a little bit, as the water runs through and cuts the cracks in the earth.

And the bison will roam because we let them and the antelope will too knowing or not knowing that their lives are fragile.

Just like ours.

So we must remember to be present,  live in it…breathe.

Thank God I remembered to breathe.

Please, remember to breathe.

For more photos of my hike around Theodore Roosevelt National Park, click here to visit my Flickr photo album 

Oh, and if you missed it, take a stab at my North Dakota Trivia Game from last week’s post for a chance to win a prize! There haven’t been many brave attempts (I think you’ve all been out enjoying the beautiful weather), so I’m giving you more time!  Get your ND history hat on a play!

Heaven is a wild raspberry…

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Around here you go to bed at night to a landscape brown and ready to shoot to the sky and wake to fields of flowers big and bright and alive. Around here you savor their aroma, their vibrance, their fleeting existence, because as soon as you close your eyes again they have withered into the earth.

Around here you wait for months for the sun to stay in the sky just a little longer to warm the ground  and make things grow and allow you to stay out in the air until well past 10 pm.

Around here you must get to the corn before the deer, the tomatoes before the bugs, the berries before the birds, because every creature is waiting in the shadows to savor the fruits of summer before the trees start to drop their leaves, the sun casts shadows sooner, the rain turns to snow.

And so on this early August day I am hit with the realization that we are on the back side of summer now. The hot side, yes, but the down hill slope indeed.

The weeds are tall, the late season flowers are in full bloom, the clover has reached its peak, the kids are buying school supplies, the sun is leaving us a little sooner each evening, I am contemplating what types of celebrations I am going to cram into my birthday month and

and

and

the wild raspberries have appeared like tiny drops of heaven, little rewards, consolation prizes for a summer on it’s way out of dodge.

These perfect little morsels are what I spent the late summers of my childhood hunting while sitting bareback on a horse with my best friend and a plastic grocery bag.  These tart wild fruits that grow on vines along the thick brush are what my eyes are searching for this time of year. To hell with the wild sunflower, the coneflowers, the juneberries that the bugs have demolished. If I can bite down on a wild, perfectly red raspberry and savor the juices that hit my tongue if only once in a summer I am satisfied.

Fall can come tap dancing in.

Winter can bring it.

I got my raspberry.

So it was with delight that I hit the trail last Sunday for a leisurely ride with pops, husband and little sister. It was the last day in July and it sure as hell felt like it. The air was muggy, but there was a nice breeze and the sun was hiding behind a skim of clouds for the time being. It was enough relief to keep us from baking, enough to allow us to saddle up and head for our favorite pasture in the east.

We weren’t looking for anything in particular, the four amigos. We just wanted to be in one another’s company as the morning rolled on into the afternoon. See, the other casualty of late summer is this: little sister is leaving. Yup. Back to east side of the state to finish up her schooling and become a grown up already. I haven’t admitted it yet here, but the fact that time is marching on and out too quickly, bringing with it this type of consequence, has been the catalyst to the waves of dread and the reason I have occasionally pulled on my crabby pants during the past five days or so.

I am lashing out at time and wondering why the bluebells can’t stay….

Why the clover must dry up…

Why the sun can’t maintain its heat…

Why my gray hairs multiply with each pluck of a straggler…

Why little sisters don’t stay little forever.

But anyway, there we were last Sunday strolling on the back of good horses through acres of wild sunflowers and grass up to the heels of our boots. There we were riding just a little further, despite the fact that the sun had reappeared and the temperature was rising. There we were, the four of us, bonded by our love for a place, the desire to be part of something a little more untamed, and the need to be together out in it for as long as we could.

We were chatting about the unprecedented rainfall and the lush vegetation when pops, always in the lead, pushed his horse through a barley visible trail like a cow dog going after an unruly bull and squealed like a little boy. The three of us stopped in our tracks. What could it be? A mountain lion? An elk? A big, black hole? Aliens?

As pops flung his body off his horse and dove into the brush one of us dared to ask that question. You know, the one that starts with “What” and ends with “is it?”

“What is it, what’s the deal. Are you ok? It must be an alien this time…pops? Where you going?”

“RASPBERRIES,” he hollered from behind a tangle of green weeds and thorny brush and vines.

