River Monsters and Rosemary Pear Preserves on Montana’s Mighty Madison River

I was too excited to sleep so we hit the water early.

The day before I met the mother of the third generation to grow up on this magic stretch of the Madison River in Montana.

Her childhood memories of camping with the neighbor kids on the river’s edge feasting on the first catch of the open trout season reminded me of my own outdoor adventures and freedom as a child.

Her stories of picnics in Pickle Jar Meadow, sunrise at Frank’s Hole, and the beaver trapper who homesteaded this area filled my mind during the morning fish upstream.

As usual, the catch was smaller wild rainbows and browns in the three to six-inch range who fight like crocodiles.

Past due for a Montana Monster Fish I decided to experiment with a crazy long tippet rolling it out quietly on the water, delivering the tiny fly far beyond the end of the bright yellow fly line and thick leader.

The fly line spooks them but the tiny fly landing a few seconds later can trick the distracted fish.

The leader and lengthy tippet were much longer than the 7.5-foot rod I was using, but sometimes it works in pressured, end of summer waters.

It’s also a rig that rules out using a net to land a fish, especially waist-deep in big water currents. Ass far as I know, but I’m always open to learning if a full-timer is available.

This time I knew the name of Frank’s hole when I stripped and jigged a beetle across the confluence of the cabin side stream and the roaring Madison.

Frank and Joe could catch fish no matter the location or conditions and sounded a lot like my Dad and his best friend Jim.

Frank’s hole was just off the front yard and deck of the cabin he built in the 70’s. It’s a stunning view and the fishing hole name is a proper tribute to the man and his family legends.

I was daydreaming about that when the Madison Monster hit stripping line and skipping my heart as he torpedoed out of the water.

This one isn’t the monster, but there’s a story to watch for about this whitefish.

Muscle memory kicked in popping my rod tip up and line pressure tight yet responsive.  I’d give him plenty of space to wear himself out and come in gently.

Steering him out of the weeds meant I had to stay in the middle of the strong, deep current where an experienced monster can throw a hook easily.

He fought like a machine and I reeled in line during his brief rests, but still had too much line out given how long he’d been on. Eyeing a possible path to shore I decided to try to sweep him across the current to land.

This strategy is my least favorite because it takes the fish out of water increasing the stress and potential for injury. It’s even rougher on the fish than lifting it out of the water to get a photo because fish thrash about in panic on land.

It’s hard to catch and release when you’ve maimed a fish in the catching process. For me, it’s too cruel just to have bragging rights or photos of the landing.

The river dance is normally more than enough for me, but I was past due for a monster catch and hooked deep in this fantastic challenge.

Fate twisted in favor of the fish when I turned toward shore tripping over a submerged boulder and crossing the tight line into my pole with a definitive SNAP.

Monster Fish 1. Cindy 0.

To add insult to injury my defeated slouch rolled me into the strong current filling my waders with ice cold water.

On the way down I snatched my phone from the open bib pocket, holding it triumphantly in the air while body surfing down the river.

I heard Rocky’s distant, sharp bark and shrill yelps just as I was pulling myself out of the water. Adrenaline slammed into my legs propelling me past cabins across Pickle Jar Meadow through the shoulder high thorny brambles over several downed logs and into the side stream calling for Rocky and getting no answer.

No yelps. No barks.

I spotted him slammed into a log jam scrambling to find purchase on the slippery logs.

Our eyes locked and he arched to leap toward me just as I held my hand up signaling STOP. WAIT.

I’d never catch him if he jumped into the fast current even though I was running like a mama bear through the river.

Years of training, our combined stubborn will, and plenty of help from Frank, Joe, my Dad, and all the guardian angels in this stretch held Rocky frozen in that perilous perch until I lunged the last few yards and bear hugged his chest.

We might be going down but we were going down together.

There was no easy way out of this mess. Direct access to the shore was totally blocked by decades of downed trees.

The current was too strong and water too deep for Rocky to wade. I’d have to carry him upstream through the current around the log jam to shore.

He’s 50 pounds and I’m not 29 anymore, but adrenaline, the force of will, and the power of love is an amazing combination.

We groaned at the same time and I laughed pulling ourselves up the steep bank and out of the water.

Rocky squirreled beneath the brush but it took me forever to work myself through the tangle of thorns I had torn past in seconds earlier.

Exhausted, winded, and grateful I crouched at the top of the slope with my hands on my knees when I saw something that caught my breath, “Are you kidding me? ”

The labyrinth.

I hadn’t noticed it in Pickle Jar Meadow but the day before Chris told me about the years she and her kids would collect and place rocks carefully creating their family labyrinth.

She had texted me before I hit the river to let me know she left a gift for me in the labyrinth center.

I had no idea I’d be in a state of absolute grace when I got there. No idea the first steps on level ground would land Rocky and me in front of this sacred space.

