And then one day the world is reborn.

On the cusp of summer, when time has passed through the equinox season into long days here in Montana, with a sun rising far north of where it did even a month ago, I spent a morning walking along the Yellowstone River, celebrating the new life that was all around and had seemingly appeared overnight from thin air.

It's fitting that it happens this way - how a new generation magically materializes. While the world has gone on about its business, Nature has done something quite remarkable and I've pad no attention until I spot the downy head of a young great horned owl in a cottonwood, sheared off during some long-ago windstorm. It already has the eyes of an adult, yellow, wise, and piercing, and some of its full feathers, too, though mostly it looks like a fuzzy ball with eyes and a beak.It watches me closely, probably the first human it's seen, then ducks into the hollow cavity where, for just a split second, I see another wing shift. At least two in there, I think, and I smile because I've always loved owls. 

I'm tempted to stick around and see if more will peek out, but at least one knows I'm here - as their mother surely does, too - so I put the owls behind me and follow an irrigation ditch brimming with milky water, the year's first mountain snow melt. Clouded sulfur butterflies and grasshoppers lunch into the air with almost every step, and I can smell the sweet scent of leaves and blossoms. Though autumn is my favorite season, I feel instinctual joy this time of year, an emotion carried from a time when winter was far harder on my distant ancestors than on me.

This ditch is a good place for wood ducks, off the main river and hemmed in by large trees, but the pair I see a hundred yards ahead are too small. I drop out of sight behind a large, uprooted cottonwood and take a circuitous route to where I believe I can belly crawl to within a few feet of whatever kind of ducks these are. Of course, by the time I'm leaning out over the water, covered in needle-like thistles, they've paddled downstream a hundred feet and flush before I get my eye on them. I'm lucky enough to catch the drake, a teal, in one frame, but the shot of the pair together will have to wait.

The irrigation ditch widens, joining an oxbow from the river that will hold water at least for the next six weeks while mountains more than two hundred miles away shed snow. Here, a pair of Canada geese, their gosling secured between them, swims toward me. I'm sure their brood is larger than one, but this morning they appear parents of an only child, necks low, eyes scanning, always on full alert. They hear my shutter and see the lens, my large, cyclops-looking telephoto, and reverse direction. There are plenty of things along the Yellowstone that would make short work of the young goose, but the adults are fiercely protective, and while they aren't sticking around they don't seem overly concerned with me.

I follow the oxbow to where it leaks out of the Yellowstone and find enough exposed river rock to skip across. If I'm gone too long, getting back may be a different story, as the water rises several inches during the day this time of year. All along the bank lies debris from the great flood of 2011 when record snow pack and heavy May rains combined to form a perfect storm of inundation. Massive trees are stacked together, wound tight with rusting barb wire, old car parts, and every other imaginable form of refuse the river regurgitated. It's like picking my way through an obstacle course, and after nearly falling a few times I decide it's time for a better route. 

Just as I'm ready to bull-moose my way out of this tangled mess, ripples in a backwater stop me. I use my lens like a powerful monocular and see a pair of wood ducks. I've got the sun behind me, and have tried unsuccessfully for a couple of years to get a good shot of one of the skittish drakes. Persistence, I tell myself, dropping to my stomach, flicking a wood tick off my neck. I begin the slow crawl, contorting myself under, through, and over a log jam, continuing to send ticks spinning toward orbit, shuddering each time. It takes more than ten minutes to cover fifty yards, but I haven't heard the shrill cries wood ducks make when they flush, and I'm hopeful they're still nearby.

Patience, I whisper as I draw up on the backwater. Just wait. Stay where the view is good, have this behemoth of a lens at the ready, and don't move. I fight the urge to crane my head around to see all the backwater, but I hold in place. And then I see them, the hen first, followed by her colorful mate, and they're swimming right into my lane of focus. I hold my breath, wait for the drake to fill the frame, and gently press the shutter. As soon as I do, he explodes into the air, and I'm lucky enough to get shots of his wild wing waving and then a hint of blue feathers through a spray of water. Well worth a few hitchhiking ticks!

After the wood duck, I'm less interested in taking pictures than I am simply walking and enjoying the morning. I watch an immature bald eagle, sans white head, power into the sky from a dead tree downstream. His shadows flits over the river and a pair of mergansers dive together, a programmed reaction or coincidence I'm not sure. They bounce up a few moments later then flail off, running on water as they take flight.

The sun creeps higher and for the first time this year it feels hot out. At a bend where the water has licked away the soil below an especially large cottonwood, a beaver plunks into the river. It swims a tight circle, close to shore, and immediately crawls out fifteen feet from me. Odd, I think, trying to slowly raise my camera, that it wants back on shore so quickly. It senses movement and rather reluctantly moves back to the water. I wait for it to dive, then take a seat near where it vanished, camera ready this time.

