I must admit….there’s something nostalgic about ice skating on an outdoor rink. I love feeling the brisk winter air ruffle my hair. I love how the ice groans and pops on warmer days when you skate over it. I love the way small leaves and twigs get trapped when the rink is flooded which leaves them as decorative stamps about the ice. I love embracing skating the way it originated. Whether it was on frozen ponds, lakes, rivers, parks or alleyways, ice skating was born outside.

The outdoor rink at Memorial Park in Helena was where my dad first taught me how to skate. I don’t have much memory of that first day but no doubt I teetered out uncertainly from the warming hut like a newborn fawn onto the ice. From sunny afternoons surrounded by friends and styrofoam cups of hot chocolate to mild evenings alongside my father, the amber glow of the street lights and a wooden hockey stick in my hand, Memorial Park was my childhood ice rink and the one I will always remember.

Some years later a fancy indoor ice rink opened on the outskirts of town. It seemed as though my days of skating outside were over. Once you’ve skated on the smooth, glossy ice of an indoor rink, after all, it is admittedly hard to go back to the humble and bumpy ice you grew up on. But you never quite forget that winter breeze tagging along beside you as you glide across an outdoor rink.

Two weeks ago, I celebrated my 30th birthday. And I chose to ring in the next decade of my life by paying tribute to my childhood wonder of skating outdoors. With my husband, Andy, by my side, we ventured north to skate on one of the most pristine and majestic outdoor rinks on earth.

Lake Louise.

The first time I saw a photograph of the mountain lake, I was stunned. It didn’t seem possible that a place so beautiful could really exist in this life. With steep mountains rising up on three sides, the turquoise waters of the lake seemed perfectly protected. From the moment I first saw that photo of Lake Louise, I knew I had to venture there to see it in person someday. 

On lazy days at work when I would daydream about future vacations and adventures, I often pulled up more photos of Lake Louise to fantasize about. The day I saw my first picture of the lake in the winter, was the day I decided the time of year I would visit. The trees and mountains were coated in thick bundles of snow. And the lake…..the lake was a blanket of white save for a large square that had been plowed out for skating. Even just looking at a mere photo of it, it looked to be the rink of dreams for anyone who has ever played hockey or ice skated for fun. 

Nine hours of driving brought my husband and I right to the very banks of the lake I had so longed to see. And I had the privilege of first seeing it with my own two eyes on the day I turned 30. 

Between checking in to our room, exploring the hotel and sitting down for a bite of dinner, we didn’t get a chance to test our blades against the ice until darkness had fallen. With our hockey sticks in one hand and backpacks slung over our shoulders bearing our skates and a handful of pucks, we finally walked out to the edge of the rink. There wasn’t another soul on the ice that night. It was as though the mountains had shuffled everyone else away to deliver me the perfect birthday gift. 

Sitting down on a wooden bench with our sticks leaned up against a snow bank, we started getting ready. I don’t think I’ve ever laced up my skates as quickly as I did that night. After tugging my hat down low over my ears, I grabbed my stick and staggered across the snow to the rink.  

For the next hour or so Andy and I skated back and forth across the rink while passing a puck back and forth. The night was a dark one but I could detect the faint glow of stars overhead. In the distance, I could just barely squint out the mountains with help from the white snow that shone through near their peaks. The sounds around us were few but exquisite. There was the thwack of our stick blades hitting against the rubber puck, the swish of the puck gliding over the thin layer of snow atop the ice, and the slicing sound of our blades as they left their mark on the ice. Other than that there was just the sound of the mountains and of the earth around us….the kinds of sounds God wishes we’d be still enough to hear more often.  

At one point during our skate, I paused and stood with my stick resting up against me while I turned my face skyward. The biggest smile I’ve had in a long time spread across my face. I found myself offering prayers of thanksgiving for such a perfect night. No cake or party in the world could have topped that birthday gift. 
A week after returning home, I found myself lacing up my skates again for my weekly hockey game at the rink. The indoor rink. As I took my first step onto the ice I glanced around. I was surrounded by dull metal bleachers, white boards dotted with black scuff marks from pucks, and blinding LED lighting overhead. While there was a familiarity and comfort to the room for me, it lacked the peace and harmony I had felt when skating under the watchful gaze of the Canadian mountains and stars.

