We measure the progress of our days by the march of the seasons; in the spring, we revel in the riot of green that cloaks the hillsides and nurtures babies of all sorts—elk calves, deer fawns, bison calves, and baby birds of all feathers. We feel the tingle on the backs of our necks when wandering the margin between the open sage and rabbitbrush meadows, and the cool deep Douglas fir forests where grizzlies and black bears roam.
We follow the flowers and the elk up the mountains as the snow recedes into summer, scaling craggy peaks and wandering rich valleys filled with summer life. We spend as many days and nights outside as humanly possible, taking advantage of the long days of light.
In August we are struck dumb by the rumble and bellow of bull bison in the valleys, the powerful males full of dust and musk, venting their fury in a centuries-old battle for dominance.
The haunting bugle of the bull elk pulls us away from summer into fall, when the rose and berry bushes and aspens blush in tones of gold and mauve, and the trails are littered with black bear scat turned orange from apples and rose hips.
As the first snows begin to usher in the transition to winter, we hunker down like squirrels, making soup and tucking in next to the wood stove with tea and a stack of books to weather the long winter nights. During the days we ski through quiet woods, shushing through deep snow alongside the tracks of cougar, wolf, pine marten, coyote. We witness the great billows of steam that ascend from hot springs.
We are humbled, and mute, in the presence of such power, and majesty, something much bigger, much older, much deeper, than we are. This is home.
Images: Bianca Klein, Bradley Orsted/Horsefeathers Photography