The guy came out of what was once Arizona's high, thirsty desert, but is now the bustling, concrete-lawned metropolis of Phoenix. He's a physician; a heart specialist of no small skills. And he loves the outdoors with passion. Especially the high alpine country where air is pure, water sweet, and mornings crisp.

He first came hunting with us in 1986--a big bull elk was his sole objective. As chance had it, angels kissed his fevered brow and he obtained same. But funny thing happened on the way to that particular hillside destiny: Bill became entranced with snow-capped mountains, rushing streams, early morning mist rising from forested lakes, migrating bluebirds, fresh-fallen powder, and the elan of toasting sandwiches around lunchtime campfires.

So he returned to join us on subsequent trips into the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Finally he relocated his Phoenix practice to Montana. The timing was especially appropriate for me since my ticker was beginning to display "rode hard, put away wet" weariness.

A little while after settling in the Treasure State, Bill purchased a few acres, fenced it, built a home and barn. "What I really want to do, Roland," he confided to me, "is find a horse or two--like yours--so I can pack into the Bob Marshall Wilderness on my own."

He told me this while we were on a horseback ride into Glacier Park. "I want to learn how to use horses in the mountains like you. I want to learn how to choose a proper campsite and find my way around off-trail. That's why Jeanie and I came to Montana."

Riding behind the man, I wondered how to let him down easy. Finally I asked, "How long did you study to become a Cardiologist?"

"Two years," he replied, thinking that I was curious about the length of his advanced studies. But when he understood I meant the entire nine yards of his studies, he ran the years through his head, added his internship, then the advanced studies and concluded, "Ten years, perhaps. But it never ends. To stay abreast of new technology and procedures requires ongoing research."

I nodded. We'd paused to let our ponies nibble in a little trailside meadow, so I looked him in the eye. "In other words, if I wanted to acquire your level of expertise when it comes to analyzing my own heart, I'd have to study for ten years?"

"At least. But why would you wish to do so? I'm here."

"Have you any idea, friend, how long I've studied to get to the point I now am in outdoors proficiency? Do you know each of these horses we're riding has over ten thousand mountain trail miles behind them? Do you suppose I might have the equivalency of a doctorate in outdoors training and experience?"

"Well, I . . . ." He fell silent.

I smiled at my friend. "Don't set your sights too high, Bill. If you enjoy horses and would like to raise them, by all means obtain those you wish. But don't expect them to be as gentle and advanced as the ones we're riding today; after all, each has miles of mountain trails filled with bogs, rocks, logs, yellowjackets, and snowslides behind them. Neither can you expect to handle them as well as me without paying your dues on the way to a graduate degree."

Bill is a good man who learns fast, otherwise he'd never acquired the tools to become a premium cardiologist, marry Jeanie, or learn to love Montana with the same fervor as his friend, the old outfitter.

So did he take my advice to heart?

Maybe.

 

LONG IN THE TOOTH ADVANTAGES

 

You'll not consider it revolutionary that I find multitudinous disadvantages inherent in the aging process: feet flat, hair gone, eyes weak, flesh flabbed, joints knobbed, energy south. But all is not lost. Nope, there are commensurate advantages to we who've been prostrated with a lifetime of sweat-filled labor that we can husband for our benefit.

In my case, one is acquired knowledge, another accumlated experience. Both are negatively affected by a growing forgetfulness that advanced as my hair first turned gray, then loose. Though there are some elements of knowledge I'd as soon forget (such as woman's inhumanity toward man, angst found in sibling strife, and the presently accepted--and obviously mushrooming--political cynicism), there are far more important elements that one can only accrue through no other medium than personal observation over years, decades, perhaps an entire lifetime. The growth of a tree, for instance. Jane planted two maple trees outside our bedroom window thirty years ago. We won't see them through their span, but we live to see them to maturity.

Most natural processes can readily be observed, of course: ants attacking and carrying away a fallen fly, birdlets hatching from a nest in a juniper tree. We're all familiar with the short term functions occurring in nature. But only those of who've lived a bunch and observed a lot are privileged to see a tree turn from seedling to sapling to giant.

If our lifespan was a thousand years instead of a hundred, we might actually see an entire forest sprout and develop. Or ten thousand, and we might see glaciers form and retreat. Or a million, and we might see a continent drift.

What started me thinking on this topic was when Jane and recently revisited a series of beaver ponds our kids and I chanced to visit for the first time in 1973. The ponds, deep within Glacier National Park, occupied a fold in a sagebrush plain and were strung like sapphire beads on an exquisite necklace. The ponds were surrounded by rich stands of willow and criss-crossed with the industrious rodents' dams and spillways.

When we rode our ponies over the low ridge, a beautiful silvertip grizzly bear fed amid shrubbery sprouting around the ponds . I've never forgotten the place. So much so that 25 years later, Jane and I visited those ponds for a second time.

It was as though someone slammed a club into the pit of my stomach when we again rode over the low ridge and saw where the ponds had been--now just a dusty windblown flat. We dismounted and walked through the desolate bottom where a stagnate stream trickled. There were no willows, only the dead stems eaten off to the ground. Obviously there could be no beavers either; evolutionary processes had taken their toll.

Just three years later, however, Jane and I made a third visit, this time hiking instead of riding over the low rise. Again I was shocked: a rich growth of young willow was growing throughout the bottoms, the ponds were beginning to fill, backed by a rudimentary series of newly constructed dams and spillways. The beavers were back!

Such privilege to see first hand a decades-long process of nature!

Eat your heart out if you've not lived sufficiently long to see nature unfold in its millions of varieties. Someday you will. Let's hope you actually do see it when it occurs.

 

Next week? Another walk on the wild side.

Ultimate Montana -