Going through the files on my computer the other night, I came across a document that I had perhaps intended to publish on my blog.  As most of you know, I am no longer a Missoulian, and, as such, no longer feel that I can publish blogs on this website with a clear conscience.  So, it seems fitting that my final blog entry be published now, over a month after leaving Montana, but written then, a time when the air smelled a little sweeter, the trail came a little steeper, and life seemed a little better.  Missoula, you will be missed.

_________________________________________________________________________

"... and what you are left with is a premonition of the way your life will fade behind you, like a book you have read too quickly, leaving a dwindling trail of images and emotions until all you can remember is a name." ~ Jay McInerney

Tonight I took a walk from my house down North Street, past machine sheds and industrial buildings I'd never noticed before and probably will never think of again. I dropped a letter off at the post office and trailed back the way from which I came.  It began to rain a little and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of remorse over the idea of leaving this corner of the world relatively unexplored.  Places I've never seen will remain unseen and things I've never done will remain undone. There is too much to do and too little time.  I suppose it's how one feels whenever the time comes to say good-bye.

Heidi and I will leave Missoula in approximately five weeks.  The fact that we are now counting down our departure date in terms of weeks is more than a little unnerving.  All the natural beauty of this place will soon vanish in our rearview mirror as we head back east, along with its miserable job market and bleak economic prospects. 

We're leaving for the big city of Minneapolis - a place we have chosen for its affordability, proximately to family, and job prospects.  Our excitement over moving to an unknown city is unfortunately shadowed by a number of other emotions - the most prominent of which being this rising sense of impending loss.  I suppose that's all to be expected, though. 

The fact is that life goes on.  Sure, Missoula has been great for us.  It's a vibrant community that has been incredibly positive for our development as individuals.  We've made good friends here and have realized a connectedness to this place.  But to mourn our departure from it would be to associate all those good memories with the painful finale that will inevitably come with our last exit onto the freeway. 

To live in the past is to betray one's place in the future.  And whatever the future brings, I want to be there for it. 

__________________________________________________________________________

Post Script: Those seemed like very wise words I was telling myself at the time, but I've come to a realization that if you wish to carry on a life of contentment in the Middle West, you can't allow yourself to ever get used to life in the mountains.  It's a sad truth. My present reality seems muted, and I can't help but feel anxious, every now and then, for my return to the West's cultural and physical ruggedness has left this deep-seated void in my psyche and my soul.  I suppose like everything in this life, it's always a matter of time.

Well, here’s some clarification.

Yes, there are quite a few hippies here. No, not all of us wear dreadlocks; and, no, not all of us live in communes (never mind those people occupying the Atlantic).

Yes, we do have a lot of social programs. No, the communist manifesto is not required reading for high school students in Missoula County Public Schools.

Yes, there are a lot of environmentalists here; but, no, they don’t roam Plum Creek land looking for marked trees to spike.

Yes, a good percentage of the population here does tend to vote democrat. No, we do not idolize golden statues of Nancy Pelosi.

Yes, we did overwhelmingly vote in favor of deprioritizing personal marijuana possession last November. No, Missoula PTA chapters do not sell “special” brownies at local bake sales.

Yes, people here love the environment and participate in radical activities like “recycling.” No, we have not ritualized the burning of Hummer owners at the stake.

The bottom line is that Missoula is just like any other town. Generally, we care about our community and our fellow citizens, we strive to create a fair and just society, and we do our best with what we’ve been given. The only difference is that we’ve perhaps been given an unfair share. . Which may be what’s behind all the unwarranted name-calling.

They say jealousy is the jaundice of the soul.

Writers on the Range

Hard for the money: Living the American dream in Missoula

By: Kathryn Socie

Posted: 03/29/2007

The American dream is alive and well in Missoula, sort of. Not long after arriving here in the late 1990s, I found myself in the same conversation about real estate, hearing the same words and sharing the same sentiment. "You can't eat the landscape," someone would say, and everyone within earshot would laugh at the cliché, though it would usually be followed by an uncomfortable silence. Here's what wasn't funny then or now: In a recent study, local real estate agents tallied their statistics and calculated a whopping $206,850 median price for a house, but only a median income of $43,200.

At that income level, according to the study, a family could afford to buy a house for $143,000, and at the time the report was completed, there were all of nine such houses for sale. I know those houses. They fall into the category of former rentals where the landowner's sole interest was collecting the rent while paying no mind to the leaky roof, cracked siding and dirt patch for a yard. Aside from being a 700-square-foot box, almost every one of the nine houses was between a highway and the train tracks.

