Angela Jamison is a native Montanan and she grew up in beautiful Bozeman. I'm the mother of two girls and write a blog about our life here and taking in the simple pleasures of family and food.

I talk a lot about Bozeman and the beauty that surrounds us here.  About getting out in our backyard mountains and loving this community.  What I often leave out is the people.  The people who keep this town thriving.  I do believe the mountains we are nestled beneath are the soul of Bozeman, which makes each of us living here the heart.  There is such a variety of people who call Bozeman home, and we all contribute in our own way.  This got me thinking about the types of people who live here…and how they fit into the heart of this lovely community.  My thoughts on Bozemanites…

Natives-

You know this type…you’ve see the bumper sticker with the outline of Montana and NATIVE printed big within it.  Native Montanans are a proud group.  Some say they are an elusive group.   People can vary greatly from within this group.  There are those who are very protective of our Bozeman…not overly welcoming to outsiders.  (I’m sure you’ve also see the bumper stickers reading “Montana’s Full, I’ve Heard North Dakota is Nice”).  This group wishes Bozeman could go back to the way it used to be…a sleepy Montana town that no one really knew about and that never made it on a “Best Place to Live” list.  Then there are natives who embrace the diversity others bring.  Who realize that without outside influence we would be a sleepy Montana town without much to do.  This group of natives may feel just as protective of their birthplace, but love the thriving small city it is now and are proud that people want to move to this place.  Natives hold great value to our town.  They can tell the stories of how things used to be and contribute to how it grows while keeping our roots deep.

Locals-

After you’ve lived in Bozeman for a few years and begin calling it home I think you can consider yourself a local.  This makes up a huge part of our population.  People who have come here because they love it, or by accident and then fall in love and make it their own.  Those who play, work and raise future natives here.  This is an important group.  They can bring ideas from other amazing places and make it work here.  They don’t take any of our beauty for granted because they haven’t seen it everyday as natives have.  I learned to appreciate how awesome our mountains are while in college.  I had friends (soon to be locals) who would point out their awesomeness that I had never really noticed.  Locals are great and may live here for the remainder of their life…but can never become a native.  They simply don’t have the history.

Snowbirds-

These guys have it figured out in my opinion.  Unfortunately most can’t afford this lifestyle until later in life.  Soaking up the beauty of our summers here and then fleeing at the first sign of snow.   Talk about best of both worlds.  I could happily play around during the warm months and then head south during the long Montana winters.  This group adds to the vibrancy of our downtown by being a part of all the summer events and happenings.  And then balancing things out by leaving as the influx of students come in.  Keeping our population evened out throughout the year.

Skiers and Students-

This group feel just the opposite of the snowbirds.  Waiting patiently for the blue light on the Baxter to light up signaling snow fall at Bridger Bowl.  I am often met with surprise when I tell people I’m from here, but not a skier.  This is okay, there are plenty of them to make up for me.  Keeping the mountains full throughout the winter and the ski shops in business.  Keeping our community young and laid back with the ski bum vibe.  Quite often skiers and MSU students go hand in hand, many choosing to go to school here for this very reason.  Students moving in and bringing with them their excitement for life that is contagious to the rest of us.  Makes for a happy town.

Tourists-

Love ‘em or hate ‘em they are a part of Bozeman.  Yes, it can get annoying to not get a table at your favorite restaurant on a Friday night because it’s packed with out of towners having seen Trip Advisor gave it four stars.  Yes, it is sad sometimes to go up Hyalite and see tourists abusing what we love so much.  It can be hard to share our town.  But, it’s also pretty great.  People travel here because it’s amazing.  You know how you feel when you are on vacation and fall in love with someplace?  That feeling of awe you get of a new city or beach town and think how lucky people are to live there?  Well, that’s what we have here…a very cool place where tourists envy that we get to live here.  When you stop and think about your city as a vacation destination you should feel very lucky to call it home.   

I am proud to fall in the Bozeman native category.   I understand the protective nature of this place, but also embrace everyone who make it what it is.  It’s the people that make a community and this one we call home has all types and this is what makes it great. 

Kathleen Clary Miller has written 300+ columns and stories for periodicals both local and national, and has authored three books (www.amazon.com/author/millerkathleenclary). She lives in the woods of the Ninemile Valley, thirty miles west of Missoula.

