The Old Broke Rancher on How to Stop Hiking and Relax Already

I've lived here in Montana for a long time. Nearly my whole life now, in fact—except for a handful of years regrettably spent, because of my job as a railroader, in places like North Dakota and Kansas. And during that time in our state, I made sure to take in all of the outdoor beauty and recreational activity I could. I've hiked up one side and down the other of every hill, mountain, peak, and large pile of dirt in the whole state. And climbed most of them, too. I've farmed, ranched, walked, bounced, biked, motorbiked, crawled, tripped, and rolled over just about every square inch of the Last Best Place.

And let me tell you, the view of Montana's regal mountains and noble prairies still moves this old cowboy nearly to tears.

Only, the thing is, these days I kind of like to look at it through a window. Rather than, you know, out in it.

I don't want to say that I was wrong all of those years toiling and sweating out in the elements, but seriously: have you tried just sitting down and doing nothing instead?

Sorry, I misspoke. You don't have to do nothing; there's plenty to do. For instance, have you ever watched any TV? For years I thought that this thing was bad—the "boob tube," I was told, and not because of a preponderance of female chests (that might have been some enticement), but because the glow of the cathode ray produced "boobs" in the sense of "morons."

"Don't sit so close to television," my mother would yell at me from the kitchen. "You'll go blind!"

So for years I did the prudent thing and avoided the television studiously, the better to keep my eyes seeing and my formidable wit razor sharp. Then, somewhere along the way, I got kind of dumb anyway, so I decided to give the old idiot box a try after all.

Have you watched this thing? It's incredible! I watched seven straight hours of golf the other day, and I don't even like golf! l In fact, I despise it, but you wouldn't believe how clear it came through. It looked like I was really at Dead Horse Lake golf course in Tennessee when they zoomed in close on the beads of sweat breaking out in the impeccably HD pores of some golfer whose name I don't know because I don't care about golf. But golly, you can sure watch a lot of it on TV.

Even so, watching TV is just one of a galaxy of things you can do inside, with only a little imagination. You can also doze off, for instance. As I settle into my imperial phase, I enjoy dozing off more and more, which is good because I can't help it anyway. I know what you're thinking, it's the somnolence of televised golf that's doing it, and I have to admit that all of those hushed voices whispering "he's about to do it, any minute now" are kind of sleepy. But it's not just boring sports that put me to sleep. Everything does. I managed to fall asleep in the hot tub the other evening, and woke up soft-boiled. I'm worried I'm going to fall asleep at the wheel one of these days and wake up plowing through the fresh produce at Albertsons.

And I should point out that I haven't lost any of my sense of adventure. It doesn't have to be my house. It can just as easily be my sister's, or my brother-in-law's, or hell, yours. See for yourself. Invite me over to your house, or trailer, or mansion, set a hamburger and a beer in front of me, preferably on a tray in front of your television, and I'll fall asleep at your house too. I'm not particular, is what I'm saying.

Maybe you can see where I'm coming from, and maybe not. My beloved wife, the light of my life, does not. She implores me, in so many words, to "pick up my lazy ass." My wife is the kind of woman who works eleven days in a row and takes a long hike on her day off. She feels about indolence and idleness the way I feel about leeches and cockroaches; she doubts a benevolent God would permit them to exist in a just world.

That's how I ended up spending last Saturday going up the Mt. Otis Trail with my wife. She, clad in her Adidas and spandex athleticwear, me in a T-shirt that says "Jimmy Buffett Died For Our Sins" and a pair of old cowboy boots, we ascended the just-about two miles together. Or, if not together, almost together. Which is to say that she got to the top before me.

And by that, I really mean that she stayed up there for fifteen minutes before coming back down to see where I was, and what could possibly be the holdup.

Reader, she found me sitting on a big rock with my water bottle in my lap, cap unscrewed, asleep. I'm the only person I know who can fall asleep on a hike.

My wife is a little younger than I am. Even if she were ten years older than me, she'd still be in better shape. What she doesn't understand is that yes, she's right, I love the view from up there. It's beautiful. Please, by all means, go up there and take some pictures, bring the pictures back down, print them out, frame them, and hang them on the wall in front of my armchair. Next time, I mean.

I've come to realize that maybe the best way to appreciate Montana's natural splendor, at least at my age, is to draw the blackout curtains, pour a bowl of cereal, kick up the footrest on my old La-Z-Boy, and watch another "Bonanza." For one, there are no grizzlies in my living room, just my old dogs and the dependable sound of their wheezing. The great indoors offer less chance of wildlife viewing than the National and State Parks I used to visit all the time, but the chance of seeing the cat as she makes her nightly jaunt down to her nest in the basement is wildlife spotting enough for me.

The best part is two steps into the living room from the kitchen notwithstanding, the elevation gain is minimal.

My wife seethes. "How can you sit there like that?"

It's really very easy, I tell her. If you do it right, the first part to hit the chair should be your butt.

My wife, by the way, is constitutionally incapable of relaxing. She wouldn't know relaxation if it burst into the house wearing a hockey mask and wielding a chainsaw. She loves to clean so much that she's scrubbed the laminate off the counter and is almost down to the particle board. The shine on our bathroom mirror is so streak-free that I see myself in a clarity that calls to mind the 4KHD golfers on my television, only I look a little more simian.

The thing is, I know I'm not the only one experiencing this curious sea change. I called my friend Bobby Pulaski the other day, a guy who spent his life fishing in Alaska, riding motorcycles, and working on the railroad. Here was a guy who couldn't stand still for a moment, a true free spirit. As I dialed his number, I knew he was going to whoop my butt for being so lazy.

But when he answered, it was groggily, and I could hear the unmistakable "thok!" of a 3-wood hitting a Titleist Tour Performance ball.

"Bobby Pulaski," I shouted into the phone. "Don't tell me you're watching ESPN 2?"

"No," he shrieked defensively. "I hate golf!" And then he hung up.

I knew then that I wasn't alone. And that, unlike Bobby Pulaski, I would stop denying it, and embrace it.

Therefore, I make this declaration: I will remain indoors and comfortable for the rest of my days. This I say to you this day and for all days.

Unless my wife makes me, in which case I'll go, but I won't be happy about it.