I keep thinking about the changes I need to make in my life: first, to raise my income, and then to find an extra $15,000 so I can afford a home that's not a beat-up fixer-upper a block from the highway.

At the time those grim housing statistics were released, I was scrambling for more gainful employment-for the opportunity to draw on my expensive knowledge, utilize my skills and realize my economic potential. Then, I could pay off my education, buy a house and live like an American. Over the years I've become well versed in the number of jobs available for nonprofessionals, which I define as anything but doctors, lawyers and professors that fall into the median income bracket. And how many jobs do you think there are here that pay enough to buy a $200,000 house? The answer is none.

Since my arrival out West, I have managed to do fairly well for myself, though that's only my opinion. I have never been afforded the luxury of working only one job or a 40-hour week, and I've never had an employer 

who provided health insurance. But I have made what is considered a decent living "for Missoula." That phrase is now spoken among my family members back home as if adding the local caveat makes everyone feel a little better about the fact that I am financially guttered. Currently, I work two semiprofessional positions at a 55- to 60-hour-a-week pace, and I fall just shy of the median income. I am not sure how much manure a girl has to shovel to push her into the next income bracket, but surely if there is a way, I have the will.

Unlike many of my fellow migrants who arrived in the West so many years ago, I did not admit defeat and retreat to the higher wages and cooler real estate markets of the Midwest from whence we came. Nope, and as one long-term relationship ended and my ex went sailing off to better economic climes, his parting words included the line: "I think you enjoy suffering." For the record, I don't. But I have learned to live on the most minimal budget, and I never-absolutely never-throw my nose up at any work.

It's not that I like to suffer, it's more like I have a dysfunctional relationship with the landscape of Montana. Like the high-school girl who can't shake her love for the guy who keeps leading her on but who really has no interest in her whatsoever, I am absolutely obsessed and in love with the West, with Montana, with Missoula. I love the open space buffering my ever-growing mountain town. I love that I can walk out my front door and within an hour reach a wilderness area by foot. I love that I drive just a few miles in any direction and find myself bathed in natural glory.

So what if I have to scratch, kick and claw my way to the lower edges of the middle class? So what if Missoula is doing its best to shake the likes of me? I love it. I will always love it. Besides, I started shopping for real estate in Boulder, Colo., just to make myself feel better. At least it's not that bad here, yet.

Kathryn Socie is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country News in Paonia, Colorado (hcn.org). She works hard for a living in Missoula, Montana. 

Missoula is a total dog town.  I think there are actually more dogs here than there are people.  Walk down Higgins Avenue on any given afternoon and you'll see dogs.  You'll see dogs tied to parking meters, dogs eating food off the ground, dogs running loose, dogs doing dog stuff. 

I think the most popular breed in Missoula is the Black Lab.  You see these things everywhere.  There are a lot of popular places where people take their dogs.  The Jacob Island Bark Park is a prime spot to give Fido some socialization time.  But make sure he's well adjusted.  Starting a fight with another pooch is grounds for expulsion.  Getting banned from the island is embarrassing, I'm sure.  That's why I don't take my dogs there.  I have a bloodthirsty Chihuahua and an ODD Terrier.  They are real idiots, but they grow on you.  I can hear them outside barking at some perceived danger right now . . . I'm sure the neighbors really appreciate that at 11:00 p.m. on a Thursday.

Another great spot to take your furry friends is Blue Mountain.  You can let your dog run leash-free across the vast recreation area.  Some weekends it seems like there are almost too many dogs at Blue Mountain.  Heidi and I came across two people on the trail one afternoon and between them they had seven dogs.  Seven.  That means one person had more than four.  That just seems like an outrageous ratio.  Most of those dogs were labs, too.

Which begs the question: where do people keep these beasts?  Less than 50% of people in Missoula own their own homes.   That means there are a lot of rentals accommodating dog people.  In our neighborhood people seem to prefer pit bulls and Dobermans.  There's this little shack of a house about a block from where I live that is about twice the size of my bathroom and there are three Dobermans living there.  The "yard" is fenced in around this place, but it's not much of a yard considering the dogs have completely worn the grass away.  It's like a mud pit whenever it rains and these mean-looking Dobermans look even angrier when they have to sit outside in the mud and slop all day.