“MILLET!” the e-mail from my friend Sharon read.  She has been seeking the guidance of a naturopath to accompany the physician we both see who has diagnosed us with the very beginnings of osteoporosis.   “We are supposed to eat millet for breakfast because it’s packed with nutrition…and best of all, it’s gluten free!” she wrote as if announcing that it was drizzled with hot fudge sauce.

            Isn’t millet birdseed? I think to myself but do not type as I recall that I did once own a parakeet that lived forever.  As far as going gluten free, my daughter Kate and I both tried it, as an experiment to see what the hubbub is about.  We wondered if our holistic lives might be transformed, even though we have no medical reason for the sacrifice.  After going gluten free for a month, my heart goes out to those suffering from Celiac Disease who have no option but to eliminate it from their diet. 

            Like adopting any new trend, at first it felt like a healthy adventure.  Like January 2 of a New Year’s resolution, eliminating pancakes, pasta, and piecrust was invigorating and saintly.  But by the time Kate came home a month later for a visit I felt myself shutting out all thoughts of pizza, a downward spiral that could lead to the need for counseling.  Before anti-depressants we had mashed potatoes.

My sister contributed to the gathering a ten-pound assortment of our favorite See’s Candy, which Kate and I devoured like wild bears just out of hibernation between guilt-free bites of gluten-free bread that tasted like a damp sponge and holier-than-thou chips that barely crunched.   One downfall leads to another and so I promptly baked Hollywood’s Monastery of the Angels Pumpkin Bread, loaded with luscious flour. 

            “I tried eating gluten-free for a month, and I just don’t feel any different!” Kate announced, the corner of her mouth dusted with crumbs from her winning simultaneous combination of blessed bread and sinful dark chocolate nougat.  “That’s because you don’t have Celiac Disease,” I pointed out.  Neither do the rest of us who find ourselves thinking we are supposed to suffer anyway.

            After she returned to her home in Pennsylvania, Kate Skyped to display a bag of Trader Joe’s rolls while reading the ingredients.  Chia, flax, millet, sunflower, pumpkin, sesame—you name the seed, it was present, with flour being the last item on the list.       “Do you think this much flour could hurt me?” she asked while watching her mother gnaw on a thick slab of sourdough.  I told her she will probably live as long as my parakeet.

Kyle Ploehn is an artist, illustrator and writer living in Billings Montana. He likes to spend the few hours he isn't painting hiking the mountains of Montana.

The first part of a series of owls painted in the style of scratchboard illustration. I continue to explore my fascination with owls in this piece and push the acrylic medium in different ways. These images are almost ghosts, fragmented memories of great birds in search for something lost in time. I've always been a fan of haunting, misunderstood ghost stories of displaced people always searching for the ones they lost. I kind of feel that stories like that are fading, replaced by more crowd pleasing horror ghosts and reality shows of ghost hunters. So my owls are lost ghosts searching for the misplaced sense of wonder in the unknown.

The original is still available, an 18x24, framed for $650.

8x10 matted to 11x14 prints are available for $45. Contact me at kyleploehn@ymail.com, if you're interested in purchasing a print. Or stop by my website at http://kyleploehnart.com

Jenna Caplette migrated from California to Montana in the early 1970s, first living on the Crow Indian reservation, then moving to Bozeman where she owned a downtown retail anchor for eighteen years. These days she owns Bozeman BodyTalk & Energetic Healthcare, hosts a monthly movie night, teaches and writes about many topics.

The other day I was in the Peak Alignment class at my gym, rotating my right ankle this way and that, in various positions. It’s a true testimony to the promise of and potential for healing. I suspect that most of us have an injury that has surprised us by how well it healed and I suspect that we worked hard for that outcome. Here’s the story of my 2008 ankle adventure. 

It was the last Sunday of  September, the Hyalite mountains alive with deep green and brown, vibrant gold and red, the air scented with change, warm and crisply cooling all at one time.  A glorious day for a hike. When I saw an unexpected turn to a waterfall along a mountain trail, I didn't hesitate long before deciding to follow it.

As the trail rose, I felt the first tingles of misgiving. Wearing hiking sandals, I had left my walking poles at home. I had been having trouble with balance, worried about slipping and falling if the trail got too rocky and steep. 

