The canyon

At fifty miles long, from tip to rocky tip, Hellgate Canyon had a bloody history to stake to its deserved moniker.

Im-I-sul-etiku. That was the word given to the area by the Salish warriors and hunters of the dawn of Missoula’s history.

“By the cold, chilling waters,” was the direct translation, “The place chilled with fear,” was the definition. With dense woods, and high cliffs, many of the old Salish would perish from the bloody ambushes.

Later, when the wild western toughened French tried their hand in the trade of furs, the slews of horror they witnessed from the remains of the fallen Salish at the mouths made them christen the canyon “Porte De l’Enfer” or the “Hell Gate.”

The name finally stuck when the missionaries came to try and colonize the valley made from the remains of the glacial lake, fled due to the communal hostility of the indigenous tribes that did their best to reside in the fields of the extinct body of water. The name was cemented more when the few that were brave enough to settle in the canyon and valley, the few and the foolish, were robbed, lynched and even took their own lives. The blood and the sorrow ran deep in the fertile earth that trailed what is now the Clark Fork River.

There was gold once, but so miniscule in the amount that it was quickly depleted. But that small amount gave birth to the area now known as Gold Creek, even when now the only gold found there are the fallen leaves turning into bitter tea in the creek in autumn.

Now in the canyon, ran the oily river, with bridges decorated with jewel colored graffiti, train tracks that sat abandoned like fallen ribs, a paper mill that slowly went into disuse, a highway dotting and tracing the curves and bends of the river, and homes upon homes upon homes. Oh, and a golf course too expensive for many residents in the canyon.

And it is in the steep cliffs that line the river, next to the chokecherries, snowberries, wild willows, wild roses. Next to the pines, the cottonwoods, ash and aspens, next to the foxes, hawks, ospreys and owls...

Is my home. And I love it.

at night

Its only once in a while, but when the moon is vacant, and the local light pollution is eradicated due to the absence of low hanging clouds. No lights radiating from porches, no flashlights bouncing off the river, nothing.

The sky is dark. Just dark on dark on dark. The only light is the faint speckling from the stars. The planets one can spy on just barely with a common telescope. And then...

Something interesting can be seen.

It's almost like an after image placed on the top of ultra black paper. But there is this light that stenciled the mountain with a faint radiance.

It was pale in comparison to the dark on dark. Faintly, it looked like a blue so deep, you might as well be looking at the reflection of the depth sheltered in the Mariana trench, but at daytime. But it was there.

The stencil of invisible light traced the bare spines of the mountain, almost fuzzy, like faded felt. If you look away, the fuzziness and the light melt and mold back into the darkness of the afterday. But don’t blink.

Hold your breath.

Listen to the faint chattering of the city in the distance.

Just...feel.

Just focus on the knobby backs of Mt. Sentinel.

And if focus hard enough....

You can see the mountain breathe, and you know that the Spirit of Earth is still alive.