The beaver surfaces like a sleek, brown submarine, appearing on the surface without disturbing it. I hold perfectly still as it glides toward me, holding stiller yet as it crawls out literally over one of my outstretched legs. It angles away from me at the water's edge, dragging its flat tail behind, then shakes like a wet Labrador retriever. I'm zoomed out as far as I can with my lens, shooting from the hip, hoping I've got something, when I hear the mews of baby beavers from a hollow in the bank below the tree. The one I'm watching wriggles its way out of sight into a muddy hole and the mewing stops. Carefully, not wanting to disturb her again, I slip away, ready for the hike back upstream to where I've parked.

I haven't realized how far I have drifted down the Yellowstone until I come around a bend and have to look upstream the better part of a mile to see the oxbow I crossed earlier. That's always the way it is - seems to take longer to get back than it does wherever I'm going. I keep picking up my feet and moving along, but there's a part of me that wants to stay. To spend the rest of the day sitting there on the bank, watching driftwood bob along, listening to the calls of geese and ducks, just waiting to see what the day offers up. 

That part of me would never really be ready to leave, I think, wiping my brow at the oxbow twenty minutes later where, just as I suspected, the stones I crossed on have nearly disappeared. I'm eyeing them, trying to decide whether I can dash across without losing my footing or am better off just wading and dealing with wet feet, when a hen mallard and her brood swims into view. She rears up and flaps her wings as though she's herding her ducklings while I click pictures. Then I see a chick fifty or sixty feet away, doing entirely its own thing. It pays no attention to anything beyond the shore grasses it pecks at, swimming first one way and then the direct opposite, unwilling to be coaxed closer to its mother by her low quacking. 

I take a few pictures of it, its fuzzy, yellow head large in my viewfinder, and am struck by what a friend of mine said recently of life - even knowing the science of it, there's something miraculous there. Sums it up pretty damn well. 

Jake is a photographer from Vermont. For the last twenty years, he has lived in the Rocky Mountains of Montana, working as a freelance journalist, logger, substitute school teacher, prize fighter, miner, and explosives engineer. He has two novels published, The Last Buffalo Hunter and Every Man's Hand, and have, often on a shoestring budget, explored much of this great state and the west.

You can find some of his writing and photogprahy at http://www.akemosher.com/

Frank came in April when our daughter was in the hospital with severe pneumonia. His presence was a gift and an essentail aspect of that gift was that he focused on practical things, like meals, saying, Don’t you think it’s time for lunch, or dinner, or coffee? So one afternoon we shared a late lunch at the Bacchus and inevitably we began to reminisce.

When Rose, our daughter, was growing up, I owned Accents West at the corner of Willson and Main. Our little family ate a lot of meals just kitty-corner, at the Bacchus. Rose began her career there as a waffle fries and spaghetti junkie. 

On this April afternoon Frank and I each have a Hippie Burger and though I don’t mention it, the name and the garnish of artichoke hearts remind me of UC Santa Cruz, 1975 — hippie central — and Castroville, self-proclaimed artichoke capital of the world where we shared  french-fried artichoke hearts. Santa Cruz  was beyond-beyond to Frank, a Crow Indian, fresh off the reservation and primarily a native speaker. We lived with room mates in a house not far from the ocean. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore at night made him uneasy. So did a diet heavy on vegetables. His parents sent care packages of dried venison.

Frank  looks across Main at Chalet Sports and says how it used to be a disco. Do I remember? 

I don’t. 

I have survived the ins and outs of my life by developing an ability to forget so adept it  sometimes worries me. A disco? 

I do remember Bozeman’s first video store, right around the corner in the Downtowner Mall. Due west from Accents West, we spent a lot of time there, rented The Muppet Musicians of Bremen for Rose again and again and again.  

Frank talks about getting espresso at Cactus Records, sharing sips with his friend Gunnar. I remember Leaf and Bean being the first place to buy espresso, had forgotten that Gunnar had a coffee bar in the basement at Cactus, can almost dredge up that memory.

Bozeman was so condensed then, the downtown both vital and varied. The Chronicle had offices where the Salvation Army is now. There was a newspaper — the HighCountry News — in a space near Willson and Main. Downtown embraced bakeries. Burger shops and greasy spoons. A Chinese restaurant with retro booths and not very good food. A toy shop. Two pharmacies and a soda fountain. Sears demoed appliances in the space that became Schnees and is now a whiskey tasting room. JC Penny’s was somewhere nearby, with squeaky maple floors and florescent fixtures that hummed. Chambers Fisher Department Store next to the Ellen Theater had an escalator that Rose visited as often as possible,  looping from the first to second floor, then down again.  

She was born in a south-facing room in the old Bozeman Deaconness Hospital, just a couple blocks north of Chamber’s Fisher, where the Mountain View Care Center is now. 

I remember yellow daffodils in my room, snow on the ground. I had an emergency C-section. Rose had a hard-to-take-in diagnosis of Down Syndrome, breathed in a machine and fought the jaundice lights. She and I stayed in the hospital a week. Friends brought me food — I was a vegetarian then — and Frank tucked in to what the hospital served. 

Now Rose fights for breath again and I share this meal with her dad who had not been an active part of our lives for some twenty years. And then these past four he began to visit. First for Rose’s  March Birthday and then again in the summer, the fall. That ground work has made it possible for us to enjoy each other, to now function together as parents, as advocates for Rose’s healing, her breathh. 