When I stepped over a creek, I paused to enjoy its tiny cascade, small and sweet, then climbed on, lured by the promise of a waterfall. When I reached it, I found it beautiful but brief -  a quick cascade over stepped rocks that  fell in to a pool, then narrowed to become the creek I had crossed earlier. I could hear the roar of a larger fall above, would need to climb over and around a boulder and up a mountain-goat steep slope to see it. 

I sat on a shelf at the base of the boulder, studying the graveled slope I had already climbed, negotiating with myself. Prudence won out. Sighing, I stood up. 

I heard bones snap when I fell as if I had heard them break every day for years, this fall, this break, as eerily familiar as if I had not just known it would come, but had already experienced it.   

My first thought was that it would be good to put my foot in the water to cool the injury and keep it from swelling. The lower fall's pool was within reach but I would have to crawl to it. My stronger impulse was to use the energy medicine protocols I had learned, to believe in them enough to trust them to help. 

I began the self-care Fast Aid procedure I learned in my tranining to become a BodyTalk practitioner. It includes a series of techniques that helped bring me out of shock, alerting my brain to my ankle's injury and asking the brain to begin to heal that injury. I found a rhythm of tapping and breathing.  As soon as I finished one cycle I started the next, again and again. 

I knew someone would find me, could hear voices echoing from somewhere up the trail, but out of cell phone reach, I guessed that it would take at least three to four hours for someone to alert Search and Rescue and for them to reach me. It was cold in this spot. As the afternoon progressed it would be much colder yet.  A long, cold wait,  caught up in the fear of what ifs, what now?  

As I tapped, suddenly my toes tingled, squirmed. Their awakening surprised me. I hadn't known the feeling had left them. 

I kept tapping, breathing, working with the Fast Aid protocol. As suddenly as the feeling had come back in to my ankle, a knowing came that I could walk if I wanted. Not only that I could, but that for me, in this moment, it was so much better to stay with this trance-like focus on healing, to move with it, than it would be to lie and wait for help when I knew my mind would get the better of me. 

I rummaged in my pack, ate the very few almonds I had brought, drank some water and thought about the challenge that confronted me. It was probably three miles to the trailhead and my car. Once there, would I be able to drive? It was my right ankle that had snapped. 

I conjured the presence of a friend who had trained as an EMT and had a real practicality about how to handle emergency situations. I wondered what he would do with with the things I carried in my backpack: fluorescent green hiking socks; a long-sleeved, flannel shirt that I had given my ex-husband and stolen back when we divorced fifteen years before.  I looked at those, dug to the very bottom of the pack and found what I didn't remember I had left there even though I hadn't worn it in months: a foam rubber, black knee support. 

A plan came in to focus. 

I bent, reached, gathered up two robust, relatively straight sticks, broke them to the same 3 inch lengthes and put them on the ground next to me, picked up the socks and pulled one on to each foot. With the sock making a padded covering for my right ankle,  I braced a stick on each side of my ankle, then tightly wrapped the knee support to hold them in place, pulling  its Velcro closures tight, creating a makeshift walking cast to support for my ankle, my suddenly vocal ankle that I had taken for granted for so very many steps, over so very many years. I wrapped the long-sleeve flannel shirt tightly around it all, tying its arms securely, closed my pack, hoisted it and myself up, stood, and . . . walked. 

After a bit, I noticed a long stick with a forked top tucked in to bushes along the trail, picked it up, and let it help me take the next step, leaning in to it, on to it, walking in a state of expanded awareness, my focus on and in my ankle, on the miracle of its willingness to keep carrying me, one step after another, down the trail.  

People along the way wanted to help, were curious and concerned. One young woman lent me -- a complete stranger -- gorgeous, resilient walking poles. She wrote her name and cell phone number on a scrap of paper so I could contact her later to return the poles. Her name? Charity.  

Further along, a couple recognized me from the downtown business I had owned. Later, on their way back down the trail, they caught up with me again. The woman, Judy, said  she would walk with me. Her husband would go on ahead, then come and pick her up once she had driven me home in my car. I wanted to demure but already was learning I needed help, that I couldn't just handle this one alone. Without Judy's company,  I don't know if I could have made it that last mile of the walk. I talked with her about any and everything then, using the chatter to distance myself from my exhaustion.  