I have no doubt that I will return to Lake Louise someday…next time with my dad so we can skate under the stars together just like we did when I was little. While I wish every experience skating could be as special as that one, I am thankful for the rareness of such moments. Otherwise, I wouldn’t appreciate them as much.  

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.

Spring is in the air, even with lingering snow. The tips of aspen trees are plump with budding leaves, spring bulbs are pushing through the ground, and gardeners are placing seed orders while tending to seedlings started indoors. By the time Montana’s short growing season commences, gardeners are bustling to make the most of the short and sweet growing season.
 

Fourteen years ago, while moving to Bozeman from Kansas City, I declared to my Dearest, “I’ll never have to garden again because everyone knows that wheat, potatoes, wildflowers, barley, and noxious weeds are the only things that grow in Montana.” Wrong!

It took a few years of Montana living to grasp the possibilities and discover the Montana Zen of Gardening: work with nature –don’t think you can control it. I am a lifelong gardener. I began cultivating flower and vegetable gardens as a toddler, thanks to a Northern California childhood overseen by a taskmaster Dad who insisted on growing everything that California’s climate and soil allowed.  California is not Montana. I’ve lived many other places, and have amended literally tons of soil, planted more trees than imaginable, and pulled so many weeds that I began yoga just to counter balance the effects on my back. At one point, in Kansas City, I semi-jokingly considered forming a “Gardeners’ Anonymous” organization as I was incapable of passing a flat of zinnias or pansies stacked on a rolling cart outside the grocery store without lugging a few home. I figured in Montana I could retire from gardening and be content with my interaction with nature by simply watching the ever-changing sky, doing outdoor activities, and observing nature. Wrong again.
 

My fingers literally itched to be digging in the dirt, even knowing it was rocky. My eyes longed for flower beds framing our home. I began noting the array of thriving plants in both rural and urban yards. Driving into Philipsburg one Spring, I became intoxicated from the fragrance of lilacs. I never seen so many lilacs, at such improbable heights, heavy with vibrant blooms. Montana’s weather favors them and extends the bloom time. Reality dawned on me—there are plants that thrive in Montana just as there are people who thrive here. If you look at gardens, you’ll notice iris patches, fields of poppies, columbine clustered under trees, and old fashioned shrub roses blazing in red or yellow. Numerous vegetables prefer our cool nights and soil: spinach, carrots, peas, lettuces, beets, and green beans to name a few.  Just don’t waste your time on tomatoes unless you are stubborn or wish to prove you can defy all odds.
 

Gardening in Montana has challenges. The zoning maps—which tell you how cold it gets as far as plant tolerances-- say Montana ranges from Zone 2 to a narrow slice of 6, with a majority of the state being a Zone 4. Don’t believe it. Montana is unpredictable. It can hail and snow in July.

 
Temperatures can drop a degree a minute and the soil can be so cold that roots shrivel. The winds have been known to crack a tree right down the middle. Then there are the critters. Most gardeners expect rabbits, squirrels, and deer. In Montana, there are elk. Big, voracious, mow-them-down-elk. And little, tiny awful voles. You see vole damage in lawns when the snows thaw and spaghetti-shaped mounds crisscross the lawns. Voles took out my entire first orchard in Montana, gnawing a circle around the diameter of every tender apple, pear, and cherry tree I had painstakingly planted. No one had instructed me that if you want an orchard you must wrap the base of the trees to thwart the pesky critters and then cage the trees with wire so the deer and elk are unable to shred branches.

A fellow gardener shared her adage on planting perennials here: “The first year they die, the second year some try, and the third year they thrive.” I often say, “Gardening in Montana is either an act of optimism or a sign of insanity. Sometimes it is both.” The key, I have discovered, is to pick plants that love it here.  Build your garden around hardy, resourceful plants that can stand up to nature when it is being a bully. Use ground covers such as creeping thyme, sedum, and creeping phlox. Vines such as Virginia Creeper, Boston Ivy, and beautiful flowering clematis will take off and take over if you’re not careful. I am particularly fond of peonies and daylilies and now have countless varieties returning to greet me each spring. I offer this advice: look for plants that do well in Zone 3. If you insist on a temperamental, fussy plant, position it close to the shelter and warmth of your home, cover and coddle it, and don’t cry if one year it just gives up trying. When I notice a plant is struggling, I relocate it, as even a small garden in Montana has micro-climates.

