Montana Silence

I left San Francisco at 7 a.m. on Saturday morning, the plane breaking through tendrils of fog. As we climbed, I could see out the window the fog flowing through the valleys and streets of the city, and the entire city meeting the bay in the early morning light. As we broke through the clouds, the sun from the east turned the clouds salmon-pink. And thankfully, the two year old in the seat next to me wore himself out with his exuberant monologue of nonsense words and fell asleep in the lap of his mother with the chocolate-brown eyes.

We landed in Seattle, descending through dense fog that contrasted against the brilliant white peaks of the mountains, icy and cold and pure. Later, flying over mountains from Seattle to Missoula, the clouds parted enough to reveal snowy peaks above forested hillsides, distant rivers appearing like streams wending through canyons, bordered by ice. Also, I had an entire row on the plane to myself. True, it was a row of two seats, but we take what pleasure we can when it comes to flying.

Missoula looked just the same as it always did, frost-rimed hills rising above the brown of winter fields. It felt as if I never left, the same feeling I've always had on returning to Montana. But things are different. The Frenchtown Mill has closed, which eliminates the pulpy smell of winter mornings, yes, but which eliminated 400 direct jobs, and more that were corollaries. Montana is being hit hard by an economy in which the massive banks that got bailout money are now recording profits, while small-town economies are struggling.

And yet, I am always happy to come back home. This morning, I walked to the end of the driveway to get the paper, noticed the sun and the shadows dappling the snowy surfaces of Blodgett Peak, the crisp blue sky of 9 a.m. The fields of our property are brown and grey, lots of dead pine trees that were ringed by porcupines; nonetheless, it makes me content to feel this silence.

Last night, I sat with my family in front of a fire, drinking brandy and reading a Terry Pratchett novel, thinking about the past and things that have changed and are changing. Today I am reading Murakami's Norwegian Wood for the first time, and I intend to finish it, because this is what I do in Montana: drink and read novels in a day.

The world is a harsh place, and this refuge will not always be here. But for now, it is enough to read and to write in contentment, not to worry about writing about tragedies and angst, but to enjoy just being here. The world needs more enjoyment of the present moment. But there's not much money to be made with that, is there?

There should be.