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. 

My dad reminds me, on almost a weekly basis, that I need to stop growing up. I like to think that holidays like Halloween and Easter reassure him that even at 27 years of age, I still boast quite a bit of childlike innocence.

When I first started attending school at Carroll College in 2005, I figured my childhood days of high-paced Easter egg hunts were over. I mean college is supposed to be a time of diligent studying and planning for one’s future right….not scrambling after plastic eggs like your life depended on the candy inside them? When my first Easter at Carroll rolled around though I received an email announcing Carroll’s annual Easter egg hunt. My jaw dropped and my heart fluttered with anticipation. The tradition could respectably carry on!

I remember hovering by my dorm room window in St. Charles watching students outside polka-dotting the iconic hillside----colorful egg by colorful egg for the hunt later that day. I felt the excitement build inside me.

When it came time for the egg hunt to start, dozens and dozens of students lined up along the base of the hill and waited for the whistle to blow signaling the start. Tightly clutching their baskets/plastic bags/pillow cases, everyone leaned forward like runners primed at the start of a race. The whistle blew and we were off. I must admit I have never seen a group of people move quite as quickly as I did that day. It was like the commencement of the Hunger Games but instead of racing to get the best weapon, the students made a mad dash for the best eggs….the ones with the lucky tickets inside guaranteeing them a prize. The students stampeded up the hill in a flurry. I quickly found out that I didn’t really need anything to put eggs in because I only managed to snag about three or four of them. As soon as I spotted an egg, someone else swooped in and scooped it up before I could get to it.

The egg hunt was over in a matter of 60 seconds, possibly a generous 90 seconds. It was the fastest, most furious egg hunt of my life. But I loved every minute of it.

Although I miss Carroll’s annual egg hunt, I am lucky enough to have parents that continue the tradition for me at their house each year. This year there was not one but six of us “adults” over the age of 18 that participated in the egg hunt. Well, there was also my friend’s three-year-old daughter, Camille, who’s more respectable egg hunting age made the rest of us look rather ridiculous. But we are all young at heart so the hunt commenced.

My dad had the esteemed privilege of hiding the eggs this year. And hide them he did! Unlike Carroll’s hunts, we had to look under rocks and inside bushes to find them. He was instructed to leave some easier ones out though for Camille. My boyfriend, who is notoriously competitive during egg hunts, almost couldn’t stand walking by all of those easily accessible eggs that he knew he had to leave for Camille.

Even though the wind was howled that afternoon and most of our stomachs were loaded down with ham, potatoes and cheesecake from Easter dinner, we diligently hunted until we found all of the eggs. My boyfriend’s younger sister, Holly, found the golden egg with $20 in it. She was especially excited about that since last year big brother rubbed it in her face when he found the golden egg. Camille and I didn’t care much for the money though. We were satisfied to just pop open the eggs and start pillaging all of the candy inside.

At 27 years old, most of my friends are married with kids now. They’re content watching their little ones scurry after Easter eggs while they cheer them on. But me-----well, I’m just happy to keep playing out my youth as long as possible and avoiding the “growing up” piece of life my dad has always warned me about.

THOMPSON FALLS – There are two things that make the annual Sanders County Yard Sale-ing Event work.

One is luring lots of treasure hunters to the county on the last weekend of June to pick through the tens of thousands of items at dozens upon dozens of yard sales, most of them along a 100-mile-plus stretch of Montana Highway 200.

The other is lining up the yard sales.

That effort is on right now, as organizers prepare for the eighth annual countywide yard sale.

MORE >>>http://missoulian.com/news/state-and-regional/organizers-prepare-for-massive-logistics-of-sanders-county-yard-sale/article_9448c7fe-c368-11e3-b45a-001a4bcf887a.html

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.  http://www.rdeliciouslife.blogspot.com/

The M.