I am into the seventh year of my current garden. It thrives, as does my soul. We harvest a bounty of vegetables starting with spring lettuce, I cut bouquets from my flower beds, and can Italian plums from the orchard. Far more than you imagine adapts to Montana growing conditions. Numerous blogs, books, and publications are geared to sharing knowledge about high altitude, Rocky Mountain gardening. I’ve found that gardeners tend to be generous people, willing to share their knowledge, divide up their plants to offer you some of their favorites, and direct you to their trusted growers. Now, time to finish up my seed order. I do love Lincoln peas.

Sally Uhlmann is a real estate agent and co-owner of SU Platinum Real Estate residing in Bozeman, Montana. Since 2003, my family and I have enjoyed life in Montana. Throughout my life, there are constants: loving my family, friends, and community, enjoying trekking to remote places in the world, being involved in non-profits, gardening, and always cooking. Most of my clients end up at my house, enjoying fine wine and dining on organic vegetables straight from the garden, eggs from our chickens, and sunsets that rival any in the world. In my opinion, there is no place better than Bozeman, Montana. 

The time is 3:25 A.M., January 28th. Roughly an hour after we started pulling a calf. Now, mind you, this is the first time I have ever had to pull one, and let it be noted that this is a very sad documentation of my life on the farm.

As of 1:05 A.M. this morning, I had noticed a heifer starting to calve. How she was positioned, I had a difficult time seeing what exactly was going on, but I could make out what I had thought to be two hooves out, but one looked as if it was the complete opposite way from the other(one was down, one was up, it appeared). Even though this doesn't make a lick of sense, that's what I had figured and waited for her to push some more and make progress. I go to check the other pen, and see one of my bosses old cows had calved a nice sized bull calf. I drag him into a makeshift pen made up of three panels in the corner, and make way way back to the barn pen and observe the heifer. 

It is now 1:15 A.M.. she has made her way to the hole in the side of the shed that we use to observe calving cows and heifers. I now see what I thought was two hooves is actually a hoof down as it should be, as well as the nose poked out and it's tongue hanging down as low as the hoof. Being a good hired hand, I do what I was told to do and wait and check on her every 15 minutes to watch for progress, however I do not leave the side of the shed. 

It is now 1:30 A.M. and I start feeling anxious because I know something isn't right; the other hoof needs to be out as well, or it could be stuck in the pelvis of the heifer(mind you, this is their first calf so their body has not yet adjusted to giving birth to a calf), so I call my boss and explain to him what is happening. He feels that she may need more time, so to watch her for another half hour for any progress, and to call him back if there wasn't any. I go back to the shed to watch again.

Time crawls by slower at this point than I have ever experienced. I believe I will never experience anything slower time wise than the following half hour. Each minute feels like an hour has passed as you anxiously wait and watch for any sign of progress whatsoever. The entire time, the heifer is bellowing out heavy and powerful shouts of immense pain.

Think of this parents, as if you are watching a life threatening surgery of your child that you are gifted the power of the hand of God, with the restriction of timing being a factor. The longest half hour of my life to this point and time has passed. I call my boss back.

I tell him that I have not left the shed peep hole for the entirety of the half hour he told me to wait, and tell him that she needs the calf pulled, so he has me kick the three heifers in the barn out, leave the doors open, and open the head catch to prepare for the heifer's first and possibly last battle of a lifetime. He gets dressed and leaves his house. The time is 2:15 A.M.

As my boss arrives around 2:25, he gathers the chain as well as two hooks. We wrap two loops around the legs of the calf in specific spots to allow for the best leverage in terms of pulling. We move the calving heifer out from the shed and into the barn. We make her go in a loop on the inside so we can push her into the head catch to position her properly to pull. She gets locked in, and the work now begins. The time is 2:35 A.M.