Sloshing in my freezing, waterlogged waders around that labyrinth immersed in the gift of the miracles of this day I was mindful of little more than grace.

Snuggled in a warm, soft blanket back at the cabin devouring homemade rosemary pear preserves, I am gratefully mindful that life doesn’t get any better than this.

Manna in the Meadow

Two weeks in downtown Minneapolis can suck the last drop out of a gal like me. I travel the rough back roads of this country solo and rarely feel vulnerable, afraid, or exposed. But a lot of time in most cities is draining. San Francisco, Montreal, and Istanbul are the exceptions.

My hat is off to the founders of Minneapolis who preserved the green space along the Mississippi River flowing between the Twin Cities. Daily hikes along the downtown Nature trails infused Rocky and me. The festivals, museums, music, and food reflect an appreciation of high talent and passion. I’m grateful for the hospitality the fine staff at Town Suites on 2ndStreet offered Rocky and me.

The St. Croix River and several gorgeous state parks are within an hour drive of the city. The flooding of St. Croix created an awesome canoe ride on a sunny Sunday.

We bid farewell to the Twin Cities with one urgent goal – restore the balance off grid. I was so depleted I loaded up enough groceries, water, propane, permits, and maps to avoid town. Forever!

I knew what I needed and why. I didn’t know what state or national forest would answer my call for a cold, mountain creek with deep forest shade and enough flat space to set up camp. Frequent rain is a bonus.

We drove east past the crystal clear mountain lakes of Minnesota and the blazing Badlands of South Dakota without a second glance. But the Black
Hills National Forest pinged images of moving water, cool breezes, and the smell of evergreens.

Firing up my orienteering brain, GPS, and the Forest Service’s off road maps we set off to find our next hermitage in the woods. But the answer to my call for a mountain peak and valley creek took me far beyond even Subaru’s impressive off grid GPS coverage. The paper map led me to blockades of private land, cut timber, and herds of cattle common in today’s national forests.

I could feel the place in my heart, but I couldn’t find it with my head. Frankly I thought I knew the plan but all I really had were clear visions, longing, dreams, journals, stories, and prayers guiding my life. Eyeing the setting sun I let go of outcomes. I’d make due. And due would make me as it always does.

One deep breath disabled the brain and my open, willing heart took the lead focusing with gratitude on the cool, moist breeze, towering spruce, green rolling meadows, and distant granite peaks. Each turn on the ATV trail offered more than I had planned or prepared for. What did it matter if there was no creek?

On a last minute whim I took a left on what appeared to be a wagon trail from the old west.

Never turn left, my brain piped in, reminding me of the crash statistics on left turns.

Almost there Cindy. You are almost there, my heart replied.

Right. Sorry I got in the way for so long. Thank you for this, I whispered crossing a cattle guard opening to a large meadow blanketed with flowers.

A delighted laugh flew from my heart as I rounded a bend. A small clearing created when diseased trees were removed nurtured a new meadow
bursting with baby raspberry plants, brilliant flowers, and strong, native grasses. A wide and swift creek flowed beneath towering granite cliffs framing the meadow. Centuries of evergreen needles made the ground soft, flat, and fragrant. The sun disappeared beyond the cliffs while I danced in joyful circles around the meadow laughing and singing.

I couldn’t overthink camp set up because there was only one possible, perfect option. Shade for the camper, space for the shower/bathroom, stumps and cut timber for tables and chairs. The meadow was just right for optimum solar collection and a small deer trail led to the creek. I quickly assembled a basic camp and slept deeply to the sound of running water.

The nudge at dawn was annoying enough to be effective. Quickly wake up! Look! Outside my door was a breath-taking, eight-point buck grazing in the meadow with a juvenile male sporting new antlers. I flashed on Bambi’s Dad showing him the ropes in the forest. Mimicking Bambi’s Mother’s I sadly whispered “Man was in the forest today,”and the big buck looked my way before trotting up the hill with a snort and quick flash of tail.

Over coffee a curious bumblebee with an odd flight pattern feasted on purple flowers by my chair. He might have a limping flight but was not lacking in strength and agility I noticed lighting incense and settling into meditation.

He was gone when I came back to physical awareness but returned often.  His visits correlated with each new item I set up in camp. The two awnings, bathroom tent, a tablecloth over stumps to create a kitchen seemed to draw him like an inspector. He would hitch a ride on my feet, arms or hands.


I would too! 
I thought watching him crash land on the kitchen counter and crawl onto the raw veggies to nap.

The second day, eager to satisfy my curious brain I gathered up maps settling at the table to identify our coordinates now that we had hiked the area. I could visualize how the last minute left turn had taken me through private land with access to Crystal Peak and Creek. Now to verify that theory.

