The Wild West

Under Western Skies

I lived in a lot of places when I was a kid: Colorado, all over Wyoming, and even Texas. I’m sure many of you can relate. However, I spent the majority of my childhood in a place in Eastern Wyoming where the cattle outnumber people, the snow comes down horizontal, and coal mining is a way of life. It has taken me several years to appreciate this rough lifestyle. And I'm in awe of those who still live in my hometown, battling the unforgiving Powder River Basin winters, the boom/bust economy, and even the hard choices that stem from the loneliness that the geography can create.

Growing up in a reconstructed family, common to the time and the place, I lived in a small house in a booming subdivision along the edge of town. I remember having to stand in the bitter cold wind, while waiting for the school bus to take me to school. (Don't worry, if the temp dipped into the negative numbers my Mom would give us a ride. I wasn't that hardcore!) Anyway, school was rarely cancelled due to weather, but when it was, we hoped the electricity held. My brother and sister and I would put on an extra layer of clothing and entertain ourselves with endless games of rummy or, later on when we got cable, the television. It’s strange to think that my sister, seven years my junior, can’t remember a time when we didn’t have a television or, better yet, MTV.

Another memory that my sister does not have, but one that my brother and I share, is our paternal Grandmother proudly taking us to powwows on the Arapaho reservation. My Grandmother was half Arapaho herself and all smiles. It’s funny how some people want to be remembered for the money they make, the books they write, the great things they can achieve, or even the car they drive. Then there are others (many of them Grandmothers) who you remember because of their captivating smile and laugh, or by how comfortable and safe you felt in their presence; which, in my opinion, is the greatest thing one can be remembered for.

Anyway, at the powwow Grandma would buy us as many snow cones and cotton candy as we could eat. With giant grins and red and purple sugar dripping down our arms and smeared on our faces, my brother and I sat on the bleachers watching the dancers twirl under the hot Wyoming sun. Even though I didn’t see a lot of my father’s side of the family growing up (my parents divorced when I was very young), those times with my Grandmother remind me that I am connected to this land--even if the native blood that flows through my veins is but a trickle.

Today, when most people think of the West they think of “Big Sky Country” and vast mountain ranges. They tear out glossy travel ads from TIME magazine as they sit at their dentist's office in high rise buildings. Their eyes glazing over at the promise of all play and no work. Better yet, they see a couple movies starring Brad Pitt and are hooked like a brown trout during the salmon fly hatch (did you catch my eye roll?). Then it’s off to Montana for a week in July until they realize they can’t get cell service in a drift boat.

Now, I’m not gonna lie. When I moved to Montana from Wyoming to attend college, I myself, was very much a tourist. I fell head over heels in love with the Bridger, Spanish Peaks, and Highlight mountain ranges. I learned to tolerate the bitter cold that envelopes the Gallatin Valley October through May (or June, or even July). The first time I saw snow fall in Bozeman I was amazed by the huge flakes floating silently to the ground, covering the trees like heavy frosting. I’d never seen snow fall from the sky so gently! It looked like a movie (or a snow globe). In my hometown, the snow blew in horizontally and sometimes drifted higher than the roof of my car.

Along with the mountains, I have come to love Montana summers and the rivers, thick with trout, which thread the Western corner of the state. The Madison, the Jefferson, the Yellowstone, and the Gallatin are all rivers I know well. I dated a fly fishing guide for five years. It always intrigued me that he was born and raised in New Jersey, because he knew Montana rivers better than the Garden State Parkway. During the five summers we dated, I watched him struggle with tourists who were out for the biggest trout in the river and others who were simply bored and had money to spend. I suppose Oscar Wilde was right when he said, “each man kills the thing he loves”.

Still, in my travels away from Montana and Wyoming, I am amazed by the way people cling to the myth of the West. For example, I was at a wedding in New Jersey when a woman came up to me, cupped my face in her hands with her talon-like fingernails and said, “Are you the girl from Montana?" I nodded as well as I could in her grip. "Honey, you are so natural looking!” Was this a compliment? I just smiled and thanked (?) her as she click-clacked away in her jet black Jimmy Choos.

And another time, when I was in lower Manhattan buying a bagel, I started talking to the man behind the counter about where I was from. He said, and I quote, “You are originally from Wyoming? You know we have a saying out here: Have you ever really met someone from Wyoming? Does that state even exist?” "Yes", I replied with my eyes downcast. I think he could tell that I was a little sad about the comment. (Aren't we all a little proud of where we are from?) He laughed really loud and said, "Well, now I have a story to tell, Miss!" and he handed me a free bagel.

It is from these experiences that I see the West as it really is, rather than the romantic notion of what is idealized about it.  It’s open space and fresh air. It’s the sense of freedom that comes from getting in a car and driving with no particular destination in mind. It's people working hard to make a life in a sometimes harsh environment. It’s an honest days work and learning to appreciate warm, sunny weather. It’s natural scenery that truly takes your breath away—but you have to remind yourself to appreciate it, because when you see it every single day, you sometimes forget it's there.

I am grateful that I grew up in the West and now call Montana my home. It's where I belong. I love how calm, quiet mornings are perfect for writing and thunderstorms make a great soundtrack for painting. Snow falling gently outside my window is all the light I need to read a good book. And that a solitary stretch of road is sometimes the best therapy.
 
I have such a renewed appreciation for the spirit of the land and the people, not only from traveling outside the Western states, but also by opening my eyes to what is right outside my front door. Through this awakening, I have come to realize that I am proud to be part of a new generation, following our individual dreams . . . under Western skies.