As winter begins to melt into spring, I begin to get the itch.  Green and brown is starting to replace the white on the Bridgers and the "M" is starting to make its appearance.  This means hiking season is upon us.  Every year the itch begins around April…the desire to throw on my hiking boots and get lost in my thoughts on the trail.  This year the desire has heightened for me as I just finished reading "Wild" by Cheryl Strayed.  It's an amazing memoir about a woman who hikes the Pacific Crest Trail from California to Washington.  Reading her adventures has amped up my longing for hiking.  It got me thinking about one of my favorite, simple hikes right here in town….

The M trailhead. Easily one of the most popular in the Bozeman area.  From people who hike it everyday as a part of their workout routine to tourists who have never climbed a hill…all make their way to this visible landmark.  It sits on the side of Baldy for all to see.  People push their way up the steep trail or go the more leisurely route.  It means a lot to many.  Last summer at the top I met an old man sitting on the bench.  It was his 90th time hiking the M.  His friend, who usually hikes with him, couldn't make it that day so now he had one day on him.  You could see it was an ongoing competition.  I never hiked it as a kid.  Hiking wasn't my families thing.  Hiking came to me when friends introduced it to me as a teenager.  I had grown up surrounded by these mountains, but never much ventured in them.  The M was my first hike.  It was this hike that got me hooked.

Hiking can be very social.    Going with friends and chatting your way up the mountain.  Soaking up the fresh air and having the type of conversations where everyone can talk freely.  Something about getting your heart pumping with miles ahead of you and nothing to do but talk opens the lines of communication.  This is why I have been trying to instill a love of hiking into my daughters.  As they grow my hopes are it becomes the perfect setting for those tough conversations.  The kind where not sitting face to face can make it easier and more honest.  Right now these conversations consist of 6 and 8 year old talk- who is their current BFF and why does the dog pant while we hike.  It doesn't matter what the conversation is right now, it's that we are talking.  The person I have put the most miles on with would be my husband.  A city boy through and through, he came to Montana aching to play in the mountains and this only added to my new found love of hiking.  He pushed me to try harder and steeper trails.  To do them with a pack filled with sleeping bags, tents and food so once at the top we could camp.  Together we saw amazing places and grew closer with each conversation on the trail.  Back then we talked about our hopes and dreams, where we would go in life, what we wanted out of it.  To this day when it's just the two of us on a hike we have these same conversations.  Being in our mid-thirties with two kids and careers you would think we were in the middle of doing those things we talked about years ago.  We certainly are, but there are new hopes and dreams that come out on the mountains. 

Hiking can also be very personal.  I have had many a solo hike.  The M being one of the most popular for me.  It's close, easy to get to and because of the amount of traffic it gets it feels safe to be on alone.  On your own the only conversation you can have is with yourself.  Alone, scrambling up the mountain with your thoughts.  I find this a meditative time.  To notice any thoughts that are bothering me, things going on in my life.  I notice them, think them through and leave them on the trail.  I notice thoughts that are making me happy, take in a breath, soak up the view and feel peaceful.  I notice what I'm capable of, pushing myself to the top even when feeling tired.  The feeling of accomplishment, looking down and feeling strong.  The hike down is always the best.  You breathe a little easier.  Your mind cleared.  The mountain air, the quiet of the nature surrounding you, it adds to my ability to slow down and be present. 

The M trail offers so much.  I know some feel it is too busy, but if you take the time you can meet someone new.  Someone who may be seeing it for the first time.  When I sit at the top and overlook our Bozeman, I love to listen to those visiting talk about our town.  Hearing others in awe of it makes you realize how very lucky we are to live here.  You never know who you will see or meet on the trail.  An old friend you haven't seen for years. A family visiting from Australia asking you to take their photo because they're in Montana for the first time.  A group of strangers coming together to sit with a girl who fell on her run down.   Seeing the look of pride in my daughters eyes when they made it to the top for the first time, hiking the whole way on their own.  Yes, the M may get busy and I've never been on it without seeing another hiker, but this is okay.  It is there for all of us to enjoy.  A place to socialize, exercise, meditate…all right in our very own backyard.  