As soon as she drove me far enough out of the mountains to get cell phone reception, I called my daughter and asked her to call the friend who had inspired my creative walking cast. He was the one who later peeled down the sock on my right ankle, took one look and said:  “We're going to the Emergency room.” Several hours later he arrived to pick me up just in time to watch the Orthopedic sketch the bones of my ankle. The x-ray had revealed that both the tibia and fibula were broken.

That following spring I took a Wilderness Emergency Medicine course. Three years, two surgeries, and multiple sessions with a physical therapist and a host of other healing practitioners (including myself), I walked the same trail, dismayed by how steep and rocky it was, astonished that I had been able to walk it with a broken ankle.  

Mostly I take the strength of my ankle for granted. I like it when something, like ankle rotations at the gym, remind me to be appreciative of — and a little awed by — the gift (and commitment) that is healing.

Kathleen Clary Miller has written 300+ columns and stories for periodicals both local and national, and has authored three books (www.amazon.com/author/millerkathleenclary). She lives in the woods of the Ninemile Valley, thirty miles west of Missoula. 

Because my one-year old grandson, Jack, lives in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania, I frequently find myself on Skype in order to see him as often as I can (and engrave onto his impressionable developing memory that I am “Grandma”). 

            Jack has visited three times in his young life, and so each time his beaming countenance rises on my computer screen, I pry my own face away long enough to show him things here that he might remember. 

            “See Cody?” I ask as I turn the camera to our German Shepherd who was a favorite during his last visit.  The feeling is mutual; Cody cooperates to look at the screen, and when he sees that Jack is securely settled in his high chair it signals “orts on the floor” and “discarding the yucky bites” and so he assumes the canine attentive posture in hopes of being on the receiving end of illegal snacking.

            This morning I was vacuuming when the delightful computer chime rang out.  I swiftly shut down the Dyson (Oh darn; This chore will have to wait!) and dashed to answer the call as if I hadn’t seen the toddler for months when, in fact, it had been less than 24 hours since our last virtual visit.

During our initial greeting that consists of peek-a-boo, hand clapping, face slapping, and my rolling my tongue like a lizard, I espied in my peripheral vision our friendly flock of turkeys—some two dozen of them—waddling across the gravel and strutting onto the lawn out back.  It was a clear and sunny day, so I turned the laptop to face the picture window and emoted like a birthday party clown for Jack to “Loooook!”  I couldn’t see the child’s reaction (probably fear), but heard my daughter reassuring and further instructing “Turkeys!  See the turkeys?” whereupon several deer (of all ages) entered the outdoor pageant, nibbling on the grass and maneuvering around the plentitude of poultry

            I cracked one of the windows to the melodious chirping of multitudinous smaller birds.  Katharine and Jack were able to hear their cheeping as a button-nosed bunny hoped on stage from deep within some shrubbery, just before Cody became aware (it takes Cody awhile to become aware) of the pageantry. He predictably went berserk, barking and tearing from window to window while knocking over chairs, his targets utterly nonplussed at the verbal assault. 

            After I satisfied my protector that there was no need to attack, Katharine told me that Jack had been watching with great interest.  “It’s just like in Snow White when all the animals come out of the woods to help her do the housework!” she enthused, being a rabid Disney fan still, at age thirty.  She dressed like Ms. White just last Halloween; uncannily hangs every heroine’s costume in her closet.

            “Ah-hah-hah-hah-hahhhh …” I trilled, imitating the signature tune Snow sings.  I must admit I felt somewhat supported in my tedious efforts with such an auspicious menagerie cheering me on.

            It was Jack’s naptime so I reluctantly disconnected and redirected my attention to the vacuum.  Acknowledging my forest friends I resolved to think of house cleaning as a fairy tale…even if my prince was on the golf course.

Lacey Middlestead is a Montana native and freelance writer currently living in Helena, Mont. She loves meeting new people and helping share their stories. When she’s not busy writing articles for newspapers like the Independent Record and Helena Vigilante, she can usually be found indulging in her second greatest passion–playing in the Montana wilderness. She loves skiing and snowmobiling in the winter and four wheeling, hiking, boating, and riding dirt bikes in the summer.

