This group didn’t climb tall mountains, make the final goal or get shot off an aircraft carrier. They didn’t fast rope down to a foreign deck and Tom Cruise would never think of playing one of them in a movie. They didn’t make the news feed. They simply did their jobs for days and months on end. Bakers, mechanics, deck hands, oilers. The kind of jobs that make the world as we know it work. The kind of job most never think about.
I was clicking through the Facebook feed when my friend, and now Captain, Brian Roney, posted about the unit citation that the crew of the USNS Kanawha received for their months of service to the fleet in and around the Strait of Hormuz. The Strait and surrounding sea are known for their hot, humid, and generally shitty conditions. Temperatures in the 90’s with humidity not much lower. It sucks.
Studying the picture, to my great surprise, none of the crew of the Kanawha were wearing capes. Don’t all heroes wear capes? Instead, they were tall and short, fat and skinny, male and female and probably represented every race on the planet. I compared this to the next picture on Facebook of a group of partying middle-agers who had just finished a race. Yea.
Not to diminish the racers but I couldn’t help but feel that life as we know it is protected and supported by the group on the stern of the ship. The men and women who work in the shadows. Those who rarely experience the limelight. You can find similar groups in factories and fields. They just never get the same nod of recognition as someone who can hit a golf ball or throw a ball really far. After all, which is more important to a free society?
So, you can have your heroes and I’ll have mine. I’ll take the person that baked the bread, made the fresh water, stood out on deck in stupidly hot/humid weather with a life jacket on the whole time.
When I went back to look at the picture I thought I did see capes.

The road to the lookout tower is about fifteen miles south of Martin City on the South Fork Road (east shore). The road, FR38B, from South Shore Road to the fire tower is about four miles long. Not wanting to do an eight-mile round trip, we decided to find a spot to park a mile or so up FR38B and then walk up from there. Spoiler alert… FR38B is a road but it is a very narrow and sometimes very rugged road. Welcome to Montana.

There was a sign at the beginning of the fire road.

If decision one was to pick the destination, decision two was to decide if we wanted to take a chance at being part of a Grizzly bear study. Scientific Question: Do Grizzlies like to eat New York transplants? What the hell, we went on.
Finding a place to leave the truck was the next decision. On most of the lower half the road was only about 1.2 times as wide as my truck, a little narrow. We ended up sticking the Chevy Silverado under a tree after a nine-point turn. Of course, the road got better as we walked up higher. Who knew?
One of the more difficult decisions with this destination at this time of year was to decide how many wild berries to eat along the way. This woman walked and ate, and walked and picked. After personal experimentation I found these particular berries go really well with pancakes or French Toast.

I wasn’t worried about the bears, we had bear spray and this obviously vicious watch dog with us. What kind of dog is he? A Montana Mountain dog. It’s a new breed.

The tower at Firefighter Mountain is staffed by volunteers who spend two-weeks at a time in the lookout. We chatted with a very nice gentleman, ate our lunch, took in the fantastic view, and headed back down. It’s not a hard trek to the top but down is easier than up. Just thought I’d let you know.
All in all, this is a great walk with great views.

​Not Bandaris or the mythical beast but the cold fog that weaved its way through the valleys until it had filled every crevice.
I had never experienced Freezing Fog until I moved here. I had seen fog that froze but this is different. With freezing fog, the air temperature is well below freezing so the moisture in the fog doesn’t settle as wet drops but as ice. My past experience with fog was damp and wet. Here it is damp and frozen.
The fog blanket can be a thin layer or rise many feet above the valley and into the hills. It can be stationary or it can spread silently, clinging to branches and tree trunks as it pulls itself along.
Our house is about 600 feet above the valley floor. That small change in elevation can make the difference between being swallowed by fog or sitting in sunshine above it.

​The fog usually doesn’t last but this year it landed and stayed for the past week forming a Hoar Frost on all the surfaces it touches. The cold and damp air, with little to no wind, caresses trees, tall grass and even fence posts leaving ice not as a film but as crystals. The crystals grow as more moisture touches each limb, blade and surface until everything looks like it has been coated with powdered sugar. Tall larch and pine covered with powdered sugar and enveloped by a shroud of fog. A forest scene that could easily be on another planet. 

​Out of the dismal cloak of fog, a wonderland of crystal trees and fields emerge. Pretty cool

Hercules is a big, black dog with soulful brown eyes. It was that stare emanating from those deep eyes that made the difference the day we went to the shelter. There was another dog, a very Lab-looking and much smaller dog who was in contention for about fifteen seconds. That poor guy just couldn’t sit still. He ran around the room jumping from couch to table to floor to couch to table…. Hercules walked in slowly. He strode purposely, directly to me, and sat on my foot. Did I tell you about his eyes?