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.

 ***************

In getting ready for the onset of summer, I purchased a new dirt bike a few weeks ago. Much to my father’s reluctance, as he was a Kawasaki and Suzuki dealer for over 30 years, he instructed me to buy a Honda CRF 230 as the next best step up from my KLX 140. And boy, oh boy did I take some serious heat for the purchase. Because my dad was a dealer all those years, I have only ever rode brands that he sold. And through his business I became well acquainted with a lot of MX racers in town. As soon as pictures of my new bike hit Facebook, so did the sarcastic comments and suggestions of disloyalty from all of these guys. It was all in good fun and I laughed it off saying that I was simply doing what I had to do to improve as a rider.

What I wanted to say was “shouldn’t the fact that I’m a girl and I ride be all that matters?” I mean how awesome and unconventional is that?

It has been my great privilege in the past few years to share in the company of several other ladies, such as myself, who aren’t afraid to do the same extreme sports as guys. We are certainly a rare breed….but one which is incredibly strong.

During my first few off-road races on my bike last summer, I lined up at the start alongside only a handful of other girls. I was scared as hell to say the least, but I took some comfort in looking on either side of me and knowing that I wasn’t in it alone. During one of my first races out at the track I witnessed something that made me incredibly proud to be a lady rider. I rode up on another girl trying to unwedge her bike from a giant muddy rut gouged into the track. Another girl was next to her helping push the bike while she gave it throttle. Like me, they were outnumbered in a male dominated event and struggling just to finish. But they were determined to take that checkered flag, and unlike the guys with trophy envy, they wanted to make sure that their fellow ladies finished as well. That takes some serious guts to pause and help another rider out and put their needs ahead of your desire to place.

When I started my second season of hockey this last fall, I was relieved to see there were two other girls joining me. On a novice league of over 20 guys, we were again outnumbered, but still ever determined to get out and play. I watched both girls take some nasty falls and crash into the boards trying to beat the guys to the puck. But they got right back up each time and kept skating …..and with a beaming smile on their face to boot! Even though they both played on the opposing team, I was never so happy as when I saw one of them score a goal or assist on one. I always tried to make sure I went out and gave them a fist pound afterwards, and they always did the same for me. It takes great courage to step out onto the ice and play in such a vicious sport, especially when the guys don’t hold back any just because you’re a girl.

A few weeks ago, I missed our game and the inaugural game for a new girl. I was shocked and saddened to later hear that she fell during the game and suffered a concussion. She will be out for the rest of the season. It was an unfortunate accident, but according to her boyfriend who plays with us, she’ll be back next year. See that’s the thing about these types of women…..even when they get knocked out cold, they’re ready to go right back in again once revived.

My all ladies sled clinic with Dan Adams in February was another time of revelation for me on just how many strong women there are out there -----ready and willing to push themselves to the limit. Snowmobiling is a hard sport…..being a girl makes it even harder. I watched girls fall off and roll their sleds dozens of times. And each time they got back on their sleds, more pissed off and ready to try harder the next time. One of the girls’ sleds completely rolled over the top of her one time, but she still stuck the weekend out and managed to do an awesome sidehill maneuver the following day that I completely failed at. The amount of support and encouragement I found in that group of lady riders that weekend was overwhelming. And the best part was, we had all hauled our sleds to the middle of nowhere to ride with one of the top riders because we are that committed to the sport and to showing the men in our lives that we can ride just as well as them.

I was told once that I have “mismatched genetics” because I do so many activities that are non-traditional for girls. There was a time when I felt like that made me a bit of a freak. But the thing is, there are a lot of girls out there like me. I have rode and played beside them and they are by far the toughest chicks I know. They motivate me to keep going when I want to give up on something and they are changing the world as we know it by raising the bar for what women are capable of.

