This is Montana

On Thursday, CJ, my sister, my parents and I headed out on a long journey to the northeastern corner of Montana. Also known as farming country. Also known as Sheridan County. Also known as the middle of nowhere. Don’t believe me? Just try to book a flight there. It’s next to impossible.

When we get off the airplane in Billings, it is immediately clear that we are most definitely NOT in Seattle anymore.

We stand at the baggage carousel, waiting for our luggage and I notice a strange phenomenon. Scattered between the standard black wheelie bags, brightly colored duffel’s, and floral suitcases is a less familiar type of bag. Long, black, hard-edged and rectangular with a handle and a battered military feel. Gun cases. Lots of them.

I look around nervously. You don’t see a lot of gun cases coming off the luggage carousel in Seattle. And if you did, it’d be accompanied by an uproar.

But people stand nonchalantly, unfazed by the obvious artillery before us.

This is Montana, I remind myself, Gun cases are no big deal here.

We pick up our rental car and begin the 3 1/2 hour drive from Billings to Miles City, which will be our rest stop for the night. Our plan is to pick up dinner on the way at a road-side restaurant or fast food place.

The speed limit is 75 mph, and I can count on my two hands the number of cars that we meet. As we drive, we start to feel hungry, and watch more closely for a place to stop.

But the only thing we see on the side of the road for 150 miles is roadkill and the occasional “No Services” sign.

This is Montana, mom reminds us, you have to plan ahead here.

Finally we come to a rest stop, where we pull off to stretch and use the bathroom. A tall green-lettered sign warns of rattlesnakes in the grass. The prairie wind blows hard and cold. The rest stop is deserted, but clean.

The next day we are back on the road with more miles to cover before we reach the tiny farming town where my mother grew up.

The land is desolate with amazing expanses of nothing but wheat and sky. Trees are an anomaly here. The towns are so small that you can literally blink and miss them. And yet I find beauty in the landscape; in the raw simplicity of this place.

Yep, this is Montana, dad says, You can see why they call it Big Sky Country.

And it’s true. The sky is everywhere, all around and extending into the distance as far as I can see.

The sun is warm, but the wind is cold. And when it blows, buffeting us as we stand exposed at the tiny cemetery in the middle of the prairie, it chills to the bone.

After my grandmother’s funeral, we go to a luncheon hosted by the community of friends and neighbors. I have never, ever seen so much food. Row upon row of carefully prepared sandwiches, salads, and desserts. Beautiful plates of cookies and brownies and cake. Amazing bouquets of flowers. Gleaming carafes of tea and weak steaming coffee, which is poured into my Styrofoam cup by a smiling woman who clasps my hand as if she has known me forever.

The warmth and love is tangible as I am greeted by weathered smiling faces of the people who knew and loved my grandparents.

This is Montana. Here, community is strong enough to conquer the miles between neighbors. The wind is cold, but the people are warm. And the big sky is surely no bigger than the expanse of these good people’s hearts.

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