My boss realizes that the other front leg isn't out, so he reaches into the heifer to find out where the calf's leg is. It didn't enter the pelvis properly, causing it to hit the bone and slide downward, making it so the heifer couldn't give birth naturally. As my boss attempts to readjust the calf, the heifer let's out a bellow longer than I have ever heard, and it hit me like a blast to the chest. The feeling of her pain resonates in my entire body and fills me with a very heavy sadness, as you know this is going to be hell. Right when my boss starts to make the slightest progress the heifer rolls onto her side, and all we can do is get to work pulling.

The hook and chain we use to pull calves aren't heavy or bulky, but they are incredibly strong. As I sat down to pull while my boss starts to make room for the calf, the handle sits in the palm of my right hand, ice cold. My boss signals me to pull as hard as I can, and the handle digs into your palm like a set of spikes being stabbed into them. I continue pulling, digging my feed into the hard packed straw. I give it my all for a full 10 minutes, and the calf slides out. The time is 2:55 A.M.

As the calf lays there motionless, my boss goes to work trying to revive what little bit of life may be left in this little creature. As he does his thing, I have a wave of nothing but what I can describe as the weight of the world crashing down onto my chest. The sadness sets in, as a few tears roll down my cheek. I know already that all hope is lost. The calf is dead, and there isn't a thing we can do about it. My bosses have claimed that there hasn't been someone who has cried after they have lost a calf after pulling it, so in a year of many firsts, chalk this one up too, for me. I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried after I worked my ass off to try and save this calf. I have spent the last 9 months doctoring, feeding, breaking ice for water, and moving these heifers and cows on a daily basis. I don't care what anyone says, these cows and calves are my children, and I love them all very much. There aren't any words that can describe the sadness I feel right now, knowing that I was gifted with the power of having the hand of God, being the ultimate determining factor of whether the calf lives or dies. I had worked my ass off pulling as hard as I could for a solid ten minutes to save this little creature, and come to find out, we had failed. We failed the calf, we failed the heifer. I failed them both.

The world is a very harsh place, but it also has very high points as well. Without the highs, the lows mean nothing. Without the rock bottom lows, the highs mean nothing; yin and yang. People want to say that we don't care for our cows and that we mistreat them, but what they don't know is that at this very moment as I write this, there is a 22 year old 250 pound man who is very sleep deprived who is crying over the fact that his efforts in trying to save this calf failed. I did my absolute best, and I failed it. So, before someone tries to claim animal cruelty, get them to come down to the farm on a cool, early, starry morning in eastern Montana, and get them to go through the hell I just did and try and claim animal cruelty then. I'm sorry I failed you little calf. Here's to tomorrow where the day may be brighter than the day before.

It is 4:05 A.M. on January the 28th, and it's time for me to make another round, and to hopefully welcome another newborn calf into the world.
 

Born and raised in Helena. Johnathan has been separated at least one generation from farm work, if not more. Prior to moving to Hysham in April of 2016, he hasn't had any agricultural experience whatsoever. So, with that being said, he has numerous stories written about what life is like with these unique circumstances.

Tom Catmull’s songs deserve to be heard. Indeed, the staple Missoula singer-songwriter resonates when his timbres and tones are absorbed; the deeper you listen, the more approving the experience. 

“I think I’m much better in a quiet room,” said Catmull. “I think I have the tools to play songs better in a quiet room, to play the songs in a certain way. I’d rather play in front of 15 people who are quiet than 1,000 people who are talking. But if they are not all there to see the music, you can’t take it personally, and if they are not completely dialed in, that doesn’t offend me.”

Not hearing Catmull is a missed opportunity, since he’s a maestro finely mincing lively songs and instruments into a flavorsome treat. His songs are imbued with stylistic nods to singer-songwriters such as Lyle Lovett, who Catmull grew up around in the suburbs of Houston, Texas. Lovett once resided among the farmland and fresh subdivisions in the town of Klein, and Catmull, the youngest of six children, recalled driving past the troubadour’s home on the way to church outings. 

“He was a hometown hero,” said Catmull. “My oldest brother took us to the (Wunsche Brothers) Café, in Old Town Spring, Texas, and there was Lyle Lovett, with a conga player. I was 12 or 13 and when I look back at the collage of things that made me want to play guitar and play music – that is one of the earlier ones. One guy with a guitar sometimes seems invisible, but not with the kids, they are fascinated.” 