They are strong women…..and I am proud to be one of them.

“Strong women: May we know them. May we raise them. May we be them.”

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. 

A wise old saying dictates something about staying way from politics and religion in a friendly conversation.  But if you want to be my friend, never talk about finance.  Like the three-year-old who bolts from his mother’s slippery grasp when she attempts to corral him, I run from investment discussion and 1040-form forums like I long ago bolted from a heaping spoonful of yucky cough medicine. When the words “Fed” or “capital gains” slide into any verbal exchange, a solid brick wall crashes down in my brain. An otherwise intelligent, capable person, if the talk turns to interest rates, I revert to the bimbo who is looking right at you but wondering which strappy sandals go with that new black skirt I shouldn’t have bought until my dividend check arrived.

What is the matter with me? If I am willing to increase my earning potential by systematically organizing a numbers strategy before purchasing a lottery ticket, why can’t I do it with finances?

Because it isn’t like my childhood Monopoly game, where it all came down to a roll of the dice. You’d collect and you were finished—no forms, no interest rates, and no plan for the future. Based on my competitors’ visible capital as well as my own cold, hard cash, I could purchase property, charge rent, and collect earnings with as much chance of winning as anyone else. No one was at my side analyzing the viability of the B&O Railroad or the Electric Company as it applied to possible tax exemptions.

Today experts and pundits would find it necessary to predict the future of the hotel industry on a failing Baltic Avenue or an over priced Park Place. Their advice would cloud my former confidence with doubt and fear: Should I short the Short Line Railroad? I would leave the room indecisive and unsure, remembering longingly the good old days when, based solely on instinct, I boldly made my move.

My kind, generous father purchased some stocks for me years ago, and I am forever grateful for the boost in my income as a result of his careful money management. Of course, he loved to sit at the breakfast table and remind us that had he not opted to sell his Sysco stock—the truckload of shares he had been granted in return for the sale of his own company when I was in college—we would have been strutting around with billions in our wallets.

Except for that one teensy misjudgment on his part, you’d think I could have risen above my handicap long enough to listen to his wise counsel. Instead, whenever I lit upon a kitchen chair to grab a sandwich and he began talking about the market (and I don’t mean grocery store), I suddenly had to make a phone call. When he patiently explained to me for the fourth time since Saturday why my mutual fund needed tweaking to avoid substantial capital gains tax, he recognized the familiar change in my weather as a thickening cloud washed across my gaze and I bobbed my head for the third time, in desperate need of a nap. The how-to book he had advocated I read years ago is, of course, on the shelf, untouched.

My aversion is not entirely my fault. What began as ownership of simple shares in recognizable company names has uncontrollably multiplied into monstrous transactions with untenable things like REITS, royalties, and K-1s. I could follow along, if, like Jed Clampett, a forty-foot geyser spewed gallons of oil per minute out of my own front lawn, but I can’t visualize any of these intangibles. This kind of exchange is all on paper. Monthly statements that rival any mathematics Master’s thesis arrive in envelopes or emails I open just long enough to read the bottom line. What’s my balance? I quickly three-hole punch all sixteen pages and store them in my “Stocks” binder (who said I couldn’t manage my portfolio?) then return to my real goal for the day: completing the Times crossword puzzle.

            I am terrible; I am bad. I am a wicked, spoiled daughter who wants to have money in my account but doesn’t want to hear a word about how it gets there. I am the darling who resided in South Orange County spending my income on manicures and trips to Nordstrom, wondering could the boob job in return for my own children’s inheritance be far behind? I was able to retire comfortably to a simpler life in Montana (no boob jobs necessary here), and despite such good fortune (literally), after all, am no better than those Pasadena trust-fund babies I trashed while growing up.