There have almost always been dogs in my home. Always a dog of uncertain parentage from a questionable background. I’m not alone in this. According to the ASPCA 4.1 million animals (dogs and cats) are adopted annually. Of that, about 2 million are dogs. They estimate that 44% of American households have a dog. By comparison, only 40% of American households have children under 18. Draw your own conclusions.

Shelter dogs all have histories. Some backgrounds are benign and others aren’t. One of the dogs we looked at in the shelter was a small, young pup whose name was Helga. Who names a dog Helga? Anyway, this poor dog crouched in the corner and shook. The closer you got to it the more it shook. The attendant wouldn’t tell us much about the dog’s background but it didn’t take a dog whisperer to figure out that little Helga had not had a good experience with her previous owners. They wouldn’t let us take Helga home as they were working on getting her acclimated to people. Mostly I’m a kind and gentle guy but after seeing little Helga I couldn’t help think they had the wrong species in the cage. Helga should have been free and the idiot human who was her last owner should be shaking in the corner.

Anyway, the point is that shelter dogs all have a history. They are a little like that box of chocolates in Forrest Gump, you never know what you are going to get. Hercules, all 105 pounds of him is, mostly, a well-mannered, people loving dog. He even puts up with most other dogs. A good day for Herc is simply to be my shadow. I’ve seen his more aggressive, protective, side but that is a story for another day. It’s been my experience that Herc loves the people he meets but, perhaps, it’s because the people he’s associated with lately love him.

Sunday is gun day in Montana. A couple of miles down our road is an unofficial shooting range. Its not uncommon to hear shots on a Sunday afternoon. As I walked Herc down our driveway this winter afternoon a shot rang out. Then two more. They were a long way off and not a problem. Except to Herc. He dug his paws into the snow, lowered his ears tight to his head and looked at me. He wasn’t going any further. He wanted to go home. When a 105-pound dog doesn’t want to move he doesn’t. He had done this before and I longed to ask him “what’s the problem?” Actually, I did ask, multiple times, but he didn’t answer. Maybe I should have titled this- did your dog ever answer you?

What in Herc’s background makes this big guy who, I know, is not afraid to make his point with other dogs when he needs to, stop and quake. What memories does the shot bring up in his mind. I asked but he didn’t answer. He looked at me with those big brown eyes. They were talking but I wasn’t smart enough to figure it out.
We went home.

A couple of things I have learned living close to the natural cycle. First, most wildlife are as active at night as during the day. Deer don’t set an alarm for sunrise and go to bed. Their night schedule is pretty much the same as their day time activity. Browse, rest under a pine thicket, browse some more and keep an eye out for that mountain lion. Night or day its pretty much the same.
Wild turkeys are a different story. I never gave much thought to where turkeys spend the night. It was simply not a subject of concern back in the Bronx. I was surprised to learn that wild turkeys spend the night ‘roosting’ in the branches of big trees. Its kind of odd to watch butterball fly up into the branches and wiggle himself comfortable for the night. Big blobs, turkeys, balancing themselves on narrow branches safe, or at least safer, from those who wander the night browsing for not for grass but for turkey.
Back to the feathers. I imagine either just before dark or early in the morning our resident fox met one of our resident turkeys. Feathers all over the snow. Turkey tracks, as if the thing danced wildly in the road, were spread all over. There was even an imprint on the side of the road where his big wingspan brushed the new snow.

I didn’t see a carcass but I figured it must be there somewhere. For a while I felt sorry for the bird. Only a short while. If the bird survives what happens to the fox? We’ve had this fox hanging around the property since at least last summer. Beautiful animal. Of course, he isn’t a vegetarian.
Daily we also watch a family of deer, at least that’s what I’ve labeled them, who live on the property.  The deer are safe from the fox but there’s bigger predators out there. For a mountain lion to survive and have cute little cat cubs it has to kill a deer a week. That’s fifty-two every year.
The reality of nature is that big fish eat little fish. Its messy, but very efficient. Most of us live lives separate and apart from the natural cycle. The food we eat is prepared and packaged. It’s clean and allows us to forget the reality that it used to breathe or, for the vegetarians out there, was grown in a field that was the result of cutting down a forest.
We all know about the natural cycle but its impressive to see it play out. By the way, I saw the turkey licking its wounds under a pine tree. How did it get away? I don’t know. More mysteries.
 