The other night I felt restless and soon found myself driving out of town---windows down, music cranked and belting out Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer.” The sky was stunningly clear with heaven’s light bulbs strung about. It was one of those nights Montanans count themselves blessed for living in the Big Sky state. I found myself thinking about Fall and the flurry of color it always arrives in. There’s no doubt it’s a beautiful time of year and that alone makes it one of my favorite season. But as I felt the gentle fall air twirl through my hair, I realized I love Fall for a whole strew of other reasons I never realized.

1. Fall arrives in a slow but glorious style…like the love you think you’ll never find but that sneaks up and transforms your whole existence before you even have a chance to catch your breath.

2. Strung haphazardly between the gentlest and harshest seasons, Fall compels you to slow down finally and just appreciate all the things you too often take for granted.

3. Fall reminds us that the only predictable thing in life is that it is ever-changing. Whether in good times or bad, take comfort in knowing this day you’re living right now will never be the same as the one before it or the one after.

4. Patience….my goodness how much Fall has taught me about patience. The leaves adorning nature’s fragile limbs become their most beautiful not when they first bud in the spring, but just before they witness their last sunset and drift to the ground in an accepted passing away. For me, Fall’s leaves reminds me that sometimes the shiniest moments in our life come seemingly at the end of things. Remember, the best may very well be ahead of us.

5. Fall leaves us ambitious and wanting more. In summer it’s so easy to get caught up in the nice weather and endless days. When Fall descends we know winter is approaching and we scramble to get in our final hikes in the mountains and grill the last pounds of hamburger over the barbeque on the deck. In between all the doing, we also start fantasizing about the spring and summer of next year and all of the new and fantastical journeys we will find ourselves on.

6. Fall is the only season of the year that I can actually feel. There’s always that one day when I step outside in the morning and feel the seasons click and the calendar page turn.

7. The beauty of the colors and dancing leaves is overt and demanding….you literally can’t help but pause to appreciate it.

8. So many intoxicating sounds accompany Fall. There’s crunchy leaves, corn stalks rustling with the breeze, the whack and thud of wood being chopped, the clap of guns being fired by hopeful hunters and that soft morning silence of a season that is simply at peace with things.

9. Pumpkin. That most unique and tantalizing of flavors that is so special that it is reserved for only a few months out of the year. I cherish every latte, slice of pie and whipped frosting tinted with its warm flavors and spices.

10. Fall is the most grateful of seasons. In America, we have an entire national holiday designated just for thankfulness. But I think we are all grateful during fall for the adventurous summer we are wrapping up and for the bounty of blessing we hope life will bestow on us in the new year.

Fall, it would seem, is my very favorite season after all.

Kathleen Clary Miller has written 300+ columns and stories for periodicals both local and national, and has authored three books (www.amazon.com/author/millerkathleenclary). She lives in the woods of the Ninemile Valley, thirty miles west of Missoula.

Soon after moving to and meeting new neighbors in Montana, I was politely asked if I would be interested in caring for their animals while they traveled.  My Southern California upbringing had taken me as far as a dog, a parakeet, and those little turtles that swim through elaborate structures plopped into a plastic habitat.  I’d scooped kibble and sprinkled fish flakes, and despite the motherly instinct that relishes in a child’s eating having kicked in at age ten, and having consequently amply overfed them more than once, they managed to survive.

Nestled in the Ninemile Valley, there is no lack of wildlife.  Deer lounge lazily on our patch of grass and act as nature’s gardeners as they trim low branches from trees and shrubs.  Spotted fawns are introduced into the world three feet from my bedroom window; I crouch and peer over the low sill to ogle them taking wobbly first steps.  Mind you, no one mentioned these bucolic creatures were also the source of startling hisses from within the trees—I still jump whenever ambushed by their “keep out” warning while out for an otherwise peaceful stroll.

    Bears have more than once dragged our sturdy trashcan into the woods so far that my husband and I play “Where’s Waldo?” as we search for what we know we should recognize but cannot spot for the life of us.  Occasionally we glimpse a bobcat or a fox streaking by on the game trail behind our back patio, and once while my husband was away a brazen Tom turkey strutted right up to the back window and pecked obsessively until I sent an email to my PhD Zoologist friend who informed me in short order, “He wants to have sex with you!”   Thank God for glass.