            Still, I would rather have a root canal than read the annual reports that clog my mailbox, and I turn my taxes over to a professional as fast as I can get the check written. Meanwhile, the battle continues. When proxy ballots surface on the kitchen counter, I don’t even open the envelope, and I recall my disparaging father shaking his head as I deftly tossed expensive glossy tabloids detailing corporate meetings and year-end goals into the recycling bin while I poured instead over retail store catalogs. If I invest in The Sundance Company, would I be invited to the stockholders’ meeting hosted by Robert Redford?

            As my dear, departed father tried to discuss real estate ups and downs, current banking trends or his frustration over the power of analyst predictions, I started to hum softly. Then I was guilt-ridden and momentarily determined to be the Wall-Street-wizard daughter of his dreams. But my mother’s words, the ones I used to think were so unkind and intolerant, echoed in my ears: “Do you always have to talk about something so boring?” This outburst resulted from his desire to share with his beloved wife his latest triumph in a series of many that had brought her a life of contentment and designer shoes.

Bright and conversational in many other areas, now that my father has passed away and my husband takes care of our money matters (he knows better than to try to discuss it) when the broker calls our house and asks for me, I still cut him off in mid-sentence and now hand the phone to the man I married so I won’t have to face finances.

“Sorry, Tod. I have to go try on some sandals.”

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. 

By March first, I’ve already popped what is technically considered an overdose of vitamin D and killed any calcium absorption with enough coffee to sink a ship.  When I awaken at 9:00 in the morning and it is still so dark and snowy that I think what’s the hurry, then pray in order to pull back the covers but winter just won’t give up it’s time to focus on what I’m grateful for.  Give me a moment; I know I’ll think of something.

Silence.  There is nothing quite like the quiet of a thick blanket of freshly fallen snow.  And after months of it, I’m not as easily annoyed when my dear husband cranks up the volume on yet another action/thriller video.

Fresh air.  I am joyful while strapping on snowshoes then planting my trekking poles, pleased to be clad in something other than flannel pajamas which is all I’ve worn since a week ago when I threw on some jeans to go grocery shopping during the 20-minute window that the roads were plowed.  Out here in the Nine Mile Valley, our driveways are winter wonderland trails tantamount to any the rest of the world must travel to in order to participate in winter sports.  YAY!  As I breathlessly hike until my legs feel like rubber and my lungs burn, I thank God for arms and legs (I pray continually that they are not frost-bitten) and I feel deep gratitude seeing the final round in the bend that leads to my back porch.  I appreciate the time outdoors because I feel better afterwards (who wouldn’t?) back inside.

Indoors.  I feel so fortunate to have a roof over my head and radiant heating under my feet (I lie flat on the floor and gasp until my heart rate returns to normal).  Even the confused birds fight for entry at the sight of me thawing.  I hear them tap tap tapping at exterior logs, desperately trying to bore a hole into some semblance of spring. 

Hot water—lots of it.  A piping, long shower has been calling my name for two miles in the blizzard I misjudged to be a slight breeze and a light snow flurry.  I am eternally grateful for fingers that have feeling enough after 30 minutes to turn on the faucet.

Food.  Lunch will follow; how happy am I, that I can consume the same number of calories in one meal I otherwise would in a whole week were I simply sunning on some beach and getting no aerobic exercise! 

The fireplace.  No need to elaborate here.

Icicles are lovely works of nature’s art!  Pine branches appear no longer green but dark grey so that my daily view is every bit as stunning as a black-and-white Ansel Adams photograph!  There is so much glory to be recognized, even in such bleakness…until that moment when I realize that if I don’t see something red or yellow or bright blue very soon I’ll go stark raving mad.  

The remote control.  Thank you, Lord, for technology!  When I am on the brink of insanity I lift and push, desperately seeking any colorful entertainment that will lift me from this comatose slumber like the kiss from Sleeping Beauty’s prince.  The television engages, the screen lights up (a beacon of hope) and there it is!  Not exactly what I was continuously praying for: “Highlights from the Winter Olympics.” 

"Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances…”

1 Thessalonians 5:18

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.

