There's a meadow at the top of the world

So, unfortunately, the connector between my computer and my camera is still awall which leaves me with the undesired option to purchase another one. Until I do, however, I'll just have to show Montana through words instead of pictures.

A couple of old high school friends, their significant others, and I went camping this past weekend. Unsure of the road conditions, I borrowed my father's old, four wheel drive wagon, and followed my friends up into the mountains. Thirty minutes later we were fish-tailing up a roughly 90 degree slope heading toward the top of the world.

With one hand on the wheel, the other draped out the window, I watched the thin, logdepole pines creep ever closer to the road, and stared in amazement at the snow glittering off the leeward side of the slope. We continued up, jerked to the left, a sharp enough turn to require a couple attempts by each vehicle, and pulled into a small, tree sheltered enclave.

Our campsite sat solidly within the boundaries of Arian's father's land bordering forest land to the north, safely secreted away from the human race. An old firepit filled with wildflowers and mountain grasses, awaited our attention while the wind sang a promise of a frigid night.

Montanan's to the core, we quickly scouted the best ground for tenting and each laid claim to our site. In all of a half hour, we had dug out the old firepit, rocks and all, set up our tents and sleeping gear, put up a portable table, brought out the food, ice chests, and chairs, and began creating our entertainment for the evening. While the boys took off for a quick ride on the fourwheelers, the three of us left took control of the beer and set out to create our "tolfing" course.

Tolfing is a sport invented by the Adam's family (no, not from the TV or movie), long enough ago that Arian couldn't remember who in her family first started the trend. Basically, tolfing is a camping game that involves tennis balls (preferably of a color that doesn't blend into the green undergrowth, a lesson we learned fairly quickly and remedied with a fair amount of fluorescent orange duct tape), and old, discarded golf clubs. I think the rest is fairly self-explanatory, the goal of the game is to desperately attempt to hit the now orange taped ball into shallow holes, marked by wooden, orange tapped pegs, dug at various points throughout the forest. For best results, place the corresponding holes out of sight range from one another with plenty of trees, brush, and other fun obstacles in between. For even more fun, stay within range of the campsite in order to retrieve beer as needed. Any added enjoyment such as aiming for your friends is entirely optional.

Back to the story, Arian and Scott took us to the site they plan to build their cabin. A meadow sloping gently down into the precariously slender lodegpoles, their green branches deepening in color until light fails to penetrate. Those forests rise again even further away, now a dark blue streaching ever upward to uneven, sharp peaks. They fall away again, this time swelling in a pale blue/purple tinge. Reaching even higher, scraping the belly of the sky with gleaming, white frosted tips.

To break the spell, stanzas of the song "the hills are alive" echoed from one person to the other, as we jokingly trotted about the meadow.

When the sun finally set around 10:30pm, at 7000 feet we huddled around our fire, knees scorched, backs frozen, and pointed out satellites and shooting stars to one another in the perfectly clear, moonless night sky. Every star sang that night, and the milky way shown brighter than any city lamplight ever could.

I think now I'm lucky I have a job waiting for me in New York, because otherwise, I'd never leave. In this city I'm a hero, in those mountains I feel at home. I think I've found the place I'll belong, one day, when I've finished my travels. Just a few more years, Montana, then I'm coming home to stay.