There is this other house that's a couple of blocks away that has like 10 Pomeranians living in it.  I'm not kidding.  Heidi and I walked past this place one night when they were all out in the yard and it was like a yipping chorus of annoyance.  The owner finally came out and ordered them all inside.  Can you imaging sharing your house with ten dogs?

Anyway, if you're a dog person in Missoula, you'll fit right in.  Dogs are definitely the preferred pets in this town.  In fact, Heidi used to volunteer at the Humane Society and they told her that they have a hard time adopting out many of the cats that get brought in because no one wants to adopt cats; they all want dogs.  Which is understandable-cats can't be taken for hikes.  But it is unfortunate.

If you want, you can check out the dogs currently for adoption at: 

http://www.myhswm.org/

I've got a Bayern Killarney standing by for the occasion.  The Killarney is a seasonal Red Lager which has a nice print on the front of it of a Butte pub with a couple of Irishmen stumbling around outside of it.  Butte is a wild place this time of year.  Some of the most successful Irish-Americans prospered as Copper Kings back in Butte's heyday - back when it was the biggest city between Seattle and Minneapolis.  Unbelievable.  The rather destitute population now hovers somewhere in the 30,000's.  It seems historically significant that at a time when America's Irish population was fighting for just a scrap of respect, these boys in Butte were having greed contests to see who could build a bigger mansion higher than the other on one particular overlooking hill.  That all eventually went out of style, though - along with the tunnels leading from city hall to underground brothels.  Rightly, this place was, and still remains, a true Irish town. 

And the good people of Butte have been storing up their rowdiness all year to toast St. Patty tomorrow night.  It should be one hell of a party, Mick.  Greyhounds are booked up solid by party-animals from Missoula, Billings, Helena, Bozeman, and a bunch of other hayseed towns across this freakishly large state.  And good for Butte.  I think honestly this is the only time of year that they ever get any sort of positive attention . . . that is, only if you consider a drunken conglomeration of Montana's wildest party people to be "positive attention". 

But c'mon, officer O'Matty, they're just payin' homage to Ol' Saint Patty. 

Old Saint Patty.  He probably wouldn't know how to take the spectacle we make of ourselves in his name every year.  He was a man of God, after all.   But truly, he got his start as a slave.  At sixteen he was stolen from his home in Britain by raiding Irish thugs and made to do hard labor for six years before managing to escape.  He made it home safely and reunited with his family. I guess the experience solidified his resolve to join the church, because after that he decided to follow in his father's footsteps and become a priest.

After making Bishop he felt like doing a little missionary work, and of all the places in the world, he thought Ireland would be a good place to start.  He went back to his country of former enslavement with the church behind him.  (Most likely he worked there with the small Christian congregations already active in Ireland, not directly with the heretics and baby-snatchers.) (Satire)

Maybe he got lucky.  Maybe he just had a preternatural grasp of propaganda statergy.   Whatever it was, in trying to convert Ireland to Christianity, he made enough of an impact on the pages of history to get himself toasted over a billion times each year. 

But what about his legecy?

Saint Patrick is not remembered for whatever he really might have done in his life to further the procession of the Christian church in Ireland, but he will always commonly be known as the Saint who chased the snakes out of the country, and most commonly celebrated by taking keg stands and sucking down shots of Jameson Irish Whiskey until puking all over your green sweater.

. . . If we must be remembered, may we all be remembered so well.

There are many good things that come with spring.  This is the time of year when people start to get active again.  There is a well-known segment of fanatics in this community who have permanently sworn off gym memberships in favor of working out in the Great Outdoors. They are unable to accept the notion that exercising on stair-masters and ellipticals and various weight machines offers anything over taking a grueling run up the side of a mountain and doing a few dozen push-ups on the top.

For me, the biggest change that spring has brought is that I now ride my bike to and from work everyday.  I get up around 6:00, when most the world is still dreaming, take my Ipod, my headlamp, and my backpack and I hit the bike trail that takes me nearly the whole way to work.  I have to get off downtown and take Orange Street over to the North side.

On my way, I have to pass under the Orange St. Tunnel.  This is always a sketchy scene, but it becomes a little more questionable before the sun has risen and the only thing lighting your way is a cheap energizer headlamp strapped to your forehead. 

There are two options you can take when you come to the tunnel.  You can choose to stay on the street and compete with fast-moving cars and trucks and stupid SUVs for the limited road space between the walls of the tunnel.  Or, if that sounds a little too dangerous, you can stay on the sidewalk and pass under the tunnel by taking the pedestrian walkway.  The latter sounds like a bit of a no-brainer, don't it?  Well, maybe not.