He writes straightforward lyrics and relatable material that could exist comfortably in any era. His guitar crackles with palpable force, and, occasionally, the harmonica deftly slices through a tune. 

“I use the tricks that I have to pull in as many people as I can,” said Catmull. “I’ve got the harmonica rack and can do uptempo shuffles that catch people’s attention. I’ve got a host of songs that are foolish for me to play without people listening. Many have the quiet elements and quiet instrumentation, and if you don’t have that quiet, it changes the nature of the song. It was troubling when I first started. But I realized that whatever you are playing in a loud room is going to fly under the radar. The older I get, the more I can let it go, and enjoy it.

“Certain buildings are not designed for music, and sometimes you are fighting against a handful of things designed in opposition to your success. I’m fortunate enough to pull some people in, a little at a time – dragnet them – and I’ve had the opportunity to play in quite a few theatres, dead-quiet rooms with people who really like music. The intimacy of playing completely silent, if you make a mistake it’s okay, it’s a human situation.”

At this moment, Catmull juggles solo performances as well as engagements cushioned with a band (Tom Catmull’s Last Resort). He’s had his most success during the 12 year run he had with the Clerics, which included pedal steel and acoustic guitars, drums, bass, and occasionally, the fiddle. Another recent variation of Catmull’s synergy was a group called Radio Static. 

“Locally, the days of the liquor gigs, the 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. honkytonks and bar gigs, they might be over. Acoustic music is flourishing due to the rise of the breweries. Making beer, drinking beer, and making music all go to together. You don’t bring a full-band to a brewery and bring down the house.”

The life of a musician need not have a fairy-tale ending, but it’s surely a productive pleasure for any artist to share the magic.

“The first Clerics album, we pushed to international radio stations,” said Catmull, who spent several years in the hospitality industry in Yellowstone National Park before moving to Missoula in the early 1990s to attain a degree in history. 

“It was great getting radio play in New Zealand and Belgium and selling albums there. On Pandora with the first Clerics album, I’d get messages from people in their offices in Minneapolis who would email after hearing me on their lunch break. Someone I know went to Iraq and listened to it, and so did their unit, in the desert. After I’m gone that’ll be what’s left: words and notes put together, and a moment in front of that microphone.”

Original music is a pivotal outlet for Catmull, who, at 48, is developing the deep and smoky voice of an old train-hopping troubadour, expressing his tales with subtle shifts between cadences, emotions and characters. At his most compelling, he makes his exhaustion feel as lonesome as an outlying train whistle. 

“Playing original music allows for much more than only playing covers,” said Catmull, who has worked a bevy of jobs, from waiter at the Red Bird to classroom school aide, supplementing the financial reality of his harmonious aspirations. “Playing originals allows for sharing a story together. I’m different from you and you are different from me, but there is something concentric about it, something personal to the listener.” 

Sometime ago Catmull attended a number of music theory courses in college, but they bored him to tears. Music is more instinct than textbook, and the personal passion to play it that it ignites can’t be taught, it can only be harnessed, directed, or re-directed. 

“Music is to see the beauty in something simple – say, three or four country or folk chord progressions – and tweaking it just enough to change a chord progression, and to play or choose notes, or those subtle, new chord progressions, and then pull at people, emotionally.”

His collection of songs range from manifestoes about independence and love to much deeper, unplugged ballads reflecting the hard road of personal truth. “I’ve realized that being a musician doesn’t only mean bookings, fixing gear, or updating the Twitter page, but playing shows and writing songs. Eventually, that’s all that’s left: the chords, words, and performances. Ultimately, your body of work is what you have, the language that you have used, the chords you choose, the instrumentation.”

Entrenched would be one word to describe Catmull’s link to the city of Missoula’s music scene.  

“Missoula is my town,” said Catmull. “It’s a little bit weird. It doesn’t have the pretty face that Bozeman puts out there. It’s a little scrappy, a little dirty. It’s aware of itself, leftward leaning, and that makes it stand out. Missoula supports me to play music over and over again, and there is not another town in the state I’d be able to do that in.”