“RASPBERRIES” he mumbled as he dropped his horse’s reigns to the ground to reach and bend and lunge around him, his wide fingers carefully plucking the delicate fruit from its vine before popping his mouth full of the wild, red, succulent berries.

Well, that was it. That’s all he needed to say to get the rest of us to follow suit, fling ourselves off of the back of our sweaty beasts and dive into a draw, braving thorns, mosquitos, poison ivy, bees, ants and that dreaded and inevitable alien to get to the prairie rarity before pops and the birds ate them all.

“There’s hundreds of them guys! Look at all of them….munch munch munch…remember this moment…munch munch…because in the winters…munch munch…we will talk about how we found all those raspberries out east that one summer…munch munch…here you go…taste some…”

And so we did. We all picked and tasted and searched the area like scavengers on a hunt for gold. We talked about what it might have been like to be a Native American out in this area and to come upon berries this sweet on a hot summer day.


We talked about the past summers where we wandered into similar patches. We talked about how many there might be here and what we could make with them.

We talked about coming back with a bucket.


But by the time we were done talking our fingers were stained red and so were our tongues and we had cleared the area of all visible signs of the wild fruit. 

Because that’s the thing about wild raspberries, they very rarely hit the bottom of a bucket or make their way into a jam or pie.

No, no, no. They taste the best standing in a pasture, surrounded by sky and bugs and up to your eyeballs in foliage and leaves and vines and pure bliss.

So yes, the summers out here are brief. I don’t know why they have to be that way. I don’t know why the green leaves can’t hold on a little longer or why the wildflowers have to wither at all. I don’t know why 80 degrees only touches our skin for a few short months or where the bumblebees go when the snow comes.

I don’t know why I am beginning to notice lines on my face and a few strands of silver in my hair.

And I certainly don’t know why little sisters grow up and leave home…


or how wild raspberries appear and disappear like magic. 

I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s for the best. See, if we had paradise all year how would heaven measure up?

Because I’m sure there are raspberries in every cool draw in heaven.

Raspberries and clover, blue sky and just the right amount of clouds, good horses and sisters and husbands and fathers and mothers all riding together through lush pastures like the one that exists out east of our home…


the one that exists in my heaven.

To be alive…

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So here I am in Red Lodge, MT getting ready to climb into husband’s new pickup with him and my built-in-best friend and take the trek with a camper up Beartooth Pass and on into Yellowstone Park for our family reunion last week.

I was excited to set my eyes on the magnificent views of this intensely steep, stunning, rustic and dangerous highway, so although I may come across as graceful while captured in the air, I will tell you I stayed true to form and landed awkwardly on the ground only to limp my way across the parking lot as husband shook his head and told me to get in the pickup already, geesh.

So we got on with it, happy we finally made it this far after spending fourteen hours on what was scheduled to be a six hour route.

But before we go much further I have to say that the open road, big sky, crisp air,  home in my rearview mirror, family next to me and more waiting ahead made me more grateful than ever to be alive.

That and the fact that sometimes in the middle of your grand plans interrupted by flat tires and small deer that fly out of the ditch to dent your new ride, life hands you a deep breath, a close call, a reality check to make you say a silent prayer to whatever you believe in for perfect timing, that damn flat tire and another day to live in this magnificent world.

Because as we climbed up the pass that day, our eyes focused on the snow capped mountains and the cold blue lakes pooled at their feet…

as we stopped to pick up an ambitious young man who was attempting to roller-ski up the pass and talked to him about his life full of adventure and challenge, as we counted yellow wildflowers and inched closer to the peak, our thoughts were with the man we found laying on the interstate the night before.

The man who, just moments before we found him, was celebrating a beautiful summer evening on the back of his motorcycle. A man who appeared before us a pile of broken flesh, bone and steel alongside the road as the sun sunk down over the horizon– a perfectly uneventful, every day drive, stopped short by an unexpected twist of fate and timing.

We could have been miles ahead of him, long gone and safe in our campsite by the time the man’s motorcycle made contact with the deer in his path, violently sending his body hurling toward the cool, rough pavement on the shoulder of the interstate.

We could have missed the entire thing and not thought twice as we made our way through winding highways, forest, flowers and mountain streams calling to us quietly.

Or we could have been a moment too soon, laughing as we told stories of good times spent together. We could have glanced over at one another just long enough to miss the headlight blinking in the middle of the interstate, to miss husband’s chance to slow his pickup down enough to maneuver through the lifeless deer, the dented bike and the broken man.

