Thanksgiving week

Field notes from western Montana. And larch.

When I don’t really know what I’m going to write, I start with “Field Notes.” There, I just gave away one of my secrets. But I think it’s alright to share that. It’s a good note on how to go about figuring one’s own mind when they are feeling a little scattered or unfocused. How? Start by with what is directly around you. This is free from writing here. I’ll let you know if I ever go formal. Or it will be published under a different title.

I harp on this all the time I know, but I’m going to keep doing so… We have too much information. We are expecting too much from ourselves. These damn digital devices are incessant in making us stumble over every damn digital log that lays across the digital trail, and it’s unsustainable unless we know how to step away, open the door, go outside, and take in the light from the sun, moon, and the billion stars that are shining above us.

That is the thing that keeps me most in check with my brain as I try to juggle the too many things I take on, which include parenting, work, fiction writing, photography, and exercise. These are the priorities I’ve highlighted for myself, and so it is a continual motion of moving them forward, maintaining and progressing them.

We have too much information thrown at us. We don’t need it. It’s distracting. The only way I can make sense of any of it is to get outside, and look away from it. When I let my brain set all the digital inputs aside, and focus on the trees growing around me, the curves of the hills that extend outwards into my view, look up and absorb some sunlight into my eyes, and breath outdoor air, that is when my brain can begin to assimilate to what is actually going on around me.

Thus Field Notes. A way of pausing, looking at the actual condition of the world that I find myself moving through.

It’s late November. In western Montana this means a generally overcast and gray sky, cold weather, intermittent moisture, a mix of snow and rain, cold morning, warmer afternoons, and a severe bite in the air. This November has been no different.

This morning was 30 degrees. Just as the sun crested the mountain across the valley, pink erupted on the lower half of the eastern clouds, the sun shining upwards into them. We got some sort of almost freezing rain overnight, moisture that fell just before it got cold enough to freeze, and the droplets are frozen onto the trees in a beautiful way that sparkled in the early morning light. That since has past. Now it is gray. A winter sort of gray. Looking north, not very far from here, just a few miles by trail, the peaks are snow covered. Yesterday I rode my bike up into those parts, and across the ridge lines, snow.

Saturday I went running with Acre. The temperatures are perfect for running. And while I absolute love running when it’s warm enough for just shorts and shoes, there is something so satisfying about being bundled up and warm, and running in the cold. I find a different sort of pace in which my internal engine runs like a toyota diesel, with an internal hum that requires a little extra weight of the foot on the gas, but as long as you keep it going, you stay perfectly warm, and feel like you can go forever. You don’t overheat. You don’t get cold. Everything is just right in the world.

Running through trees has a wonderful effect on my mind. This weekend, heavy fog rolled in and out while I ran, showing me distinctions in slope and slopes that I rarely can see through flat sunlight. The fog makes everything feel quiet. Up high snowflakes fell, though never seemed to land. Down lower it turned to a light rain, the sort you is reminiscent of the cascades, cedar forests, and ferns. A drizzle.

This morning, just after sunrise and my first cup of coffee, Acre and I went to the creek. It’s cold enough now that he doesn’t jump in with me, but rather has a nice rock he likes to stand on and drink from while I sit in the water. The creek came up over the weekend and his ankles were in the water more than last week. November is the month swimming begins to feel exhilarating again. The water gets down into the thirties, and with air temps even lower, you can’t avoid the cold, you can’t pretend it’s not, you have no option but to just embrace it. It is only when I try to fight it that it begins to feel miserable. And that is my daily meditation. My daily reminder. To embrace the challenge of it, embrace the discomfort, to take it, and not hold it at arms length, but to bring it it close, breathe into it, let it fully wrap around me. I duck under, swimming for just a few seconds fully emerged in it until my brain freeze forces me up, then I sit, like I’m in a tub, you can almost pretend for a mintute that its a hot tub, but it’s not. It’s so wildly cold.