Animal life is part of the everyday scene here, but to date it had been “Look; don’t touch.”  We’d hearkened to what residents affectionately call “our elk herd” bugling at dawn.  Coyotes circled their prey and howled like banshees long after we were cozily under the covers at night.  

My only hands-on contact with anything that breathes other than my husband had involved the discarding of dead mice; I’d finally reached the point where I could deal with the pesky invaders.  After steeling myself to keep from flinching, I could ease back the spring bar to set traps.  In fact, when it came to ensnaring them I’d turned the corner from disgust to determination.  Heady with the thrill of the hunt, now whenever I heard that satisfying snap I did a pump fist and woke our dead-to-the-world dog (It’s amazing he isn’t really dead since for the first year of his life I neglected to wear my glasses and filled the kibble cup with what turned out to be twice his daily requirement).  I hooted and hollered in a celebratory dance like a rookie tight end who has just completed the tie-breaking overtime touchdown.  Still unfulfilled, however, was my “Big Valley” daydream—the one I’d engaged in ever since the onset of the TV series wherein I feed and groom the horses, herd milk cows to the barn, and sprinkle chicken feed on the good earth.

    What a stroke of luck to have it laid before me!  I could look in on two llamas, two steers, a horse, three rabbits, and an assortment of chickens, the perk being not only my anticipated sense of rancher pride but fresh eggs for the taking.  

    Picture my hopped-up-on-farm-girl-fantasy about to become reality—the key word being “reality.”

After embracing my mission, I found myself behind a sliding (so surprisingly heavy!) barn door with seconds to spare as two exceedingly large, snorting cows rapidly approached from the pasture.  I’d been instructed by neighbor Jim to “get ‘er done” before they hemmed me in like kicking bullies.  I should quickly heave a brick of hay to the horse, climb a corral fence to access rabbits, and lift the door to the chicken coop to gather eggs.  Could I wade through the quicksand muck quickly enough to cross a barn, pocket eggs, hurdle the rabbit fence and get back before the heavy snorting I already heard (from something other than me) was upon me?  It had seemed so easy when Jim was showing me.

Fortunately barns are not equipped with closed circuit cameras.  Unrecorded is me taking off as if I were sprinting from bull horns in the streets of Pamplona.  I hurl hay to the horse, entirely missing the container for it (whatever that’s called), pivot, snatch four eggs, pivot, scale the rabbit fence to dump food and slosh water, then tromp back through the barn, my upper body so far ahead of my lower slowed by sludge that I nearly fall flat on my face in every manner of manure.  This animal-minding business is a minefield.

In the nick of time.  Just as I clear the barn door big bull bodies (named Cow and Boy) clash and clamor at my heels.  These guys didn’t look so large on television!

    When I turned towards the safety of my car, my little handled egg-bag in hand, two large llama faces were nose to nose with me, their hot, bad breath steamed my glasses, and the scream that emanated from my mouth as they simultaneously spit at me was surely heard from the Ninemile Valley over the Reservation Divide and into Idaho.  Osama and Bin Llama (Jim possesses a particular sense of humor when naming his livestock) are looking for their pellets.  I fumbled for the scoop alongside the barn and backhanded its contents with every once of strength I had.  

    Day two I was prepared, but this time when I reached into the hen house I felt feathers (how odd!) and extracted bloodied fingers.  Whoa.  Cow and Boy were galloping from farther afield, so I risked life and limb to take a gander, and discovered a hen that was suffering some sort of uterine prolapse—not that I pretend to know the location of a hen uterus or if theirs actually prolapse.  I had a friend who once experienced this medical horror, and no matter how hard I tried to dissuade her from doing so described it to me.  What I saw matched the grim details that I had desperately tried not to hear her elaborate.  Whatever it was, the bird was not only dying, but to add insult to injury her girlfriends were pecking at her like Alfred Hitchcock’s crows.  Women really are tough on each other.  I gathered my wits and asked myself, What Barbara Stanwyck do?

    Call Jim’s cell phone.  He took the news in stride and without pause told me he would send someone to “kill the chicken and get rid of the body.”  This nightmare read more like “The Godfather” than “Bonanza.”

The next time they went away and solicited my services one of the rabbits wouldn’t eat or drink.  It turned its back on me as I begged and pleaded with it to “just live one more day until your parents get home!”  Two days later, sure enough the rabbit died.  