We could have been telling a different story entirely.


But no. We are telling this one. The one of our pickup parked safely along the road, the 911 call, the run to the nearest mile-marker, a cloth held to the man’s wounded head while he sucked in the Montana air and recounted his birthday. The one where kind-hearted and capable travelers stopping to help work through it, to direct traffic, to talk to him and tell him everything was going to be ok.

The one where the man was broken but alive.

The one where we were shaken but alright.

The one where we moved on to stand at the brink of a waterfall,


to sing around a campfire and climb a mountain,

to feel the steam of a geyser on our hot faces, the cool-down of the star-lit night and a prayer for a stranger on our lips.

We awoke the next morning to a stream bubbling by our campsite, little man laughing next to us and the mountains reaching toward a crisp, clear sky.

I couldn’t help but notice my senses were heightened, my heart more present, my body positioned closer to the family beside me.

And so we went into the mountains this way, all of us feeling more alive and grateful.

We laughed louder.


Embraced longer. 

Climbed higher.

Looked closer.

Saw more clearly


Reached a bit further. 

Took more time

Held our breath and found more patience to exist in an another day…

because we were reminded it is nothing but a gift.


Thank you family for bringing us all together here, for letting me hold your babies, for climbing that mountain with me, for cooking me a s’more and some chicken, for making sure we were all together as Old Faithful was erupting…

and holding on tight as I held on tight too.

Thank you for existing, in this masterpiece with me.



Life: one damn masterpiece after another

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I have a theory about this world we live in. I know I’ve said it here before, but it just proved itself to me again on Monday evening and I feel I have to share it once more.

Because there it went spinning outside the windows and walls of this little home in the buttes and I found myself catching my breath again…

because life is just one damn masterpiece after another.

And that is my theory, in case you missed it the first time.

Because on Monday evening after my day was coming to a close–a beautiful, 70 degree day spent cooped up in the house answering emails, scheduling, making phone calls, organizing and checking things off my list–I stepped away from my desk and moved to the kitchen to shift the cans in my cupboard and pretend to think about dinner–the next task. But just as I was giving up on the idea that I would come up with some sort of brilliant meal and heading toward the front door to fling it open and splay my body out on the deck to catch the last afternoon rays, I was met through the window of the door by pops, wide-eyed and looking urgent…

the first human person I had laid eyes on for a good twelve hours.

“Whew…hey there…you scared me…whats up?”

“There are elk on the hill right across from the house…just saw them as I was driving in…a bunch of them…”

“Really?”

Here is where I will explain that before I even uttered the word “really” I was already heading for my boots, snatching up my camera and throwing on a hat…

…and pops was already in his pickup, behind the wheel and shifting into drive.

That was all the exchange we needed right there.We knew what we were going to do.

Because elk are still a rarity, a treasure, a bit of an oddity on this landscape and we needed to witness this, we needed to get in close and watch them pass through our world.

So as the fluffy clouds rolled on over the farmstead, creating patches of shade and sunshine on the brown ground, pops and I bounced along in the green Dodge, turning off of the road and toward the elk herd–a site that would have gone unnoticed by eyes less trained and in tune to the landscape.

See, pops is the kind of guy who is always looking. After years spent as a rancher the man is always scanning the horizon for something amiss, something important, out-of-place or occasionally, if he’s lucky, something spectacular.

And Monday he found the spectacular and chose to share it with me.

So in the green Dodge pops drove toward where the wind was right so the elk wouldn’t smell us. And when it wasn’t advisable to go any further with the pickup we stopped, opened the doors and stepped out into the landscape.  As soon as the doors latched, just like that pops was on the hunt and it was like I was twelve years old again walking behind his strides in his footsteps as he snuck up on a big buck–always so eager to come along, pops always so willing to allow me the experience.

Over the fence and along the side hill we reached a point where we had a spectacular view of the herd and I snapped some photos while pops counted and recounted under his breath…”three…four…ten…seventeen…I think there’s about seventeen, eighteen there Jess…”

We sat there watching the two bull elk as they moved toward the rest of the herd, discussing whether they had antlers, using my telephoto lens as binoculars. We watched them graze along the flat below the clay buttes as pops explained to me in a hushed voice the way elk graze and what kind of grasses they eat.

