Happy Sunday,
I'm on a bluff above the North Fork of the Flathead in northern Montana, looking across at the Glacier peaks, or at where they'd be.
Smoke in the air this week, and the ridgelines have gone soft.
Fortunately, I still have coffee, a bottle of water, and my journal.
Eight of us came out for this trip, and I'm the only one out here this morning. There's a lot going on for somewhere this quiet.
The river runs underneath all of it and doesn't stop. Deer came through earlier. Sandhill cranes, bald eagles, an osprey patrolling the water. Behind me, the dogs move around with bells on their collars so you always know roughly where they are. A line of ducklings has been working the shallows since I sat down, learning to swim, and every so often a fish jumps.
None of that was here when I sat down. Or it was, and I hadn't slowed down enough to see it. That's the trade out here. The longer you sit, the more shows up.
I've sat on this rock before. Years ago, on one of these trips, I took a day up here alone to think about whether I was ready to get married and whether I was going to ask. The answer came back clearly. It was yes, and it remains the best decision I've made. So I'm fond of this bluff.
This morning it's a different set of questions, the ones about what comes next, and they aren't resolving nearly as cleanly. What strikes me more is the distance between the two mornings. Our son is six months old. Life is materially better than the last time I sat here. Almost none of it arrived the way I'd planned.
I'm here because my wife and I agreed a while back to protect a bit of space for each of us through this stretch, which is easier to agree to than to keep. She's carrying more this week so I can be on this rock, and I'll carry more when I'm home. I’m very grateful for her.