Catmull figured out that it’s better to be inventive and good than to only be good; writing original material allows him to sharpen his raw-boned introspection and pacify his internal energy. For now, his primary goals are to write, to learn, to get better at the guitar, and to take in as much knowledge of music as he can retain.  

“I’m constantly going through my own songs and shows and dragging them with a fine tooth comb and analyzing them. I’m making the decisions on tiny little things, how long to hold a note on one moment of the song. It is the things like timing. You don’t sing way up high, rather stay low on a note, and those are tiny little decisions. I’m chipping away at making what my musical career will eventually be. I like just how much there is to know. It’s overwhelming and inspiring at the same time.” 

Missoula’s bona fide folk-country-rock swami performs at least 150 engagements a year and he can be seen and heard (listen deeply, indeed) at breweries, clubs, festivals and events statewide, sitting back, a master in situ, unfurling melodies and savoring every note. He breathes energy and spirit every time he leans toward the microphone. We’re lucky to watch the throne. 

“I want to take what’s inside me, and I want it to be out there and inside other people’s heads, and to affect people. I love to be at the right venue, with a decent guitar, choosing a good song for a good moment, connecting with people, guessing what they might respond to.”

Brian D'Ambrosio is a writer/editor living in Missoula, Montana. D'Ambrosio is the author of more than 300 articles and five books related to Montana history, people, and travel.

Montana is “The Last Best Place” for good reason. There’s open space, big skies, and a sense of determined individuality and freedom. While many people dream about moving to Montana, the state’s population increase—about .8% annual growth-- is average for the United States. In 2012, Montana finally surpassed a million in population, with only Alaska and Wyoming having fewer people per square mile. There’s still only one area code (406) for the entire state while most major metropolitan cities have two.

If you move to Montana, chances are that you’ll land in Gallatin Valley, home to Bozeman and a vigorous 4.2% annual growth rate. Missoula, the Kalispell area, and Great Falls are also attracting high numbers of transplants. Urban areas in Montana are growing, while rural areas are declining. The state’s geography of rugged mountain ranges, lakes and wetlands, and national parks create barriers to large developments and help funnel people to the cities.

I moved to Montana 14 years ago and have never regretted the decision. When it comes to the basics elements of life, Montana is impossible to surpass. Here are my Top 5 Reasons why you should consider the move.

    Water: Look at a map of Montana and the rivers, streams, and creeks resemble the arteries, veins and capillaries of a human body. The state is alive with beautiful, clear water. Montana is the birth place of the Missouri River, the largest river system in North America. We enjoy hundreds of miles of Blue Ribbon rivers and streams, with countless small tributaries and numerous lakes. We fish, raft, kayak, canoe, float, and drink from these waters. They are home to water fowl and eagles, help irrigate our vast wheat fields, and quench the thirst of migrating animals. In the winter, our water begins as snow. Montana has 15 official ski areas, with Big Sky Resort boasting some of the top-ranked terrain in North America. There are more acres per skier than anywhere else in America. We cross country ski, snow shoe, and do other winter sports with pure joy. Over 80% of Montanans engage in outdoor activities, and our snow offers prime reasons to play.

    Air: Whenever I arrive back in Bozeman from a trip, I head out the airport doors and breathe. The air is crisp, fresh, my lungs expand and it just feels right. There is a sweet quality to it. Yes, we have altitude, with Bozeman just shy of 5,000 feet, so the air is thinner. We also have few businesses and industries that pollute the air. It is rare to see smog or haze. Rather, there is clarity that opens  vast views. Often the mountains are silhouetted with the immense sky and outlines seemingly drawn by a Disney artist rather than Montana nature. Sunsets and sunrises fire the heavens and set the snow-covered mountains alight with alpen glow of pinks, oranges, impossible purples. The sun has a brightness that shimmers in aspen leaves and ripples the rushing waters. On many a postcard-perfect day there is an aching blueness to the pure, clear sky.