    “I’m cursed!”  I whined, thinking it might be in both man and beasts’ best interest to fire me from any future favor.  After all, Jim and Sue reassured me it was nature’s way and all part of the circle of life; not to worry.

I thanked them for the eggs and then asked, by the way… what was the “crusty stuff” all over the shell?  These eggshells certainly appeared unlike the polished-to- gleaming ones from my childhood, delivered to the pantry door by Arden Dairy in Pasadena, California.  Even organic eggs from the Good Food Store here in Missoula didn’t have scabby spots on them.

    “Eggs come out of the same hole as everything else,” Sue informed me, I having eaten several after a brisk rinse, sans scrubbing.

    I use a brush and vinegar now whenever I clean Jim’s eggs—a ritual I don’t perform as often after requesting that I be bumped to the bottom of the caretakers list when Osama journeyed to llama heaven shortly after I’d been on call (Did I reach for the wrong pellets?).  Now I am relieved to be called upon only out of sheer desperation when local experts aren’t available, like Nathan down the road who owns horses, Ellen who feeds every life form that wanders up her driveway including wild rabbits, and in the event that some terminally ill creature requires humanitarian intervention, Walter, the chicken killer.  

    This frees me up to offer my services to anyone in the neighborhood with turtles.

Jenna Caplette migrated from California to Montana in the early 1970s, first living on the Crow Indian reservation, then moving to Bozeman where she owned a downtown retail anchor for eighteen years. These days she owns Bozeman BodyTalk & Energetic Healthcare, hosts a monthly movie night, teaches and writes about many topics.

Great photo opportunities arrive when they arrive.  Here are some tips to help you to be prepared. 

First, create a camera first-aid kit with zip lock bags, a ground cloth of some kind, a light pair of running or BMX gloves, and a microfiber towel. 

• Storing things in zip lock bags helps keep them dry. 
• A ground cloth comes in handy to spread out gear and locate essential accessories or to dry something off. 
• Gloves with rubber grips prevent the “whoops” of dropping something in to a snowdrift. If you do drop something – your camera, a lens – immediately dry it off with the microfiber towel and you may save it from water damage, or outright ruin.  
• A microfiber lens cleaning cloth along with a cleaner, like Purosol Optical Molecular Lens Cleaners. 
• A packet of Rainsleeves™ to keep your camera dry if it begins to snow, or rain. These even work when you’re using a tripod.

Then, keep your camera loaded with fresh batteries and a couple freshly formatted memory card. 

• Cold saps batteries — put them in a pocket, next to your body, to keep them warm. Have extras on hand.
• To protect your camera and card reader, a clean and dry memory card is essential. 

One more essential suggestion for your gear: add a polarizer. It’s lightweight, minimizes snow glare and makes clear winter skies pop. On a digital camera, you can also accomplish this by simply changing the camera's white balance to “cloudy” or “shady”. You may also want to add a high quality UV filter to protect your lens from the weather and to reduce excessive blue at high elevations.

Take a lot of images and check each on your LCD screen in the field to be sure you got the shot you wanted.  Then at the end of the day, protect your images by transferring them from your camera's flash memory to a computer and backing them up to an external drive at the end of each day.

Kyle Ploehn is an artist, illustrator and writer living in Billings Montana. He likes to spend the few hours he isn't painting hiking the mountains of Montana.

Continuing with the scratchboard style, I moved on to painting Blue Herons. In the mountains where my family has a cabin there is a great creek that runs all down the valley. One of my favorite things to do is hike along the creek and sketch or photograph what wildlife I come across. A variety of big birds have found home there and on lucky days I get to see them. Most commonly, I have seen this family of great big majestic sandhill cranes, but one midmorning hike I saw a bird I further down the creek that was big like the sandhills, but a striking gray-blue standing gracefully among the tangled bushes. I watched the blue heron for a while, and he watched me, then without warning he took to the sky and flew down the creek. I was so excited, as soon as I returned to my studio I laid out this painting and got to work.

 The original is still available, an 20x20, framed for $700.

 14x14 canvas prints are available for $150 and 12x12 unmatted prints are available for $45. Contact me at kyleploehn@ymail.com, if you're interested in purchasing a print. Or stop by my website at http://kyleploehnart.com