My instinct is to shake it off, but I’ve learned at this point to just sit back, breath more deeply, more slowly, more calmly, fighting the natural panic, because I know I can, I know my body has got this, even if it needs a reminder.

This is the wonder of challenge. Of discipline. Of doing hard things. We can do so much more than we realize. It’s the reason I often find myself on much longer runs than I intend. I purposefully take a trail that I know is longer than I originally intend, knowing that once committed I’m forced to go the distance, because I can.

The larch needles have mostly fallen now. This is the time of year we realize just how many larch we have in this area. A lot. The trails are covered and soft with their needles. I love the larch. And while I sometimes like to think I’m not the sort of person that has a favorite color (blue, sometimes green), or a favorite food (Indian), I definitely recognize larch as my favorite of the trees, for no good reason. And not that I don’t love others. Ponderosa. They are up there on the list that doesn’t exist. Cedars, definitely. But those two represent overall ecosystems I love, more than the specifics of the trees (sort of… I do love giant Ponderosa pines quite a bit.)

In saying the represent specific landscapes, I am talking specific regions I’m familiar with and have fallen in love with over the years. High, dry mountain slopes down in the Bitterroot Selway hold some of the most beautiful, giant Ponderosa’s I’ve ever seen. Trees I can’t get my arms around, not even close. I’ve spent months of my life walking those trails, walking off trails, just climbing ridges and sloped mountain faces with enormous scattered Ponderosa pines. Their vanilla smell, and the dry needle duff that lies around, is just a perfection of landscape evolution. Ravens hold court in places like this. Mountain lion tracks meander about. And in some of these areas, especially in the Selway, no one ever goes. You can still find true solitude down there. I’m not even worried about writing it here, because 1. It’s hard to get there, and 2. Most will disagree with me over saying it is some of the most beautiful land on earth. It lacks drama. It lacks Glacier type peaks. It’s hot in the summer. It’s cold in the winter. And the slopes are more gentle. But those pines… those beautiful pines.

The cedar stands around are something else too. Lush wet forests that hold their moisture tight under their canopy, allowing for wet forest floors where the likes of fern and mushrooms to thrive. These forests are totally different than the dry open expanses of the Ponderosa mountain slopes. The Bitterroot Selway is fascinating because the west side of the mountain range harbors one (the wet, cedar sort) while the eastern mountains have had most of the moisture cut off and thus are dry and prone for ponderosa’s and the like. Water moves in on air from the Pacific, drops it all when it hits the western side of the mountains, and as a result, the eastern side remains much drier.

Area of the Western Larch, the greatest of all the trees.

But somewhere in between, the larch thrive. The larch love wet, but well drained soils. So you often find them up above cedars, on higher, steeper slopes, or you find them on more densely canopied slopes than ponderosa. We have them all over the western part of the state here, where they often outlive even large forest fires due to their thick bark and towering limbs. They are a deciduous conifer… the only conifer I know of that sheds their needles annually. Their needles are soft green, and turn vibrantly yellow and orange in the fall before falling. Spectacular trees.

We have a few in our yard, and a few million more in the surrounding forests. I feel lucky to get to go run among them daily.

It’s late fall. The cold is coming, working its way down the mountains. My daughter is home for Thanksgiving, and the house has a little extra energy, which I love to have around. I love this time of year, even with its short gray days. This concludes today’s field notes. As I work on a few bigger pieces, this Substack has again served its purpose, of getting my brain in “write words” mode. Hope it’s similar to a nice cup of coffee for you. A warm cup to keep your mind focused on the things beyond the walls. It’s the outside world we need the most. A walk. A run. A stop at the mailbox to talk to a neighbor. As this community grows, which it is, and I’ve enjoyed chatting behind the scenes with lots of people here, I hope we all can find the encouragement to be outside in our communities more. That is where the real magic of life happens. Cheers til later in the week.