In the last heat of the lingering harvest, I rode up Powell Butte at sunset. There was only enough time to catch my breath and score a peek of the salmon pink sky before riding back down ahead of the falling darkness. Read More>
Read MoreI remember Piney as the dog who we housetrained in the middle of an ice storm. The dog who spent the night on a mountain in a blizzard and kept us warm. The dog who made a parcel of land in the woods near Bend feel like home. I remember a lot about him. I hope I always do. Read More>
Read MoreIn Montana, the plains are soft with grass and the mountains are always standing watch. At dusk, the details flatten out and all you can see is shapes, triangles stacked up North to South—each peak cast sharply against a prism of golden light. Read More>
Read More