Wilding into golden cottonwoods

and bluebird September days

We’ve been wilding in Western Montana. Last week a massive pressure ridge brought stunningly hot days of triple digits and no relief in the evenings, descending “only” 40 degrees to the low 60s for each of several mid-week nights. Wildland fires roared to life while the prairies baked. People remained in darkened homes or jumped in rivers. Thursday night after a trip to Browning I stayed in an East Glacier motel with no air; only wedging a box fan into a chair in front of the window saved me.

The next day, though, it rained. Hurricane Hilary’s remnants pushed up through the intermountain west and brought sheets of precipitation, primarily north of Missoula. The sky dried up over the weekend, but on Monday the rain returned. I ventured to Thompson Falls in it and hydroplaned half the drive home. On highway 200, the biggest frog I’ve ever seen hopped into the road and stopped at the double yellow to let me pass. The deluge was ark-worthy.

The next morning fog shrouded the landscape though the temperature mirrored last week’s warm overnights. The parched air didn’t know what to do with all that sudden moisture. I walked out into the wet courtyard grass in my bare feet, which is one of the great joys of this life. The north hills smoothed under a thin blanket of mist, and cars on the interstate sent up lingering plumes of spray.

Fleecy pajamas and blissful feet

Tuesday evening when I stopped at the grocery, I could see a storm approaching. I did not anticipate how quickly it would arrive, and the huge lead drops drenched me between the store and the car. Wild jags of lightning and deep, angry thunder rolled over as rain and hail pounded the car, the kind of storm you don’t want to stop under a tree in, or drive home in, or not drive home in. In ten minutes, it was over.

It rained on and off all night. Wednesday morning a slug crept across the stone where I rest my feet during patio coffee and I took care where I stepped until he had traversed the entire rock. The kids across the courtyard took a walk with mom and ended up in the alley behind my house, splashing in puddles like they haven’t seen for months.

Wednesday night, I slept with no fan or other noisemaker. All the windows in my house yawned wide. The chill hinted of fall. Thursday morning, I smelled the coffee as it auto-brewed at 5:30, and then I scented something else; you’ll know it if you lack central air conditioning. It’s the odor of burnt dust which flicks to life upon the first autumn firing of the furnace. With its thermostat to 62°, mine had cut itself on!

Little slug-buddy on the rock. All the rocks on my patio come from places I’ve gone. When I see a scree field I stop and pick up a piece to add. So who knows what this rock tasted like to this fellow. Idaho? Wyoming? The Clark Fork?

I haven’t needed to water any of my gardens for days. The weeds now are burgeoning. I’m considering whether to replace my spindly petunia basket with a fall flower array. Soon the cottonwoods in the riverbottoms will begin to yellow, and the maples on campus will burst into flame. Bluebird September days will bend to crisp evenings when fleece hats warm ears on a twilight walk, and the pinpoints of stars will never have seemed so bright.