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

i’ve heard it said that winter is never far away in the north country. you can feel its presence just beyond the mountain; hovering, biding its time. it’s time. this past week, three snowstorms worthy of january: the first, heavy wet flakes just right for building a snowman; the second, cold and powdery; the third, falling right now, steadily, steadily; deep. when the clouds lift, the newly dusted mountainside will reveal scars–stark gashes of white across a forested flank

and just like that, two more seasons have come and gone. the sweet summer, sunlit and green; the fall, golden and resplendent. the mornings of late: darker now as we spin away from the sun, darker now for the clouds of grey mist suspended low in a heavy sky. as the curtains rise, they reveal snowfall in the high elevations. sunlight, when it peeks through the clouds, cuts through the atmosphere a pale silver; the rich light of autumn having given way, already. the air outside

the morning dawns under cover, accompanied by a steady drumbeat of rain. a low ceiling, not quite grey and not quite white. throughout the day this curtain rises and falls, its feathered hem revealing glimpses of the mountains beyond. raindrops drip off leaves and eaves, steady; an invitation to meditation. while i long, on the one hand, for the warm summer sun, i find myself sinking into these rainy days. slowing down: physically, of course, but also slowing down the frettin

the neighbor mows his lawn and the air smells sweet; later, spicy as rain releases the balm of creekside cottonwoods. thunder rumbles low, a child’s laughter peals. we dance to silly songs and play outside with rocks and sticks. the sun feels hot on my arms for the first time this season. backlit illumination on the dog’s fur, making her glow. leaves begin to unfurl, willow and crabapple, currant and gooseberry. the apple tree still in bud, silvery grey and fuzzy. these are t

Winter rain, now tell me why, Summers fade, and roses die. The answer came; the wind and rain. Golden hills, now veiled in grey, Summer leaves have blown away Now what remains? The wind and rain. — Weather Report Suite, The Grateful Dead I’ve felt this before. The disorientation, the tumbling, not knowing which way is up. The rules that appeared to govern the world torn asunder; scattered, fluttering to the ground. The feeling okay one moment, the tears the next. The uncert

waking up this sunday morning; a sunday morning, in some ways, like every one that has come before. outside a silver disc of sun presses through steely clouds; fine-grained snow pelts the trees standing tall in the 2-degree air. and yet. for those generations of humankind walking the earth today, this sunday morning has no precedent. we go about our morning routine: breakfast, dishes; we get dressed and ready for the day. though, of course, we won’t be going anywhere. there a

the last days of february bring with them an ennui, a longing. a yen for color and life and warmth. elsewhere in the country, signs of spring begin to emerge: green shoots, buds swelling on trees, perhaps even a flower. as another snow squall descends, blotting out the world, one line from robert service loops through my mind: “the white land locked tight as a drum.” even in this, though, the signs–subtle as they may be–are there. the extra minutes of morning light, the dry p

driving over ice-glazed roads under a sky quilted white, seams stitched with blue. contemplating the state of the world, which, perhaps, isn’t the way to start the week off right. instead, back home, i focus on the criss-cross maze of deer tracks etched across the snow. last night i was awakened by the resounding clang of antler against gutter; a buck searching for edible browse alongside the house. today: a bald eagle, silhouetted against the sky, perched high among fractal

and january is gone, just like that, sliding into the shortest month of the year. february, to me, will always be the month-of-the-garden-catalog. arriving in the mailbox, pages a-shimmer with pinks and oranges and yellows and greens; splashes of color to liven the imagination when the world outside reflects only shades of grey. reminding us that despite today’s slush, the season of birth and renewal is right around the corner. buckwheat buttermilk cinnamon rolls another week

There were days And there were days And there were days I know When all we ever wanted Was to learn and love and grow — The Grateful Dead, Days Between January days in a state of in-between. In-between the frenetic pace of the holidays and the longer days of spring; in-between relief that the busyness is over and restlessness with another grey sky day. In a state of tension, embracing the relative mildness of this January while waiting on edge for the next Arctic front to des

Bow your head down When you break bread together; Close your eyes, Make a circle of hands. — Jeffrey Foucault, Dishes Early morning sun slants through the windows, catching steam curls from coffee mugs and flour clouds from countertops. Sweet apple and pumpkin spice mingle, wafting through hallways and up stairs, rousing anyone who might be thinking about sleeping in. There is much to do but it is unhurried and accompanied by laughter. Hours pass amidst piles of apple peels a

“Only the mountain has lived long enough to listen objectively to the howl of a wolf.” — Aldo Leopold, Thinking Like a Mountain Soda Butte Creek rises on the slopes of the Absaroka Mountains just outside Yellowstone National Park. It wends its way south and west, past the towns of Cooke City and Silver Gate, into the Lamar Valley. Anyone interested in wildlife watching in North America is well-advised to visit the Lamar, tucked into the northeast corner of the Park. Also know

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

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

In late October, I returned to Montana after a rather lengthy absence. I returned in time to see the last of the fall colors, ochers and golds deepening into late-autumn glory. I returned, and soon it snowed. And it snowed. And it snowed. I stood one evening watching out the window as thick flakes softly sank beneath the yellow cone of light offered by the corner streetlight. The snow fell as peace descending from the sky. I stood watching, and I felt its peace. I felt at pea

There are moments that remind us, that throw into sharpest relief, just how precious and fleeting life really is.  Moments that make us fall to our knees in raw grief and disbelief, yet also flood our souls with immeasurable gratitude for each and every moment that we do have.  As we live these moments, embody their pain and jagged beauty and love, we offer them up as a tribute to each and every beloved being on this Earth with whom we are privileged to share our journey. It’

There are things we believe.  Things that ground us.  Things that hold us close–more than we can ever hold them.  Things divine, that reflect our inner light; things that tap into and reveal who we really are, that embody what it means to truly live.  Things that are infinite, timeless, and eternal. The great Jim Harrison captures the essence of such things in his poem “I Believe,” from the collection “In Search of Small Gods.”  I reread this poem other day, and started ponde