I am not sure how long we sat before pops made the decision to get closer, but seeing that the beasts didn’t suspect we were there he took off at his hunter’s pace down the steep hill and along the muddy cow trail before leaping, without pause, in his cowboy boots and spurs through the wide and moving creek.

I followed diligently, a good ten steps behind, wondering how close we would get, wondering if we would spook them, wondering if the herd would be there when my ponytail appeared over the clay knob.

Pops slowed his pace and stepped softer.

I did the same.

He crouched down.

I crouched down.

He stopped.

I froze and held my breath.

“The two bulls, they should be right over there. Right over that knob. Get your camera…go ahead…you should get some great shots…”

I looked at him, little sweat beads forming on my forehead, and for a brief second (because that’s all the time I have in situations like this) I wondered how he was so sure of the exact location. How was he so certain after a fifty-mile-an-hour trip through brush and mud and a raging creek?

But it didn’t matter. I believed him. Because in my experience with pops and things like this he is always right.

Always.

And he was right again as I flung my hat down in excitement and crouched and belly crawled and peeked my way over the knob to find before me something I had never been so close to in the wild of my backyard in all of my 27 years.

I was shaking as I pulled the camera up to my face, certain that the beasts were going to bolt at the first click of my shutter.

But it was as if I was just a little breeze, a bug in the grass as the mighty bull elk lifted their noses at the sound.

I clicked and took a few steps closer…

and clicked again.

The elk froze, looked me directly in the eye…and nuzzled each other.

I looked back for pops, whose black hat was peeking over the hill. He nodded.

Encouraged, I put my sites on a bald bump in the landscape, thinking if I could lean in on that I would be close enough to almost reach out a give their noses a scratch.

I snuck.

They stared and snorted a bit.

I crawled and crept until I reached my destination, laid flat out on my belly and clicked my camera in a panic, certain now that they were going to run from me at any moment.

But they stayed.

They looked.

I stayed.

I looked.

And although I know it wasn’t possible, even from my ideal distance, I swear I could feel their warm breath…I swear I could smell the dust on their shaggy coats…I swear I could hear them sniff the air as I held mine.

I swear I have never been so close to something so wild.

We sat there like this, the three of us looking at one another, and the magnificent elk posed for me, taking turns walking in an out of my shot until I exhausted all possible photo opportunities and the elk were no longer curious.

And after hours, or minutes, or seconds, slowly and reluctantly we turned away from each other, sneaking glances back over our shoulders, wondering what we had just witnessed…

…wondering what the other was doing out here in a world that, just moments before, belonged only to us.

When I was growing up out here I never laid eyes on an elk on this ranch and as pops and I walked back to the pickup he informed me that, until recent years, the beasts never passed through this place at all.

And it makes you wonder where they are going, what the grass was like where they came from, how many women with wild ponytails they have watched sneak up on them…

and how long they will stay.

But mostly it makes my jaw drop in awe that while I am busy living my life between walls and windows and the nook of the barnyard, these creatures are living their lives, grazing, snorting, shedding, pawing, living and moving on through my backyard, into my life and out again, free and magnificent as the wild wind.

I may never be that close to the nose of an elk for the rest of my life and I could have very well missed it, just as I have most certainly missed them passing through dozens of times before.

But I didn’t.

I was there.

Pops was there.

We were there.

Right smack in the middle of yet another masterpiece.


Our feet are planted

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Earth Day.

That’s what it is today.

And I feel there’s so much to be said about it as I sit here in this house plunking out words surrounded by this open space, this landscape that cradles me, hills that gently roll, creeks that babble and trees that reach up to the sky and dig their roots in the gumbo soil.

The fog has settled in, the rain is misting on my window, the last snow drifts are hanging on for dear life and I feel like telling you something about what a day like today means to me. Me, a woman who leaves footprints in the mud, catches dust in her hair and steps out for kisses from the wind. A woman who recognizes the smell of each season rolling in and celebrates it with a walk, a listen, a photo, a good deep breath.

A woman who was raised in a place that depends on the sun, the rain, the snow, the wind to nourish the earth to feed the animals to feed our bodies…our souls.

