In the two weeks since arriving back in California from my extended vacation, a number of rude shocks reminded me why I’m so much more placid and contented in Montana.
For one thing, the wildlife keeps its distance. A young moose wanders out of the forest every morning, browsing on willows at the edge of the golf course. A small group of big horned sheep graze along the spur road and don’t seem to mind if you stop to take their picture. Bears, of which there are plenty, stay in the forest, sometimes near the creeks. Since local residents are smart enough to keep trash in bear-proof dumpsters, there’s no need for midnight raids on the village.
I wasn’t even unpacked when my son called to tell me the ranch had been visited by an older bear and to keep an eye out for it. An old bear, possibly in poor health, may have to rely on human food scraps or some easy prey. Many local bears were hauled out of Yosemite and other parks for getting too chummy with visitors, and dumped in the local mountains. When a bear learns to associate humans with a ham sandwich it’s bad news for both.
Day two, early afternoon. I open a window and smell smoke. Grayish brown clouds billow up from a canyon just a couple miles north. I call my son, Bobby. He says it’s burning in Digier Canyon and helicopters are already making drops there. He thinks they have a handle on it. That’s what they told me two years ago in June when they lost their handle and our canyon went up in flames. I start the drill. Close all the windows, unlock the doors, open garden gates, move hoses and set sprinklers in the usual places. I notice the emergency water storage tank has been emptied and rests on its side. Within an hour, the brown clouds have paled and flattened, helicopters are gone, air begins to smell fresh. Whew.
Next day, after grousing about low-flying aircraft (we seem to be on the flight path to everywhere) I discover a significant leak from a hose bib under the deck. A bucket collecting the drip is running over. I drag the bucket out spilling some then carry it to the nearest tree so as not to waste. I turn around and take three steps back along the gravel path and just miss stepping on a small rattlesnake all stretched out, a one-button rattle about six inches from the toe of my Birkenstock. Detour. Retrieve 22 pistol with snake shot. Walk carefully back down path. Detour to other side and there it is just where I left it. Aim carefully at head. Fire. Dogs rush in barking wildly, impeding efforts to sever head with shovel. Border collie retreats when told. Pointer runs circles around me. I scoop up the partially decapitated snake draped over shovel and fling it over the fence where dog can’t get to it. Lunch for a raven.
The phone rings. It’s Harriet, who lives a half mile down the road. Do I know where Bobby is? Well, no. What’s the problem? There’s a deer lying in the brush in front of her house and it’s hurt and can’t get up. She’s called Fish and Game but can’t get anyone to come out. The deer appears to have a broken leg, may have been hit by a car. I tell her I’m sorry but the only gun I have is the 22 pistol with snake shot in it. Not even a possible weapon to put a large animal out of its misery. She’ll keep trying to reach Bobby.
Next afternoon, with temperatures approaching triple digits, skies to the north are again smudgy but no tall billowing clouds. It looks more like a major smog alert. I’ve already begun the drill when Bobby calls to say he’s just returned from Bakersfield and the fire is headed for Cuyama. No danger to us. This one wound up burning just about everything between here and Santa Maria.
It’s Friday night. I turn on PBS looking forward to Jim Lehrer, Washington Week, Now and “Charlie Rose.” My PBS channel is showing blue sky. Now I’m really mad. I don’t do hot well at all. I turn the thermostat to 68 and climb up steps to open vents. No cool air. No whirring noise. Not even a puff of dust from the attic. Nothing but oppressive stillness and heavy, dank heat. Yuck. This might as well be Biloxi. I am suddenly overwhelmed with empathy for everyone living in New Orleans or anywhere on the Gulf Coast.
I open the windows, turn on the ceiling fan, put a cold, wet towel to my head and thank whoever watches over us that we still have shelter and no corpses floating by. Possibly in response, halfway through Washington Week, blue sky gives way to talking heads. Not much to be cheerful for, but all things being relative, it’s a relief.
Let’s see: The bear didn’t come back to attack my neighbor’s sheep or crash down our apple trees like the one that visited a few years ago. I didn’t step on the rattler and the pointer didn’t get bitten, as he did when he was just a few months old. The fires didn’t burn the deck off the house or devastate the landscape. And I didn’t have to dispatch the injured deer.
I get up and check my calendar. At least 10 more weeks until I might be able to head north again. Will I be able to retrieve the serenity I felt all spring? Return to a semblance of order, the absence of daily drama. A routine without interruptions other than the occasional computer glitch. get up; make tea; listen to NPR; write for a few hours; walk to the post office and store to get newspaper and fresh-baked brownie; walk home; Swim laps for 30 minutes; catalog photos; sort and edit columns for book; cook a modest dinner and watch PBS; read and listen to music. That’s about it. Once a week or so I drive to Bozeman, buy organic food at Co-Op, visit daughter, go to concert, art show, yoga class, whatever. Doesn’t sound too exciting, I suppose. But I think I understand why Montana drivers don’t honk their horns or flip off those with California license plates.
Got stress? Go fishing.