It seems that there is a positive correlation between the annual rise in temperatures and the increase in Missoula's transient population.  These western ramblers are drawn to Missoula by the stories they hear about it on the road.  Generally, most of these stories are exaggerations, but a few of the things about Missoula that are passed around these social circles are qutie true. 

For instance, we have a multitude of social services, day missions, shelters, and food pantries. We have practically unlimited free camping just outside of town. (Walk down the Kim Williams trail some summer evening before sunset and you'll run across more beer-drinking transients than you will walkers/runners/bikers).  But perhaps what could be considered our biggest draw is that Missoula has a police force that takes a lenient stance towards this population.  Compared to some places, our cops are goddamn saints. 

I just heard a news report about a couple of cops in one town that grabbed a 7-year-old child by the neck and dragged him to their police car for riding his bike on the sidewalk.  After detained, the boy was subjected to a verbal interegation, one of the cops was quoted as repeatedly saying, "Do you know what you did wrong, son?". . .

Anyway, regardless of how these people arrive in Missoula, they seem to be bringing more and more of their friends with them.  Not that I mind.  In fact, I think they keep Missoula on a more enlightened plane of reality.  Summer comes and it's out with the rich, beamer-driving, trust-fund spending college kids and in with the patchouli-smelling, greasy-deadlock-sporting hippie/vagabond types.

Which brings me back to the Orange St. Tunnel.  I was zipping through the tunnel's pedestrian walkway one morning last fall, trying to see through the darkness to detect anything that might be hazardous to run over with a 30-year-old ten speed Raleigh, when what did I come across at the end of the tunnel but some vagrant hippie kid sleeping on the sidewalk directly in my path.  I slammed my breaks but knew I wouldn't be able to stop before leaving two nice tire treads over his sleeping body.  Luckily I had enough time and good sense to veer sharply to the right and narrowly miss his head by six inches.

Ever since this episode, I've been a little more careful when crossing under the tunnel.  I've also been a little more opposed to people who advocate for sleeping in traffic tunnels.

Selah.

Want to know more about Missoula's transient culture, check out this Missoula Independent article titled "Still Life with Street Kids"  (This is the article from which I stole the great photos)

http://www.missoulanews.com/Archives/News.asp?no=5822

Another warm sunny day here in the Bitterroot Mountains. 

Much like the day we had yesterday and the day before and the day before that and the day before that. 

Thank God. 

Heidi and I have been hitting the trails like a couple of fanatical pack mules. 

Exploring Blue Mountain yesterday we came to realize that there are way too many places we've not yet discovered. 

Discovery is good and we've been working very hard at it. 

Blue Mountain is spectacular. 

Rediscovering it in the springtime brings back memories and other good things that would probably smell very sweet if they had a scent. 

We drove up Blue Mountain Road past the college kids throwing discs on the folf course in their t-shirts and baseball caps.

There was a trailhead we'd walked by last weekend and we had told ourselves that we'd come back and hike from it soon.

Our friend was there and between us there was a chihuahua, a terrier and a welsh corgi.

Hiking was brutal, as the trail had no switchbacks.

Straight up the side until soon we came to lots of other trails and we had to make decisions not knowing which way to go.

We took a chance and were pleased. We hiked for two hours.

Blue Mountain consists of 4,900 acres designated strictly for recreating.  There are 41 miles of trails.

A forest service lookout station adorns the mountain's summit.

A much better place than it was before.

It is there all year.

And always quite near.

Only a three-mile drive from my front door.

Just what is the relationship between geography and demographics?  Moreover, what is the relationship between the natural characteristics & topography of a place and its inhabitants?  These are the kinds of questions one might begin to ponder in an attempt to understand the forces that shape Missoula's culture and the politics and beliefs of its population.   

Mountains can be catalytic, when climbing them.  They can easily put the trivial, day-to-day minutia of our seemingly big and important lives into perspective in relation to geologic time and the scope of the universe.  They provide solitude--room to breathe and reflect.  They can change our thinking, rearrange our priorities, and bring us closer to what's truly important.

For the last several weeks I had been wondering just what I was doing living in Missoula.  On top of being somewhat broke, there'd been no sunshine and the valley had been covered in a torpid air-inversion that refused to let up. The sky seemed to hang low and was like a gray blanket that separated the valley from the sun and clouds and fresh air.  There was a stagnant smell of garbage and wood smoke and exhaust that had nowhere to go. The wind did not blow and the haze lingered on. 