I want to tell you how I came from the greatest stewards of the earth, people who have sacrificed and worked long hours through winter nights and hot sunshine to plant, to water, to feed, to fix, to take good care of this acreage that has been in the family for nearly 100 years. I want to tell you that nothing was more important to them than the land. Nothing had more of an effect on the lives that they led and nothing was more important for the generations to come.

Because long before Earth Day was established, my relatives were establishing their lives here and instilling in their children how to care for their world, how to encourage it to thrive, how to take from it and how to give back.

And I want to thank them for holding on so tight, for their children, for their children’s children…

for mine.

But most of all I want to thank them for giving me the opportunity to hold this dirt in my hands, to frolic in it, to spread my wings and dig my roots in deep. I want to thank them for passing on something to believe in so strongly that I would give any material thing to belong here and work hard to make plans for it to remain in tact–the most fundamentally miraculous gift.

Yes, today the calendar says Earth Day and the people on our the planet are asked to take pause…

But out here our feet have always been planted like trees with our branches exposed standing in the face of the storms that pass, the ground that shifts and the soil that dries up, freezes, thaws and floods…

so we dig our roots deeper, reach up closer to the sun, pray harder, take good care…

and celebrate every day.

Spring’s cast of characters

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Oh the coyotes have been howling, like really wailing, outside the farmstead lately and things are waking up around here as the sun shines and rain falls, helping wash the snow away.

And this morning there isn’t a trace of wind, everything’s still and things are waking up…

Well some are easier to rise than others…

Yawn.

Oh, I know in some places, in most places, the blossoms are opening up, green grass is poking through the ground and people are having coffee on their front porch without their wool mittens. But like the bay horse sleeping in the food pile up there, North Dakota is sleeping in. But that’s ok. Coming in slow helps me notice and appreciate each little change, each member of the cast of spring characters…

The geese are passing over, honking their hellos…

and if they’re brave and remembered their Muck Boots they touch down and stay for a bit. These are beautiful, elegant creatures…

Much like their cousin, the Turkey, who have been sneaking around the place lately. Always walking away, blending in with the brown grass because they’re shy like that.

Turkey butts.

Speaking of butts…

My view on my road walk if I’m not keeping my eyes peeled for something better.

Butt…(hehe) you’ve got to love my enthusiastic walking partners itching to shed their winter coats and do some rolling in the mud and slop.

I look up and in the air the crows flap and shriek and perch. I always wonder how they know when to come home…

…and how we’ve lived without them darting through our lives and swooping overhead all these months.

And I’m like a kid in a candy store out here in the spring air, keeping a watch out for the first colors, the first crocus poking through the ground. Ahhh, the crocus, my second favorite thing about spring.

My first?

Babies.

The kind born in the hay…

And the adorable, human kind wearing headbands and tiny hats entered in pageants put on by my small town for the enjoyment of the obsessed baby squeezer, kisser, snuggler and squealer like me.

My friend’s baby E. I can’t stand it, I just want to squish her cheeks.

And now cue the montage of my nephew, Little Man dressed in his pageant best:

Can you say “sweater vest?”

What about “Chillin’ with my ladies?”

Ahh, be still my beating heart and silence my baby talk, you’ve got to love a community that holds their baby population in high regard…

and gives them sashes and a spot on the front page of the weekly paper:

Spring’s here and life’s good in western North Dakota.

Bring on the sun, we’ve been (impatiently) waiting for you…

and we’ll take what we can get.

Please get here soon…

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Crawl in slow
the warmth
the sun

ice to slush
water to dust

my skepticism into trust

that you are on your way
and somewhere under white
and gray
flowers hold on tight
and wait to bloom

please get here soon

please get here soon

North Dakota

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I see you through cracked windshields
my dark sunglasses and
prairie grasses
trees that cannot hold their leaves
and drifts that will not stay…

dirt roads that carry on that way.

You wave to me
through barbed fence wire
old tractor tires
and houses with nobody home
things that could not be repaired…

things that were left sitting there.

We stretch along horizon lines
and dip below the buttes
your mud stuck to my boots
a piece of you you’re pleased to share
a piece I’m pleased to take from you…

your sky an ever changing hue.

And you see me through rearview mirrors
windows down and open doors
places I have gone before
my headlights through the dust I stir
how quick I am to roam….

you rise up to meet me home.

The colors of the season…

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Not a palm tree...

My mom and pops went to Jamaica for a week.

