The Big Hole Its always interesting to me the way words work For instance, the Big Hole is not a hole at all Its a giant valley surrounded by Montana mountains Reminiscent of the altiplano in western Bolivia But, at about 6000 elevation, only half as high. The gently rolling valley floor spreads out In all directions covered by hay fields and grass Thousands of cattle graze peacefully where Buffalo once created the prairie out of forest Simply by grazing, helped by lightning fires. Indians ruled the snowy high passes and the valley Lewis and Clark passed this way, naming things As they traveled toward the Pacific Ocean The three Big Hole rivers were named after President Jeffersons cardinal virtues -- Philosophy, Philanthropy, and Wisdom Though later, less enlightened settlers renamed them The Big Hole, Beaverhead, and Ruby Rivers All full of fish, emptying into the Jefferson River Then the Missouri River headed for New Orleans. But the town of Wisdom still sits by the Big Hole River So Lewis and Clark left their mark in the valley after all More so, the Nez Perce Indian tribe who fought The U.S. Army in 1877s Battle of the Big Hole On their epic 1170 mile march toward utter defeat. Now the biggest events might be a fly fisherman Catching a nice trout, a cow being hit by a car, Or the hot springs bubbling in Jackson The huge green fields are sleepy in the sun And even sleepier in winters freezing snow. One summer we were driving from Anaconda Along Montana Highway 278 toward Jackson Where we were staying in a cabin and soaking In its famous hot springs so like Yellowstone Yet so unknown except to very local folks indeed. Lush green grass fields surrounded us like a odd ocean We had been noticing huge piles of hay in these fields And strange, large slanted contraptions just sitting alone So when we saw an old cowboy riding along the road We stopped to ask about them and chat for a while. His face was weathered like an old, well-circulated coin But instead of smoothed out, wrinkled up from the sun His horse was a big, beautiful rust-colored stallion And it obeyed his every word, like a loyal Muslim wife Everything he needed in this world was right there. The cowboy looked to be about 70, but I knew that As he tipped his hat to my wife, he must be younger And he was quite ready to talk to these strangers He told us the things we saw in the fields were beaverslides Dating from the 1800s and had made the huge hay stacks. He asked my wife, with her cute English, where she was from So she told him that she grew up in Santa Cruz, Bolivia He looked at her as if amazed, Well, Ill be darned twice! He said, I lived in Bolivia for a while many years ago And grew to love the place, though I was mainly in La Paz. To me, it seemed so exceedingly strange, coming so far Yet encountering a greeting and a big smile from home We all reminisced for quite a while, then, that night The cowboy came to see us in Jackson, where In a rustic bar, we drank and wove stories until late. I was surprised to see him drive off in his shiny new car Rather than riding off into some mythical sunset We had made a new friend in the most unexpected place And Im sure it was a marvel to us all how cold and small Yet how warm and welcoming this world can be. ©2014, Steven W. Baker
Posted on: Sat, 20 Dec 2014 13:12:38 +0000
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