The Kalispell area was the warm spot in Montana this morning. Butte, the Mining City, way south and east of us, was -16 F, we were a balmy 6 degrees. Its not as cold as it sounds. Warm boots, merino wool underwear (in case you were wondering) and an insulated Carhartt bib that I have had a long time. In fact. I bought it in December 1989. How do I remember? Because I bought it when I thought I would be part of the delivery crew for the ‘new’ training ship. Turned out I didn’t get to go, they hired a union crew to hustle the ‘new’, now old, training ship out of the Great Lakes. I’m still disappointed and I still have the insulated Carhartt’s in case the opportunity ever comes up again.

Anyway, as I ramble on, this is about the sound of silence. How many times have you ever heard nothing? Once I get over the hill and around the corner behind our house the sounds of man fade away and the sounds of the North West Montana woods take over. There are days when our natural neighbors are busy. Birds are singing and squirrels are chirping (or whatever that sound is). Today was completely silent. The squirrels must have been resting. There was no noise.

Nothing from nature and, thankfully, nothing man made. No one was going on about the next, 2024 election. No tractor trailer gears were grinding nor planes flying overhead. In fact, there was no noise of any kind. It was just the sound, or lack of sound, of the forest in winter.

To someone who grew up a half block from an elevated subway and spent way too much time commuting to the Bronx, silence is something I’m still not totally used to. At these moments every little thing, every little sound, becomes magnified. A crow flew over. I knew because I heard his wings making a very mellow swooshing sound. He flew off and then there was…. Nothing. Minutes later a ticking sound caught my attention. I don’t know what kind of bird it was but he/she was having breakfast. A few more pecks and it flew off. Then… nothing.

This is the point where you start talking to yourself, “Boy, it sure is noisy around here.”

Today was also the day I decided to test a winter survival skill in preparation for Search and Rescue training tomorrow. Did you know you can start a fire from cotton balls?

No, don’t rub them together.

In our 24- hr. packs we are supposed to carry fire starting stuff. It turns out a Bic lighter is useless when its cold. Just keep on flicking until spring. There’s a less technical, more interesting, way to start fire that works just about all the time. A cotton ball rubbed in Vaseline when hit by a spark will burst into flames.

So, carry your cotton balls and your spark maker and you will never be without the warmth of a fire.

Back in my High School and College days, cutting and selling firewood was my way of making a few dollars. Today its my way to keep from spending a few dollars. That’s part of the reason. Mostly I just like doing it. I like having the fire in the stove, the smell of wood smoke in the air. It just seems natural. It fits with where we live on the side of a mountain in Montana. Splitting firewood is also rather cathartic. There’s a natural rhythm, as the physical part takes over your mind is free to wander. Maybe it’s the fresh mountain air.
There’s also this good feeling that at 65 I am doing the same thing I was at 15. Ok, maybe a little slower but the job still gets done.

While swinging my axe the other day I pondered: How different was the world of today compared to the 1970s when I was doing this same thing in the woods around my father’s house?

Today’s headlines scream about the rise in oil prices. Some even blame foreign countries. Now look back. It’s 1973, there’s an oil embargo. Headlines scream about the rise in oil prices. Hell, the big worry was that gas stations will need new gas pumps since the price setting on the old pumps didn’t go over $.99.

In the 21st century we’ve learned to live in peace. Not. OK, we finally got our people out of Afghanistan but they are lighting fires again in Iran. The Russian invasion of Ukraine has had a negative economic, not to mention personal effect, reaching far beyond the borders of the conflict. It seems someone is shooting at someone for something all the time. When I was young, we didn’t have these kinds of conflicts. Oh wait, there was that Vietnam thing which didn’t end until 1975, the Yom Kippur War and a host of civil wars and conflicts in places you probably couldn’t find on a map. Maybe that living in peace thing was a bit optimistic.

At least our politicians have learned to work together for the common good. Back in the 70’s they were impeaching Nixon, Democrats took over the Congress from Republicans as people switched teams. Protestors took to the streets. There’s no political discord in our House of Representatives now. Camaraderie, selflessness, keeping the people first are what today’s elected officials are all about. No more partisan politics in the 21st century.

Politics aside, at least we have learned how to keep a strong, price-stable economy. Poor Gerald Ford, the only President never elected to be either Vice President or President, and Jimmy Carter, they had to deal with double digit inflation and a stagnant economy. Luckily for us, our elected officials have that completely under control.