While they were basking in the rays of 80+ degree weather, jumping from cliffs, swimming with the fishies and enjoying one or two cocktails while floating in a pool, husband and I had everything under control back here at the ranch.

Well everything except the severe winter weather advisory that led to a 24 hour power outage which resulted in the mis-fire of mom and pops’ furnace when the electricity was finally restored.  And it just so happens that husband’s favorite pastime is fixing things (he has to do it a lot considering the walking disaster he married) but after one to two hours standing in front of the mysterious mechanism, scratching his head, tinkering with wires and searching for that elusive reset button while standing inside a house that was reaching thirty degrees, even Mr.Fixit husband and his electrician father on the other end of the phone line were utterly defeated by the thing.

Not ocean waves

So husband moved on to the next conundrum: removing porcupine quills from the snout of their dog left in our care. And I went for the space heaters and the phone to call the furnace guy.

And then we sat in their hot tub and drank their wine and called them names behind their backs.

But all’s well that ends well. Especially when you find that hidden furnace button, save the dog and throw away the empty wine bottles in time for your parents to come home with tanned skin, beaded hair and a new accent.

Ya Mon

And so we went over to their house on Monday evening to eat steak dinner and hear their stories and look at their pictures and see that video of the cliff jump.

And now I’m colder than ever.

Remember when it looked like this around here?

Remember when these things grew out of the ground, looking all colorful and happy and bright?

Remember when I could open the windows and let the breeze blow through the house while I milled around in my short shorts and tank top?

Remember when I slid down the clay butte in my pajamas in the middle of the night and scraped up my ass and my hands and my feet, but at least I didn’t get frost bite?

The evidence

The evidence...

Waaaahhhhh…hurry up summer!

Don’t get me wrong, no matter the season I am so inspired by this land around me. It changes every day and comes up with different ways to awe me, but this last week I have been dreaming in color. The colors that I haven’t seen for a while.

Green.

Pink.

Orange.

Yellow.

Yellow Flowers

Purple.

So after sitting at my desk all day yesterday staring at the computer screen trying to complete a project while banging my head against the wall learning a new program, my eyes were squinty, my throat was dry, my hair was standing on end and I smelled like bad attitude.

Growl...

So I bundled up and went outside to take some photos. Because I have found photography has become my new therapy– it’s teaching me to look for the beauty and interest in the small, ordinary big-picture things.

I pulled on my long underwear, strapped on the old snow shoes, tied on the neckerchief and stepped outside into my wild backyard.

Maybe I’ll see those elk in the fields pops was talking about.

Maybe I’ll see a deer or a rabbit or coyote or, if I walk far enough, maybe I can catch a glimpse of those bison on the hill.

Maybe I’ll walk up to the horses. Maybe I’ll sit and listen to the wind, maybe I’ll…

…freeze to death.

Shit, it was cold.

I made it about a quarter of a mile before I really realized it and then, once decided, couldn’t run for cover soon enough. But I was determined to be inspired.

Determined.

So I started the pickup and loaded my fluffy self up in there. I was going to take a drive. I was going to find me some wildlife, some sparkle, some shine, something to lift my spirits.

I drove down the back road, radio off, peering from side to side, slowing at the corners, looking in all of the washouts and coulees where I know the deer lay, where the birds might be, where the elk might saunter through, hoping for a jack-rabbit, a cow, a neighbor, anything to cross my path…

But it seemed that it was just me out here on the empty road, in the quiet cold air, in the cab of my pickup feeling, I’ll admit, kind of alone in this season that seems to be dragging us all to our breaking point…

So I turned around to head back home in the…

white…

gray…

brown…

But just as I was giving up and resigning to the season and the endless wait for spring– getting after myself for being one of those northerners who complains about the winter weather as if I wasn’t expecting it, I was put back in my place by one thing that makes me fall in love with my world over and over again…

the one thing that never lets me down…

And as the sun moved down over the horizon, it slowly gave to me all the colors I’ve been missing, all the sparkle and shine and inspiration this pasty northern girl needed at a time like this, saving me from myself once again.

And so it will be summer again. And this…

will finally get dressed already…

But until then, I’ve got the sun and the sky. And the sky’s got my back.

Oh, I know Jamaica has the sky too, but I just think it feels and looks better out here…

…you know, where the frozen ones don’t take it for granted.