Ladybug, Ladybug

It is truly autumn; the equinox has come and gone. Frost crystals coat the morning grass. The air has turned sharp with a clearness that wallops the spirit. Wood Tick drives us into the mountains every day for a dose of awe. We recently traveled five hours in the high country and didn't meet one vehicle. Amazing, considering it is hunting season. It speaks to the scope of the woods in N. Montana, the land of endless Englemann spruce, lodgepole, fir, balsam and larch.

A few days ago we traveled slowly by ATV to the top of Meadow Mountain. A dilapitated wooden lookout tower loomed above treeline. Krumholz pine, gnarled and bent with years of wind and the gravity of heavy snows, gave hints of the winter to come. It took a moment to focus from the 360-degree view and settle into the warm rocks where I was perched. A Ladybug landed on my arm. Then another. The sun burst from behind the clouds and reflected off thousands of swarming wings. I was in the middle of a ladybird  migration!

No one knows the whys and wherefores. I'd only witnessed one other, in the foothills near Boulder, CO, over twenty years ago. Ladybirds fly from the lowlands to the highlands by the thousands and coat trees, rocks and bushes. The world turns orange as they burrow into crevasses and holes to winter and emerge with spring.

It is one of the world's spectacles. Like the bull moose that stepped in front of the pickup truck the next day. We sped up to get closer and he began to run up the two-track ahead of us. He did so for over a mile, allowing a once-in-a-lifetime look at his power-packed run as his 40-inch rack tore branches from alder that lined the road.  He took a sudden left turn down a steep precipice and instantaneously disappeared into a larch forest. All that remained was the crash of hooves and cracking branches. Ghost moose.

The forests brim with wood chickens (grouse), mule and white-tailed deer. Glossy, black bears frequent the damp ravines, fattening up for winter. Service berry bushes are neon yellow and the aspen are not far behind. The air smells of seasonal of transition; of cow elk in estrus.

"Ladybug Ladybug
Spread your wings it's time to take flight
Ladybug Ladybug
you better fly away home ...  "

Perspehone Has Nothing on Me

I'm sitting in LaPerla with the heater on and the screen door open. Such is autumn in Montana, were it frosts at night and gets up to 80 in the day time. It's easy to get caught in between, an apt metaphor for the moment as I contemplate a myriad of contradictions and mind-spinning observations, compliments of my friend, Wood Tick.

Autumn is my favorite time of year. I'm an October Libra and the drift of falling of leaves, the smell of nature's death and the movement of migration has long stirred my soul. I have all that, outside the door at Wood Tick's house on the river, looking into forest and mountains where it's dark and silent at night. I'm immersed in the wild once more. The past week I've witnessed moose crossing a lake, glossy black bears, an eagle's nest on the top of a snag and elk bugles echoing through the night. It's bow hunting season as well, when males in camo take to the woods. I must be wary of where I stop to squat.

It's a strange man-scene in this neck of the woods. Every one I've met so far is divorced and single by choice. With the energy of a mountain man frat, they've turned their libido into wood of the tree falling kind, building huge, strange creations that are off balance. One has built a humongous open air work shed that houses a saw mill and a room accessible by ladders three stories up. Inside that glass room is a pool table and I'm sure, a view to die for. I declined the invitation to travel up construction ladders and smoke a bong. The  room was not made with females in mind since there was no bathroom and women can't hang it over the non-existent railing. Nope, not venturing down three stories of ladders in a sober OR altered state, and I haven't done a bong in decades. Another man took a simple, beautiful 1200 sq ft log cabin perched on a mountainside and proceeded to dwarf it with a dick, er deck with logs three times larger than myself. On top of that deck was going to be a, you guessed it, pool table room. On top of that was a loft. On top of that would be a fire lookout observation room. Another man lives on an isolated lake surrounded by old growth larch in a rabbit-warren house jam-packed with stuff. The wooden porch leading to the door was covered with rat scat. I dare say, he has become a pack rat. I could go on. I've met another half dozen. Wood cutters. Engineers. Craftsmen. Contractors. Welders. Suffice to say there's something off kilter here. I hear rumors of women in the background of some men's lives, but have yet to see proof. Wood tick tells me that the news of a woman in the area spreads like wildfire. Stay tuned.

We make daily trips into the mountains. Wood Tick is a bow hunter and has gone out a few times. He promised not to divulge the location of the bear I photographed from 20-feet yesterday to his hunter/trapper friends. What's shocked me most, however, is the subject of wolves. Thus far I've lived in areas where wolf re-introduction is an ecological and spiritual goal; efforts that stem from decades of blood lust extermination. In Montana I've come face-to-face with the effects of wolf predation in the form of plummeting elk, moose and deer populations.  This year Fish and Game opened a limited wolf hunt and sold $19.00 tags. The word 'wolves' is on the tongues of everyone I meet and fills the editorial pages of newspapers, with many professing to love them, while overwhelmed with the speed at which their populations and predation have spread. This has caught me off guard and I'm set to delve into more research. Stay tuned.