Bee arrived with a hard landing on the map and danced in circles along the winding map trail markings. Between dances he slept, so still the only sign of life was the light reflecting in his eyes. So bees sleep with eyes open?

I’ve never observed bee sleep so can only guess that’s what it was. If I nudged him he would crawl into my hand and drift back off. He napped a lot, especially in the spruce branches I had harvested from a newly cut tree to use on the altar. In the world of bee blessings I knew I had hit the jackpot even as my awareness of his declining condition grew.

No big surprise here, I mumbled acknowledging that if humans find me to midwife death why not a bumblebee?

By the third morning he had let go of gathering nectar in the meadow, preferring to stay snuggled in the altar bustling with a community of spiders, honeybees, beetles and ants. Extravert aye? I mused as I broke my “don’t kill the wildflowers” cardinal rule and placed his favorite purple flower next to him on the altar. He perked up and fed for hours between naps. I tucked him in that night with visions of angelic hives, prayers for peace, and a deep appreciation for his quiet companionship.

The next morning he was gone. I searched but never found him. My mind filled with images of Elijah the Bee ascending in a chariot of meadow flowers.

Seemed fitting. Like Elijah, Bee reminded me to be bit more mindful of daily manna in the wilderness that defy life or death polarities. This elusive, often fleeting awareness deeply restores a vibrant, healthy, happy harmony in every part of me and has since I was a girl living in the woods with creeks and ponds.

Profoundly simple. Nothing fancy. Just Nature showing up as Bee leading the way through miracles and magic in the great outback.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Canyon

Following trails that beckon is life at it’s best. Free wandering with no schedule or goals has served me well since childhood exploring creeks and prairies. I’ve been trained to watch and wait for the guidance but I’ll admit there’s is a new learning curve with the addition of the off-road teardrop camper. It’s keeping my guardian angels – and me – wide awake.

This day was for exploring the BLM off-roads outside Moab, Utah. No map, no cell service and no worries. It’s a Subaru with ample off-road GPS coverage right? A dropped pin marked the starting point and I was free to breathe in jaw-dropping vistas. It was an easy trail with occasional rough rocks or sinking sand spots.

The road transformed to true 4×4 when I turned a corner and hit the brakes. A gate in the middle of nowhere?  Prying it open was easy since it wasn’t locked so I squeezed my rig through. That’s when the reality of The Canyon slapped me.

Narrow, ridiculously steep grade, no safety rails and the most amazing, adrenaline-inducing experience calling my name! The Subaru and teardrop had torn up off roads for days and I was primed for the grand prize dive down The Canyon.

I glanced at Rocky’s wide, trusting smile and immediately saw my four spectacular adult kids expecting me home for the holidays. A raven flew overhead mimicking Daddy’s familiar refrain “pull your head out of your ass Cindy!”

Perhaps a bit of recon was in order. Rapid, shallow breathing and heart-pounding adrenaline with knees bent, eyes straight ahead helped resist the abyss tractor beam pulling me over the edge on the switchback curves. Barely. There was just enough width for the car and RV. No margin for error, changing my mind or turning around. There might be a clearance and mud issue. But I was a hound dog on a scent. Ride The Canyon or bust!

Admittedly I’ve got a few marks from life “or bust” experiences and a bit of a hang up about being the only surviving parent.

Time to pull out the big guns and use a technique honed over eight years in the halls of MD Anderson Cancer Center. Call in my angels when stakes are life OR death high. Employ the hallowed Coin Toss. Best two out of three wins. Heads means I go for it, tails I turn around and find a camp for the night.

First toss – heads. Second – tails. Standing inches from the cliffhanger I breathed in the delicious knowing that the outcome of that third toss would be my best option. No doubts. Pure faith. In that breath all the hooks and attachments of the adventure, adrenaline, and drama vanished. No need to do anything. Just lean in. Be still and know. The final toss and knowing occurred simultaneously. Tails. I’m out.

My best guess is I was in the Sheep Canyon area. GPS noted Mineral and Dead Horse Point Roads. I found an OHV trail map sign post indicating I was somewhere in the Dubinky area. Maybe The Canyon was a piece of Hell Roaring or Chicken Corners Trails. The coin toss occurred at the point requiring gate entry, is pinched between rocks on the right and the abyss on the left and drops over 1,000 feet via narrow, rocky, muddy switchbacks. Chicken Corners is where Moab area guides allow “chicken” passengers to walk, rather than ride. And Hell Roaring Canyon descriptions involve the word “pucker.”

I probably have too much faith in Beverly (my Subaru Outback) but I think she’d make The Canyon. Pulling my Outback teardrop camper affectionally dubbed Hillbilly? Sheer lunacy.

I can count on two things in life. My free spirit is comfortable with blind, ignorant leaps and it can heal more than it hurts if my heart stays open. May this  inner knowing, my guardians, and the sacred Coin Toss always have my back!