Writings of Constance Ore ( 1937 – 2010 )

We came back to Sanctuary via Jackson Hole and the Grand Teton National Park, accessed by driving through Yellowstone. The inevitable gathering of cars blocking off the road disgourging people running with cameras to capture the essence of a single moose occurred as it has every time we have driven through the park. We have never joined this group, though the day may come when we sit here on a winter’s evening and say, “If only we had gotten a picture of that moose last summer”. Perhaps not.

We have driven the Rockefeller Parkway through the Grand Teton Park a number of times, but we had not stopped before, and this time we wanted to spend a bit of time by one of the lakes and view those incredibly photogenic mountains. Looking at all the boats lined up and awaiting the travelers who would board them to either fish or go across the water to hike up into the valleys, I wished that we had come sooner in our life times when we might have put on backpacks and trekked forth to the snow lines. There were many warnings about the presence of bears, and the stores had classy mace containers with which one might spray a bear and then commence to flee should that be necessary. Before, when we went camping with the children in these sorts of places, we had bear bells that we could ring while walking and singing, sounding like demented monks and driving away all possible wildlife in the area – I have no recollections of meeting either bird or beast on those hikes.

Sanctuary remains green and dense with growth everywhere, presenting us with a very different place than the sweeping vistas of Montana, Wyoming and western Nebraska. We have also had humid and warm weather, another contrast to the cooler, dryer air of the mountains. Yet it is grand to be home with ripe tomatoes, cucumbers, and zucchini from the garden and a happy Alphie running ahead on the paths. The grasses and wild flowers in the meadow are full of many colors and textures, and they bear names that attest to their variety – Fleabane, Partridge Pea, Goldenrod, Ironweed, Blazing Star, Panic Grass, Big Bluestem, Switchgrass, Side-Oats Grama and Indian Grass. This is not a complete list, but it does illustrate that a prairie land is anything but a simple green.

The trip was more tiring than I anticipated, with an intensification of the bone and muscle pain, and an ongoing unease about the possibility of infections that might come forth in unexpected ways. I wore the surgical mask whenever inside with gatherings of people, and we avoided nearly all restaurants with Charles becoming the king of carry-out. I was mostly able to tune out the inner sound track that would begin to complain when I would smile at a child only to be met with a look of caution because of my mask. Children in general had to be avoided because of their potential for communicable sicknesses. This is a loss to me since I do enjoy them with their nearly new brains, wonderful energy and capacity for delight.

August brings a shift in the focus of families; now it is time to gather the school supplies and prepare for the next year of educational activities. After teaching many years, this rhythm remains strong for me, and even in uncertain times, I anticipate the next season with gratitude for all the good things past and hope for the days ahead.

Today concludes our stay in Ennis, MT. where we have had memorable adventures, their details to be recalled on quiet afternoons after returning home. Yesterday we drove up a narrow and bumpy dirt track to a wild and rugged mountainside place to picnic in the absolute stillness of a nearly uninhabited world. Here our friend Paul had hung a swing on a weathered pine branch, and from this place, the vastness of the sky and the mountain range on the far side of the green valley could be enjoyed as though one were part of a living diorama. The space around us had struggling grasses, occasional cacti and wild flowers coming up around huge and diverse rocks covered with beautiful patterns of lichen in rust, white, black, and many shades of green. Some of the trees had died, so their dramatic weathered shapes framed different aspects of the scenery. A pair of Clark’s Nutcracker birds kept us company and their harsh cries were the only sounds that broke into the absolute stillness. We all agreed that the loudest sounds were those heard in our own heads as we enjoyed the eating and drinking of the picnic viands.

This landscape appears endless and the sky’s ever-changing cloud patterns make the earth below them dynamic in the constant regrouping of light and shadow. Today we had a brunch at a lovely little house in the center of a mountain meadow filled with wild flowers, again in a place where the views were without end. As we walked about to examine the intricacies of the flowers, we were told that the mounds and holes were made by “whistling pigs” which I believe are small creatures also known as pica. Apparently these sweeping high meadows that are so enchanting at this season of the year become incredibly cold, snowy and wind whipped in the winter; a snow mobile that stood waiting beside the gateway leading up the long lane to the house spoke volumes.