It’s that odd friendship, relatedness, that allows the swapping of stories and memory. We stay in safe territory, leaving so much unexplored. Just the same, To know we have good memories, can share our life’s pleasures and challenges now, is a good thing. A gift that brings both a sense of pleasure and of loss. 

Bozeman is not what it was. We are not who we were and yet . . .

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.

Sometimes you just need some comfort food and for an outdoorsman, that comfort food is, of course, ELK!  The outdoorsman looked like he was getting a little thin the other day so I whipped something up that I knew he would devour like a rabid wolf.  I threw an elk roast in the Crockpot with a little of this and that and set that baby on high for the day.  When I got home the house smelled positively drool worthy, so with a hungry, impatient outdoorsman stealing bites over of shoulder, I made up the taquitos.

The roast made enough meat to make A LOT of extra taquitos, so I made them up and put them in the freezer.  Little did I know that the outdoorsman would offer to “cook” dinner every night for a week until the taquitos were gone.  He said he couldn’t stop thinking about them.  I myself am plum ready for something new for dinner!!   So here ya’ go!  Enjoy!

ELK TAQUITOS

INGREDIENTS

• 1 Elk Roast- sized based on how many taquitos you would like to make
• 1 Medium Onion-diced
• 3 Tablespoons Minced Garlic
• A Healthy Dose of Salt and Pepper
• 1 Large Can of Green Chilies- Diced
• 1 Can Black Beans, Rinsed
• 2 cups shredded Parmesan Cheese
• Corn or Four Tortillas- As many as you want to roll out- based on your preference (the corn are hard to roll, but taste much better)

Dipping Sauces:

• Ranch Dressing (Homemade Buttermilk Ranch is UNBEATABLE)
• BBQ Sauce
• Nacho Cheese

DIRECTIONS

STEP 1

1. Throw your frozen roast into the Crockpot with the onion, garlic, salt and pepper.  Set on High for 8 hours. 
2. Preheat Oven to 350 degrees.
3. Shred the meat with two forks and add green chilies, black beans and cheese.  Stir.

STEP 2

1. If using flour tortillas, simply make a row of the meat mixture and roll up.  I like to place a toothpick in the center to hold everything together.  Then place on a baking sheet.
2. If using corn tortillas, you must microwave them for about 15 seconds and then quickly roll them, otherwise they crack and it’s a disaster.  I usually heat about 3 at a time so that I can roll them before they get cold and stiff again.  Toothpick and place on baking sheet. 

STEP 3

1. Once your pan is full, bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes. 
2. Take out, Drool, Dip, Drool and Enjoy.
3. If you have extra meat, you can roll the taquitos and then freeze them.  All you have to do is take them out of the freezer and bake at 350 degrees for 35 minutes and Waaaaallllaaa!  Even an outdoorsman can do that!

Okay…Now I am hungry.  

___

Kristen Berube lives a crazy, laugh-filled life with her outdoorsman husband Remi and their three camo-clad children in Missoula, Montana. A graduate of Montana State University and the Northern Alberta Institute of Technology, she loves being a mom and enjoys hiking, fishing, and camping. “Confessions of a Camo Queen: Living with an Outdoorsman” is her first book. - 

It is available for purchase at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1560376287/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk

Stretches & Exercises - Dunroven Ranch (Live session Thursday 5/5, 3:00pm MST)

Fitness is an essential part of life for all living beings. As horse men and women, it is our duty to ensure that we provide an appropriate fitness plan for our equines, which helps ensure a healthy lifestyle. Whether our horses are young or old, sick or injured, or training in a specific discipline, we can tailor a fitness plan around their specific needs in order to strengthen their bodies and help alleviate and/or prevent pain and injury from occurring.

Soreness in the back is highly common in horses. This is not surprising due to the amount of stress that is put on a horse’s spine and surrounding muscles throughout the course of its working life. Poorly fitted saddles, unbalanced riders, excess workload, and misalignment in the spine and hips can all lead to serious spinal issues, and it is not always apparent your horse is experiencing pain. Long term problems such as kissing spine disease and hunter’s bump can occur as a result of imbalance, lack of proper core fitness, or injury, and occur over time. Physical issues such as these often go unnoticed, or can even be misconceived as a desirable trait in specific breeds or disciplines.

While chiropractic work is sometimes needed, and often helpful, it is very important to address any underlying causes of imbalance. A great way to battle imbalance is through stretching, calisthenic exercises, and range of motion exercises. Performing these exercises daily without the weight of the rider allows the muscular and skeletal structure to move freely without compensation, and can help solidify any corrections that your chiropractor may have made. Your horse will be well on his way to achieving proper self-carriage, better balance and increased fitness.

Stretching and stabilizing exercises are easy to do and should be incorporated into your daily routine whenever possible. They can make a significant impact on your horse’s overall well-being, and do not require rigorous exercise. Below is a fantastic video to reference and help you better understand the importance of developing a routine for your horse. Tune in Thursday May, 5th, 3:00 pm MST for a live demonstration.