    Earth: Montana means mountain in Spanish. There are a minimum of 100 named mountain ranges and sub ranges in the state. 30% of the land is owned by the public and 3.7% of this is protected wilderness. We enjoy wide swathes of open spaces due to 64% of the state being either farm or ranchland, and 65% of this land being used for pasture or to range cattle, our largest livestock crop. Wheat is our major crop—comprising over 25% of everything grown in the state-- and it is glorious when rippling golden on a late summer afternoon or just growing in green in the spring.

    Wildlife: Our air, water, and earth creates an ideal habitat for over 100 species of mammals. Major animal migrations occur throughout Montana, from mountain goats in Glacier National Park, to bison, bears, bighorn sheep, eagles, blue birds, and even pronghorns that head about 125 miles south each winter from Canada to reach their winter grounds in the Montana Missouri River Breaks. We have herds of elk, antelopes, many varieties of deer, and numerous critters appreciating the space they enjoy due to there being, on the average, only 6.8 people per square mile in Montana.

    Lifestyle: Everything comes down to how you spend your time. Montanans love the outdoors, year-round. We tend to be healthy, active, engaged. We know nature and appreciate its bounty and power. We give each other space and come together in times of need. We are generous people, involved in non-profits, caring for the planet, nurturing our wildlife, earth, air and water. Not everyone belongs here. And, that is a good thing. You’ll have to figure out for yourself if this is the place to call home. Come visit and check it out.

 Sally Uhlmann is a real estate agent and co-owner of SU Platinum Real Estate residing in Bozeman, Montana. Since 2003, my family and I have enjoyed life in Montana. Throughout my life, there are constants: loving my family, friends, and community, enjoying trekking to remote places in the world, being involved in non-profits, gardening, and always cooking. Most of my clients end up at my house, enjoying fine wine and dining on organic vegetables straight from the garden, eggs from our chickens, and sunsets that rival any in the world. In my opinion, there is no place better than Bozeman, Montana. 

Editing photos can be a potent de-stressor. And a great way to spend a hunker-down, stay-at-home Montana winter day or night.  Here are this year’s favorite photo apps that are both easy and fun to use. I’ve also added some extras for when you’re out in the field photographing. 

Apps allow you to be completely in charge of the feeling of a photograph. Pick one photo and edit it several different ways. It takes some practice to understand what each app can do for you but that’s part of the fun.

A perennial favorite with staff at Bozeman’s F-11 Photo & The Print Refinery is Snapseed. Actually, its my favorite too. Its a hoot to play with all the effects. I guess its like a full-fledged photo editing program but I wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried one of those. I do know that playing with an image and taking it through Snapseed’s adjustments is a surprisingly satisfying experience. 

Snapseed can now open both JPG and RAW files. You can use the “stack” to re-adjust edits later.  It has 26 tools and filters along with brushes for “spot” changes.  With so many options to explore, take the time to check out the “Insights” feature to learn tips and tricks otherwise you’ll under-enjoy this app. 

Want to remove an unwanted item from a photo? TouchRetouch makes it simple. You’ll be amazed at how easy it is to take out something like a power line or touch up a portrait. 

A favorite editing pastime of mine is playing in Glaze, an app that allows me to try out many different painting styles and even combine and randomize styles. F-11 Photo’s Kendall Roth uses Prisma (it’s free!). Brooke Welch recommends A Beautiful Mess. It’s packed with custom filters, fun fonts, and hand-drawn doodles. 

To combine several images in to a collage, LiPix makes it simple to combine photos with text and emojis.

When you create something that you really love, SAVE it. Back it up. The best way to save and back up is when its automatic, so consider iCloud, Drop Box or Box for solutions that just work. F-11 Photo’s Briana Bell says, “iCloud is inexpensive, simple, and an awesome way to share images between devices.”  

Ready to print? Using an app like F-11 Photo’s “Print and Share” makes that easy too. You can order prints and gift items from your couch.

Want a few great apps to help you get the shot you want?  Get these: 
 

1. Dark Sky offers up-to-the-minute forecasts for your exact location.

2. My Aurora Forecast helps you to succeed at seeing the Northern Lights.

3. Shooting film? myLightMeter allows you to use your iPhone as a reflected light meter.   

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. For relaxation, she reads novels and walks the trails around Bozeman with her four legged companion. Oh, and sometimes she manages to sit down and write.