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 with maybe enough gas, and past those towns with decidedly not enough gas.

We rolled into Miles City on genuine fumes, sitting at a road construction light with two gas stations in clear view.

Previously, the farthest east I’d been in Montana was Greasy Grass (Little Bighorn), and before that, Fort Benton. Most of my knowledge of Montana has come from its western third, which means that I’ve missed out on a lot of Montana.

I grew up in California. Driving through the state usually consisted of concrete and smog, and if you weren’t local you’d have no idea where one city ended and the next one began. I hadn’t lived somewhere where you could look at the map and clearly point out four interstates for the entire state.

So, needless to say, moving 1,000 miles away to a state whose entire population was a third of the county I moved from was a shock. But I never felt out of place— I moved to Montana and it made sense. Dressing for the -40° day I had a final exam, driving mountain passes in whiteouts, adjusting to a slower pace of life— you adapt.

So yes, I’m from California, but we’re all from somewhere. Most of us who live in Montana came from somewhere else, whether we moved or relatives or ancestors moved (or you’re indigenous and, therefore, are genuinely from here).

But, what brings us together is that same love for this state. For the land, the water, the endless sky. The flora & fauna, what the earth provides. That’s what makes it Montana. That unwritten sense of place— even when you’re in-between towns, you know where you are. The cicadas in the east, the larch in the northwest, the bison in the southwest, the sagebrush in the middle. Cactus blossoms to fireweed to glacier lilies, Rockies to gumbo hills.