Purple mountains. They actually turn purple. Many shades of purple. And orange, yellow, pink, even spotlight white. But my favorite color of the mountains is gold. It only happens on clear summer evenings. In my mind it’s warm. It’s different than bright light. It’s a rich golden yellow and everything on the mountain — trees, the balsamroot flowers, rocky cliffs — they also illuminate. It’s not just the color. Everything is somehow sharper, in clearer focus than any other time of day. It’s as if the sun decided to take a bath on the mountain and calls to us to pay attention, to hone in our senses. Hey you, you’re a part of this. You are sharper. You are golden. You are also bathing with the sun.
Have you ever been so close to an eagle that you heard its wings flap? The graceful out, in, out, in of the feathers, and a whooshing roar so full. It’s not a necessarily jarring sound, or particularly loud. It’s unexpected and beautiful. The sound comes from somewhere inside that makes you feel like you could lift right up with the eagle and soar alongside it over the rivers and canyons.
Horseback cattle drives.
The sound of my dog sprinting behind me on the trail after he went on his own little adventure. I wonder what he found, what smells lured him off the path. And then seeing his huge smile, tongue hanging out, we run up the mountain together.
Hot days and cool nights.
Public land, protected with such fierce loyalty by those who utilize it.
Riding the chairlift up the ski hill on a powder day. Hearing the whoops and hollers of those who woke up earlier than me (nearly everyone) as they surf down the cold smoke snow.
Ending the ski day at the base bar — a bar where “everyone is welcome” is practiced not preached. Pitchers of beer are carried alongside trays of nachos. A fire crackles in the barrel outside as people in snow pants and fuzzy hats reminisce about “epic lines” and “waist-deep pow.”
When I was a kid and we traveled out west, at the first rest stop in Montana my brother and I would get out and say “Smells like the mountains!” Sagebrush, pine trees, dry dirt, and something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s the cattle and native grasses. Maybe it’s wildflowers nestling into mountain meadows. Maybe it’s the crystal clear rivers with swimming fish. I don’t know. It’s impossible to bottle up a smell and I’m glad. Because actually, this is not something I will miss, but something I will gain. Once I leave Montana I will once again be able to come back and smell that indescribable aroma for the first time all year. I will step out of the car and breathe in everything that I missed.