Saying Goodbye To Montana
By Ron Marr (04/02/03)
I've never before left a place I cared about. A few nights back, surrounded by boxes, dogs and the mental remnants of what has been a fine adventure in the land of the big sky, it struck me that I've lived in six houses and four time zones over the past decade. The departure from most of these locales was met with either ambivalence or a sense of glee.
The beaches of the Gulf were dandy, but only for a time. The sheer weight of the incoming hordes was stifling. The urban attitudes which many of those immigrants wore on their sleeve were unpalatable. I left on a moment's notice, never a look back and never a regret.
The midwest was nice, but only for a brief spell. It was great to spend time with family, creeks and catfish, but the return visit to my homeland taught me that, while you can go home again, you shouldn't expect home to wear the same color paint. It has changed just as much as you have.
My first look at the Rockies - Idaho Falls, Idaho - provided me with little save the desire to move. Some places are simply unfriendly, particularly if you refuse to become a member of the predominant religion. Nothing against the Mormons - and in fact in many ways I have quite a lot of respect for their dedication to faith. But dammit, get a sense of humor. This is not the best crowd to hang with if you're looking for deep laughter and a sarcastic discourse on the nature of man.
And now I'm off to the far boonies, having purchased the Mother Lode Saloon and Steak House in beautiful downtown Elk City, Idaho. That's up north a ways, surrounded by seven million acres of national forest and a stone's throw from the Clearwater River. It's pretty as hell, the folks are friendly, and I sense a community need for succulent pork ribs smoked for a minimum of five hours over lightning struck Ozark hickory. The dogs have given their approval for the move - Boris and Henry are quite taken with the concept of additional table scraps - and thus we await the arrival of the moving van. By the time most of you read this I'll be in my new digs.
But I'd be lying if I said it was easy to leave Montana. This has been home, more than just a blip on the map where you toss your shoes. I started a newspaper here, and via its odd notoriety received all sorts of writing jobs from national and regional magazines. My column was launched on a much grander scale than ever before from this neck of the woods. I've made many friends, had many dogs and seen quite a few of both pass away. For a time I was even in love here. Though those episodes were fleeting (as they always are) my love for the land itself never faltered.
And now I'm leaving it. That's tough. I'm usually not the guy who leaves; I'm more the guy who gets left. I adored this little town, the mountains that hovered overhead, the cold creeks and high snows. I was enamored with the hungry deer who tolerated my back porch blues licks as they contentedly munched grass. I'll miss the attitude, the people, the neighbor's scruffy dogs who have made my place their primary home. I'll even miss (or perhaps especially miss) the surly moose cow and calf who come calling every winter.
But sometimes you gotta' follow your heart, even if it breaks a little in the process. I'm long overdue for a new adventure, and lord knows the perpetual security of home and hearth just ain't my bag. Different yokes for different blokes. I've ignored the wild geese for quite a few years now, but their spring honking has finally pierced the veil and convinced me it's time to go. I'm not saying it's easy. I'm just saying it's time.
I've learned only a few things though the years. The biggie, is that for best results one should approach life with hopes for everything and expectations of nothing. Don't worry about things you can't change, don't sweat the small stuff, don't fret over the past. Life's too short.
As I was leaving Elk City on a recent trip - finishing up the legal work on the Mother Lode and meeting the locals - I was hit with a moment of fear. It's not nearly as easy to do the lock, stock and barrel routine at age 43 as it was at age 23 or 33. Was I doing the right thing? Would I like it? Would it provide a glorious rush, or was I a fool who rushed in where wise men fear to tread?
The fog was coming off the Clearwater and a sheen of ice hung from the trees. I looked to the left, and two bull moose were watching me from water's edge. I honked the horn, gave them a wave, and broke out in a huge grin.
At that moment I knew it would all be ok.
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