letter from the editor— On
an early morning in late July, we drove out east. The day bloomed as we went along, making our way past familiar sights— Swan Lake, Seeley Lake, Salmon Lake— the markers that you use to determine where you’re at. “Go past the ‘Ovando is open’ sign— is Ovando always open?” “Turn at the Sinclair station with the tiny dinosaur and the huge cow.” But, as we went on, we took a new turn: heading down Townsend’s Main Street toward White Sulphur Springs. Downtown faded out into small houses that faded out into ranches and homesteads, and soon we were going through the Helena National Forest alongside Deep Creek. Bright purple fireweed climbed up the canyon walls as the creek danced back and forth. As the road wound its way through the canyon, the walls began to recede and pines were traded
for golden fields and center pivot sprinklers. Hills led us down into the Smith River Valley and White Sulphur Springs— hot, dry, dusty, and wonderful. That became a theme throughout the drive. When you’re driving in rural Montana on the eastern side of the Rockies, you know exactly where the towns are. You can see them on the horizon— groups of trees huddled together, and within there’s always a small town. A post office, a bar or a few, some churches, a local market, a gas station. You can skip from town to town like a rock on water, from wheat fields to trees to wheat fields. We skipped along, Checkerboard to Harlowtown to Shawmut to Roundup, with a brief intermission in Musselshell. Back out to the 12, past Sumatra, wondering why so many Montana towns were named after much more well-known cities/ countries (Belgrade, Manhattan, Lima, Glasgow, Troy, Jordan). Through Forsyth and Rosebud
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