Jenna Caplette migrated from California to Montana in the early 1970s, first living on the Crow Indian reservation. A Healing Arts Practitioner, she owns Bozeman BodyTalk & Integrative Healthcare.  She says, " Health is resiliency, a zest for the journey. It’s about coming awake to the joy of being alive.  As a practitioner, its a privilege to facilitate that healing process, to help weave new patterns of health & well-being. “ And by the way, healthier, happier people help create a healthier, happier world.

I remember the fun of carving a pumpkin every year with my dad. Actually, each of us three girls would carve and he’d help us. Or, that’s what I think I remember.

As many photos as my dad took, he didn’t document the family pumpkins. Too bad.

In fact, the only surviving photo I have from childhood Halloween is myself in this truly tremendous squirrel costume my mom sewed. I loved squirrels. They were my California suburban wildlife. But my dad didn’t take that image -- the local newspaper did.

I haven’t carved a pumpkin for years so I still don’t have any images of them. My daughter and I might carve one this year just to try some of these tips from photographer Andre Costantini. I hope you find the same inspiration.

Tamron’s Andre Costantini reminds you that two challenges to getting any good picture (not just spooky shots in October) are getting the right shutter speed and a balanced exposure. You also need to make sure you’re using the right equipment to get the right shutter speed

Here’s a few other tips to capture the spirit of your “ultimate” jack-o’-lantern, 

1. Lenses with aperture settings of F/2.8 or wider have a larger opening to let more light in. Costantini finds this especially helpful when the light is low, such as when photographing a candlelit pumpkin in the chilly evening hours. Another helpful feature is Vibration Control. It compensates for any slight movements that you might make, helping you to achieve sharper hand-held images of your pumpkin props. (Use a tripod for long exposures and you’ll want to turn the VC off).
2. If your camera has a "Full Auto" mode, as soon as the light gets low, the camera’s going to add flash whether you want it or not. Turn your camera to the "A" or "AV” mode (“aperture priority” mode) and choose the aperture yourself. By choosing F/2.8 you'll get the fastest shutter speed available. 
3. Compose your shots carefully to give your pumpkin pal some context. Costantini suggests creatively setting up your jack-o’-lantern, perhaps placing him on the side of the frame, leaving plenty of room for the tree line and sky, which can make the jack-o’-lantern appear as if he’s popping into the frame with a boisterous “Boo!” In that case, a wide-angle lens helps incorporate the background into the images, creating a perfectly ominous environment from which the pumpkin can emerge.

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.