nights come early now, darkness settling in even before we sit down to dinner. the snow melts; the last aspen leaves rattle and flutter away with passing winds; snow falls again. daylight appears as in a watercolor, pellucid, devoid of color. ropy clouds drape across a pale blue sky. how we mark these days. the holidays approach, and for many of us they will look different. travel and extended family gatherings out of the picture. we will gather in smaller groups, or even a

Swing the axe In the hour before daylight Note the sparks That attend to the blade — Jeffrey Foucault, Dishes If I look over the top of my laptop screen, through raindrop-pebbled window panes, grass fronds feather sideways and tree branches flail against a backdrop of slate cloud curtains nestled among mountain layers. Copper leaves scud down the street and cold presses through double-paned windows. It’s only October, but we’ve already woken to snow several times, once dee

She slowly emerges from the tall grasses at the lip of the crumbling fish ladder. Her head swings from side to side as she surveys the river corridor, all senses alert, scanning for threats. For the moment, she perceives none. The large male bears–boars, as they are called–that dominate this prime fishing spot are elsewhere. Most females with cubs steer far clear of this fishing site. It’s too dangerous; the threat to cubs from the boars too great. But this mom holds her own,

If you keep driving: beyond the outskirts, past the horses and hay bales, to the far side of split rail fences and civilization. If you keep going far enough, you enter God’s country. That phrase means different things to different people, I’m sure, but the land I speak of is this: Wide open spaces unmarred by structure and untrammeled by man. Where braided gravel bars and river corridors wend their way through a sponge of alpine tundra then tumble down waterfalls cut deep in

Before I begin today’s post, I would like to extend a heartfelt thank you to those following my blog. Welcome to the world of coffee and woodsmoke. I appreciate your support and hope you enjoy your stay on these pages! The local grocery store here is called “Town & Country.” I reckon for many visitors even the town seems pretty country, but when you take the time to drive just a half an hour out–maybe not even that far–the difference makes itself known. Time slows down and sp

An almost imperceptible shift in the light. A slant of golden, the earth’s turning reflected in sunflowers’ faces. The skies blue again after a good night’s wind and rain scrubbed the smoky haze that had descended over the mountains, stacking them like so many cardboard cutouts. Around the edges the air is cool, threaded with the promise of chill. The creek meanders along, more leisurely than lazy, having left the frenetic pace of runoff behind. A grasshopper symphony plays f

Daybreak reveals a heavy grey blanket of sky, coming to rest just above slate mountains’ rise into icy peaks.  It looks like November.  Filtered light makes its way through, silhouetting skeletal trees, whispering across brittle, tawny grasses breaking through the snow’s thin crust. We’re easing into winter this year.  Cold, snowy days followed by mild, almost springlike weather; this past weekend saw nearly 50 degrees, and I took the opportunity to harvest the remaining 7 lb

This morning there is rain, a steady drumbeat against the corrugated tin roof, streams pouring out of gutter spouts and a grey mist blanketing the hills.  Yesterday afternoon the the impending cold front was palpable: the air still warm, but the wind stirring leaves from the trees and clouds slowly moving in across the sky.  Leaves crunched underfoot, releasing an earthy aroma of autumn into the air. Seasons change as we orbit once again around the sun. The weekend, however,

Autumn has arrived.  I was away on travel for just over a week, and when I returned the season had changed.  Days and nights cool, crispness floating in the air.  Every here and there, a cluster of leaves bright yellow amidst the otherwise deep green foliage.  The light slants to golden, illuminating everything it brushes from within; the wind tinged with a cool northerly edge. The garden is at–perhaps just beyond–its peak.  The snap peas continue to yield, but their leaves a

An unexpected and sudden storm blew in late afternoon last week.  The skies in Montana had been thick with smoke from wildfires burning across the West, and the sun hung low and red in a hazy sky.  There wasn’t much daylight left for the evening dog walk, so I leashed Pono up and we stepped out onto the front porch.  In the same instant a gust nearly took us off our feet and a low rumble of thunder rippled across the sky.  We stepped back across the threshold, shut the door,