We will not linger long before returning home. It is more challenging physically to do things, and a lesser body is carrying me around. I try to remember everything that I see and hear, and enjoy all the beautiful creation that is so varied and abundant. God’s imagination is truly beyond anything that I can comprehend, and I have seen a very small portion of the whole. After I die, perhaps my spirit will do the “world tour” and that will surely be very grand!

We left on our road trip on Tuesday morning, Alpie in mourning because he is staying at Sanctuary in the care of a Concordia student who has agreed to live at our house looking after him as well as the birds, fish and flowers. The first day’s drive ended at a little cabin in the Badlands National Park in South Dakota. In this place, there were jagged, white other-worldly formations of ancient volcanic ash with only a few plants struggling to live at their bases, and where the signs saying “Beware the Rattlesnakes” were prominently displayed. These depicted a large, ready to strike snake, and we were very inclined to stay on the center part of the path. At a trailhead called “The Window”, a woman with three teens wished to have herself and two of them standing next to one of the signs, with the rock formations in the background. She seemed tired, shrill, and impatient as she instructed the boy with the camera just how he had to include the sign and peaks in back of them in the photo; it was easy to imagine that she was crafting the story that she would tell when she returned home, about how they went on anyway, in spite of the snakes that were everywhere – how one of the boys nearly stepped on one, etc., etc. On another path we met a family from Italy. It is always a surprise to meet people from other countries in these very remote places so many miles from anywhere at all.

After driving over a thousand miles, we arrived at our destination yesterday afternoon, and within the first several hours, we experienced high winds, a wonderful wild storm, then calm, and sightings of bald eagles and osprey with their young out over the river. A stand of very tall cottonwood trees is nearby, and many yellow and purple finch, black-headed grosbeak and Brewer’s blackbirds appear to make their homes there. Our friends have wren houses everywhere, and all of them are occupied, so the river sounds and the bird sounds are wonderful.

This morning I look out the window to view the Madison River in the foreground and the Madison mountain range beyond. A man is fishing in the river, and it looks as though he is coaxing something into his net to remove the hook and line. People come to fish for trout, however, it is “catch and release” at this time. There are white faced angus cattle grazing on the water’s edge on the near side – our hosts tell us the cows and calves come across from their ranch home to munch for the day. The old saw “The grass is always greener on the other side” is alive and operational on this splendid July day in Montana.

It’s high summer in Sanctuary with 90° temperatures and 87% humidity. The whole place is lush, overgrown, and not yet looking weary and dry, though that will come soon since rains have eluded us in the past weeks and the ground beneath all the green is getting grey and cracked. There are literally thousands of residents on the forty, most of them living very quietly, keeping their lives secret from the humans and dogs that come past. There are fox, skunks, turtles, raccoons, chipmunks, field mice, voles, moles, snakes, frogs, toads, and many species of insects – the list goes on and on. Those that we do notice are the mosquitoes, ticks, squirrels, rabbits and birds. Alphie will occasionally trip over a snake as it lies curled in the grasses or under pasture brush, and this causes him to leap backward and go quickly on his way for reptiles are not his prey of choice.

The gardens are full of lilies now, and the great plate-sized elderberry blooms are everywhere, even in the hedgerows, looking like bouquets set in to give a bit of color. The days pass quickly with morning walks and gardening for me, music composition and practicing of the organ for Charles and general care and upkeep of this place for both of us. The mouth sores have diminished greatly; when my primary care doctor did the checkup he said, “The paste worked! What a bonus!” I thought, “Bonus??” Anything less than great improvement had never occurred to me. I have energy for living, and we are planning another road trip westward and into the mountains. Life goes on, and it is good.