A few years ago, when wolves were still easy to spot in Yellowstone, a black trotted across the road in front of our car. As it came toward us, I grabbed my camera and started to shoot. 

He came. He went.

My images were out of focus. Not a single one of them was usable and I didn’t remember the experience of seeing that wolf at all. I just remembered obsessively snapping photos. 

Marsha Phillips, co-owner of Bozeman’s F-11 Photographic Supplies says, “Digital photography offers the ability to quickly take a lot of photographs. There’s an upside to that; the freedom to explore and experiment on how to capture the best images. The odds are good that you will capture a great image. 

“But, there’s a downside too. We’re amassing photographs without ever enjoying them. Unless you follow up, and edit your images, they become overwhelming.” There’s simply too many of them to wade through, it’s to easy to forget where that image of your daughter’s first time on a snowboard went, which camera card, which camera — your iPhone? 

“Very simply, most of us can’t find the image we want when we want it.”

Sometimes you just flat out miss an event because you were so engrossed with snapping photos you weren’t actually present. Most people still use photographs to document life as it happens, as a proof of life, a memory of something sweet, special, important, or just because.  However, in order to improve or save a memory you need to do more than click it and forget it. 

For instance, take a close up image and it will help you to see differently, experience familiar terrain in a new light, remember an object better. Your camera can help you see in ways you never imagined, it invites you to notice, to look, to see and to focus.

So, focusing in and slowing down help us to see and to remember. Then, you need to interact with your images after you take them.  To do that you need to know where they are.  Your photos need to be organized and backed up. At the very least, take advantage of one of the services for automatic back up, like iCloud. Once the art of archiving images is lost and the images are trapped in the form of anonymous ones and zeros on digital storage, the memories and enjoyment are lost with them.

To complete the photographic experience, there should be some kind of hard copy output like a print, photo book, metal wall art, stretched canvas, textiles or photo jewelry. What makes prints a good option for you in the digital age? They’re inexpensive, easy to share, easy to organize and easy to store. They last. Your prints can tell a story without an internet connection or an electronic device.  They are especially compelling if you’ve labelled them.  Maybe that’s why a good, old-fashioned photo album has been the chronicle of choice for family history since the invention of the photograph. 

Since I missed seeing that black wolf, I’ve changed how I relate to what I see in Yellowstone and often let an experience be just for my eyes and heart so I can revel in the joy and awe they bring. When I do get out my camera now, its generally for a slowly unfolding sunset or something I want to focus in on, a stationary detail in a larger scene. And then, truly, my camera helps me to see. 

The first photographs were not literal representations of the world: instead, they were an interpretation of it. Today, photographs taken on an iPhone and apped with Instagram portray that familiar style. We’ve come full circle in capture, but not in output or printing.  Do something really important to preserve your family history so it can be shared and tell the stories that connect the generations.  Make prints.  Organize and back up.  You don’t have to do it all today.  Just start.  Maybe it’s time for the photo albums to be retro cool. Try it. I’m going 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.

Several people have said that the boxing scene in Montana is a joke.

But there isn’t a trace of a smirk on the face of promoter Hollis Huggins.

Boxing’s reputation is badly in need of a shot of pizzazz, and Huggins knows it.  

One of the steps in this resurrection takes place on April 5 at the Silver Spur Arena and Event Center in Belgrade.

Some boxing events end up looking like vaudeville shows – fans are treated to a bit of melodrama, a couple of comedy acts,  a tragedy, a dance act, and, lastly, a fight.

This one should be all fight.

In one of the night’s four professional bouts (the card includes several semi-pro matches and MMA competitions), Jesse Uhde (3-4), of Lakeside, meets Daniel Gonzalez (11-29), of Billings, for the newly formed Montana State junior middleweight championship (147-154).

Gonzalez is no stranger to long nights in the trenches. He has on numerous occasions gone six or more rounds; this will be Uhde’s first time fighting for six rounds.