As I put another log on the stump I use as a base it dawned on me that things might not have changed very much. Of course, sometimes that’s good. Splitting firewood is still a good way to spend time. And big, black dogs from the shelter can still be your buddy

It’s not all mountain climbing and dangling from ropes, Search and Rescue in Flathead County responds to a variety of calls. It could be boaters stuck on the lake, injured hikers on a back country trail, a lost child or a senior with dementia. Sometimes though it really is a mountain rescue.

Early summer in the Flathead is beautiful. The valley days are warm, the nights cool. The sun doesn’t set until well into the evening. The tops of the mountains are probably still coated with last winter’s snow. It’s a great time to visit and explore. That’s what the family from New York’s Manhattan thought.

A hike in the mountains on a warm afternoon, what could go wrong?

The Jewel Basin hiking area is a pristine area of the Swam Mountains on the east side of the Flathead Valley. These aren’t the tallest mountains in the west, Mt. Aneas tops them out at a little over 7,500 feet. What they lack in size they make up in grandeur and wildness. You are just as likely to see bears and mountain goats as you are other hikers.

On this warm summer afternoon, the visitors from New York decided to try the trails in Jewel Basin. They left their car at the Camp Misery trailhead. (That should have been a hint!). From there they hiked up and up. At about eight that evening, just as dark was setting in, the 911 dispatch center received a call. One of the hikers had fallen, hit her head on the rocks, and was bleeding. She needed help.

In Manhattan, help is likely only minutes away. Not so here. The Valley is lucky to have a fully equipped rescue helicopter whose operation is funded, interestingly enough, through a donation from another New Yorker who has a vacation house in the area. As versatile as the helicopter is, it has its limits. One of them is high winds. The warm, calm summer day in the valley had turned into a windy, temperature dropping experience on the mountains. The helicopter was able to pick up the injured hiker with its winch, the area being too steep for them to land, but would not be able to pick up the other four. Their rescue would have to be the old-fashioned way… search and rescue on foot.

By the time the rescue team found them it was dark. The summer day had turned into a cold- below freezing - summer night on the mountain tops. The team decided the hikers, in their short pants and sneakers, weren’t equipped for the hike down the now icy slopes. They would have to spend the night.

When we go into the mountains each team member carries a 24-hour pack in case it’s necessary to spend the night. We rarely need to use the pack and, sometimes, it seems like overkill. Not tonight. This night the team pooled their resources and shared extra clothing with the now very cold, almost hypothermic, hikers. They settled in for a long night.
The next morning the wind had died down and the helicopter came back and picked up the remaining hikers. The rescue team would have to collect their gear and walk down. No ride for them.

The volunteer team was tired and elated. Maybe those days of training hadn’t been a waste of time. There is no doubt that if they hadn’t responded with the right skills and the correct equipment the rescue would have been a recovery.
We never did hear from the family from Manhattan. I assume they got on a plane and flew home with a story and, perhaps, a little insight into the mountains.
Maybe.

Let me set the scene. It’s spring in Northwest Montana, at least it is where most people live. Birds were singing, I have cut the grass – I wouldn’t call it a lawn- and it was almost seventy degrees and sunny. My snowplow was safely stored next to the garage with dandelions sprouting around it. The person calling in the report though wasn’t in the valley, she had driven and hiked into the Swan Mountains to, what is in the summer, a busy trailhead. The Jewel Basin Road winds its way up and up over a seven-mile forest service road to a trailhead called Camp Misery. No, I have no idea how Camp Misery got its name. Maybe a blog for another day.
The valley may be growing grass and flowers but the mountains are still snow covered. In fact, I now know there is at least four feet of snow still up there. It seemed odd loading avalanche beacons, snow shoes and skis into the truck while wearing tee-shirts. Approximately a mile and a half from the trailhead was as far as we could drive in with the side-by-sides. Even the tracked vehicle wasn’t going any further.

We slogged on foot up the road sinking into the snow and blowing a whistle as we went. We figured if the stranded person had been blowing a whistle, as reported, they would answer. We spread out looking for fresh tracks on the side of the trail as we marched higher. We found fresh tracks. No, not human tracks, most likely wolf tracks. I wondered if bear spray works on wolves. If it didn’t, I figured I would have to somehow run faster than the other searchers. Problem was they were all younger, some much younger, than me.

For almost two hours we looked both on and off trail. We blew the whistle. We listened. Then, we heard a sort of whistling sound.
“What was that,” my colleague asked.
“A bird,” I said.
“Sounds like a whistle,” my colleague said.
We had the Sheriff’s deputy contact the reporting party. “How long have you lived here?”
“Oh, we just moved a month or so ago from Florida. No, I’ve never hiked in the mountains before.”
It did sort of sound like a whistle. What do you think?
https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Cedar_Waxwing/sounds