This past week I ventured inland to big sky country, spending most of it in and around Glacier National Park in Montana. It’s huge, and amazingly unspoiled–though the glaciers are sadly little more than remnants of what they were just 70 years ago.
We did still see an abundance of wildlife, including deer, bighorn sheep, mountain goats, marmots, and black bears (though thankfully the bear sightings were all from the car, rather than while hiking). There were many squirrels too, much nosier little guys than the type in my back yard. How can such a tiny thing squeak that loud?
And then there were the mountains.
And the hilltops above the tree lines.
And the lakes.
There was even a double rainbow. The second one to the left of the first is a bit dim here, but I guarantee you it made me far more excited than this guy’s infamous reaction to double rainbowhood.
I spent a long weekend on Orcas Island, holed up in a private and utterly comfortable cabin on the water with stunning views of the Puget Sound and Mt. Baker… when the clouds cleared long enough.
This is the third trip I’ve taken to the island. Each time, I gather all my papers before I depart with smug determination that in this area of stunning beauty, I shall write.
There’s just one problem. As the Guardian books blog points out, a life of comfort in a gorgeous corner of the world tends not to produce much writing of merit, if any writing at all. On all three trips, my intentions ebb. My word counts dribble. My desire to write is replaced with this strange thing that must be contentment.
Why write when you can sit and stare?
I did read a lot over the weekend though, that scenery lends itself to reading, lots of it. I could stare out there all day. Though lesson learned: If writing is the goal, then apparently I should book a trip to some hovel, complete with cockroaches and multiple forms of mildew in the bathroom.