“I’m going to be fighting really confidently,” said Uhde. “He’s fought 6, and 8, and 10 rounders many times, but I think that, skill-wise, and as far as speed and strength, I’ve got him beat. I’ve sparred for 12 rounds, and have been getting prepared for 10.”

Uhde is willing to trade punches without running away, and neither of the two fighters could ever be classified as overly-cautious. Gonzalez, 35, is a tough guy whose style will shed some blood on the trunks. (How tough is Gonzales? He was unavailable for comment because he is down in the mine shafts of North Dakota, working a straight five-day shift.)

“I’m not going to stand in front of him,” said Uhde, 35. “I’ve got twice the speed and I’m not planning on being easy to hit. If I do take a shot, I need to stay on my toes, and not get lured into a brawl. His game is to come forward – and keep coming forward.”

Uhde said that he plans to mix his punches well, directing most of them to the head, but switching occasionally to the body. Uhde the slugger plans to become Uhde the boxer.

“Both Jesse and Danny are two good fighters, who will mix it up and bang,” said Huggins. “Neither of these two guys will disappoint. Danny takes on all comers, and he has fought some great prospects. These guys are warriors. And it could be something of a crossroads fight for these guys. Somebody is going to take a new belt home and gain a lot of confidence to move forward.”

Huggins said that the Montana junior middleweight belt could become one of the most coveted titles in state sports. He already has a challenger lined up to fight the newly minted champion, perhaps even as early as September.

The main event features Mexican fighting legend Yory Boy Campas in an eight-round middleweight bout with a hardnosed Ukrainian named Mikhail Lyubarsky.

Other action will see a four-round match featuring former Montana lightweight champion Chris Asher against Eric Mafnas; Cotton Root battles Kevin Tjaden in a four-rounder.

Born in Kiev, Ukraine, Lyubarsky fights out of Hollywood, California. He owns a 3-15 record and has not won a fight since 2006.

Campas hopes to dispatch of Lyubarsky early and move on to at least one more bout as a major-gate attraction. 

But that’s jumping the gun.

Getting past the Ukrainian is no minor hurdle. At 25, he doesn’t plan on going down in a heap, trapped underneath a prone body. He plans to fight.  

“I’ve got nothing lined up past Yory Boy,” said Lyubarsky. “He’s my focus. I do have upsets on my record, including Donald Goodwin. I happened to be fighting in other guys’ backyards a lot, and it’s hard sometimes to get a fair handshake.”

Lyubarsky is more than a boxer; he is a student and historian of the sport. He has sparred with some of the best in the game, and he is training vociferously at the Hollywood Gym. He has fought in seven different weight classes.

“I’ve been away for the past three years,” said Lyubarsky. “I kept asking myself why I wanted to be involved in a sport that hasn’t given me love in return. Boxing wasn’t paying the bills. I love the sport, really. I’m back for Yory Boy. I believe in my power, and I believe in my conditioning and my training, and I know what is at stake.”

Lyubarsky understands the stakes, and so, too, does Huggins. As do all of the sponsors who’ve graciously supported Huggins. That list includes Insty-Prints of Belgrade; Mystery Ranch of Bozeman; Little Stinkers Septic Services; the Holiday Inn Bozeman; Belgrade Studios; North Star Services; EZ Auto Sales; AFT Salvage; Ressler Motors; Buds; The Art of Contrology; The Spotted Horse Café; Ben Thiede; and Doctor Green Thumb.

With Helena’s lightweight prospect Duran Caferro staying active, and another potential card discussed in September, maybe, just maybe, all that talk of the great passing of boxing will be rendered obsolete.

General tickets are $20 in advance or $30 at the door. Ringside tickets are $40 and tables for six are $450 and tables for eight are $800.  Tickets are available at the 49er Diner in Livingston, Belgrade Pilates, Insty Prints of Belgrade and the Three Forks Market. For information, call 406-209-1386 or 406-596-0416.