Tomorrow is the Equinox. The first day of autumn returns with equal minutes of daylight and darkness. Wood Tick and I plan to head to a special spot with the dogs on the river to swim and laze in the unseasonably hot sun. Record highs are predicted by weathermen, while astrologers warn of intense cosmic chaos. I'm happy to be anchored at Wood Tick's house on the river with the resident beaver and swooping Kingfisher. His burned biscuits make me laugh; his wit and lay of the land are a gift.  Stay tuned.

Satellite Blue

I snipped a few pink cosmos and black-eyed susans this morning, added them to the morass that's become my kitchen table and lit some candles. Now I sit with a hot steaming cup of espresso trying to sort the events of the past couple of weeks. Teak, outside with the dawn, has come back in. Hobo attacks my right-hand fingers as they tap across the keys. I hope the muse likes laughter.

Okay. I admit, I delved into Chemistry a bit. Well, more than a bit. One of my best friends, an exquisite writer who lives in Florida, was flying to Missoula to visit an Aunt. I hadn't seen her in 20 years and we were intent on a reunion. Turns out Chris (of Carole and Chris where I'm summer-parked) was set to travel across Montana to see his dad. I figured I'd hitch a ride, have him drop me off in 'round Missoula, Elizabeth could hijack a car and we'd meet. On a whim, I contacted "Wood Tick," the Montana Kerouac who had captured my imagination. Why not communicate and possibly set up a coffee along the way? I might have several hours to kill. 

He and I emailed as the possibility of seeing my friend dissipated behind an onslaught of serious bronchitis. Wood Tick bemoaned the fact that the "bait to get me out thar had disappeared."  There I was: no hope of seeing my friend and the sudden desire to meet this man. The plot thickens. "I'd like to hear your voice, would you like to hear mine?" I typed. Who would blink first? I called and left a message. He called back and did the same, saying that I sounded "pret...tee dy...nam...ic." He spoke with a drawl the likes of which I'd never heard. We decided to meet in Bonners Ferry -- Bombers Ferry to Wood Tick, a reference to Ruby Ridge -- a picnic by the Kootenay River at a little grassy park I'd recently discovered. We'd bring the dogs. In three days.

Carole and I humorously pondered my venture into terra incognito. Was it really his picture on-line, we spoofed? It didn't help that I'd just finished reading John Sanford's, Chosen Prey. I gave Carole his contact information as we agreed on a plan. Leave it open. See how things fly. Pack a bag? We joked about the days when women always packed a bag in case we got laid. Now we pack bags in case we get de-layed. As in airports.

We met at a bakery at a highway intersection. I was an hour late thanks to the back-up at the Canadian/US border crossing. I pulled into the shadeless parking lot, turned off the ignition and took a deep breath. Man and dog were sitting outside at a picnic table. He wore black jeans and a t-shirt w/black suspenders. We met mid-way on the dusty gravel with hellos. I was stunned. He looked nothing like his picture. He had assured me he wasn't "fat, bald or ugly ... yet." He was modest. He possessed sky blue eyes and a smile that melted. We sat outside and talked for an hour and I decided ya, let's move onto the picnic. Doggie Daycare, he called it. Three more hours of talk and laughter. The sun was getting low. We didn't want it to end.

"I don't know what you'd planned to do," he said, "but you're welcome to come to my place and spend some more time," he suggested. I didn't tell him that I had no plan. His place was a 100-miles east in the forest, 30 miles from the nearest town. My cell phone wouldn't work there. I smiled as I overcame my serial killer fears and pointed my body east. I dialed up daughter Hope as I  crossed another border, confident in my intuition and ability to readily extricate myself from situations that twist sideways. 

I had packed for an overnight; I stayed eight days. Every day he took me deeper into his landscape. He made simple, delicious meals. We made outings to visit friends, hiked, took trips into the forested mountains that enveloped his home; stepped into the hot tub every morning with coffee, watching Bohemian waxwings work the riverside bushes. I photographed as he practiced his bow, readying for the upcoming season and his quest for an elk. Everyday he'd look at me with those piercing blue eyes and ask: "So how's your whirlwind summer romance going?" I told him his presence had the comfort of an old t-shirt. He liked that. Now we're both figuring out where to put this encounter in the context of our fiercely independent lives.

Neither of us had acted on a Chemistry contact. If my Florida-amiga hadn't ended up in Montana this would never had happened. That's the way August was: a strange configuration of out-of-the-blue-happenings. Satellite blue, says my new friend, whose name is not Wood Tick. My subscription to Chemistry expires this morning. They want to know if I'd like a special offer of three months for the price of one? No thanks.

I'm content with the memory of lounging in bed under soft covers, listening to the river outside the door and hearing a lover's footsteps walking up the hallway. Wondering if I could get used to that.