After a while, this begins to grind on people.  I noticed my coworkers calling in sick more frequently, unable to find the ambition to get out of bed. I could tell that it was affecting me too. I'd often come home after work, during this time, and spend the rest of the evening on the couch, finding it hard to do anything more than read or watch movies. 

Finally, last week, the inversion let up. There were patches of sun here and there, but no real signs of clear blue skies.  It was still cloudy, but at least you could now see the clouds--no more haze. I started feeling better, but it wasn't until today, when I peered out the curtains at 8:15 to find a blinding sun and clear blue skies, that I felt inspired.

I hadn't been in the mountains for months, much less taken any other form of exercise, as my wife noted by pointing out my growing waist line.  As I peered out my window, still blinking from sleep, I decided that today was the day that I'd start hitting the trails again.

After breakfast and coffee and a farewell to my wife who'd just come home from working a graveyard shift, I put my shoes on and got my dog, Reuben, ready by attaching his harness and leash. 

"This is going to dramatically improve your mood," my wife said as I stepped out the door.  It was about a quarter after 10:00 as I drove past the university.  It seemed that everyone had been waiting for a day like this to get outside.  Although it was still early on a Saturday, there were many people out on bikes and walking down the sidewalks on the outskirts of campus.  I pulled into the parking lot at the base of Mount Sentinel and unloaded Reuben from the backseat.

The trail was still dusted with snow near the base of the mountain, but the earth was exposed enough to provide ample traction.  As I climbed a little higher the snow began to thicken and I wasn't able to get a good deal of footing, though I wasn't paying much attention to my feet.  The city was beautiful and white from last night's snowfall, and I had a hard time diverting my gaze from the surrounding mountains, peppered with snow-covered evergreens.

The sun was warm and, having literally not felt it for over a month, seemed unnaturally bright.  I had to squint to look out across the valley.  There was no doubt that I'd fallen slightly out of shape over the winter.  When the cold and snow finally put an end to my trail running last November, I had been able to jog the switchbacks of the trail up to the "M" without stopping; now I was considering taking a breather at the top of the forth turn. 

After reaching the "M" I sat down on one of the old railroad ties below the giant concrete letter. I took off my hat, which was soaked in sweat, and felt the wind and sun on my face.  A familiar meditative thought process began settling into my conciseness, a result of the deep breathing demanded by steep-grade hiking and the gained perspective that accompanies any dramatic increase in elevation. 

I let my heart rate settle.  I recently went to a seminar entitled "Managing Stress From the Heart" where a cardiac specialist stressed the importance of allowing your heart rate to periodically return to normal during intense physical activity.  He talked about an Olympic gold medallist who ran pentathlons up until the day he died of a heart attack.  His problem wasn't his heart's adjustment to fast-paced workouts; rather it was his non-adjustment to normal activity levels.  The athlete would work out all day and never allow his heart rate to come down to its regular level of functioning, thus his lack of heart rate variation made it as dangerous for him to sit on the couch as it would be for a couch-potato to get up and try to run a marathon.  He died shortly after finishing a long workout session. 

Looking down Hellgate Canyon, where cars on Interstate 90 wind through the country like modern day adaptations of westbound wagon trains on the Oregon Trail, halfway between the prairie and the pacific, I realized how slow 75 miles an hour can seem.  From this perspective, nothing down there seemed urgent enough to drive that fast, or to drive at all, for that matter.

I closed my eyes and faced the sun, creating a red glow behind my eyelids.  After a few minutes I opened them and looked across the canyon at the top of Mt. Jumbo.  At this heightened state of awareness, the rolling, snow-capped mountains to the north seemed to glow with a vivid truth that can be understood only by people who've felt it.  

A familiarity with this level of consciousness is common to many Missoulians.  I have a friend who moved to Missoula from Addison, Alabama, a small farming community near the Appalachian Mountains. 

"Would you ever consider moving back to the Appalachians?" I asked him one night over a beer.

"No," he assuredly replied.  "I'm too connected to the mountains here.  They're a big part of my spirituality."

I inquired as to the difference between these mountains and those around Alabama.

He mulled over this for a while and, after much thought, replied: "They just speak to me differently."

I didn't think much of it at the time, but that line has stuck with me.  What I was experiencing at that moment, there on the side of Mount Sentinel, was, at a very basic level, communication--a connection to something bigger than myself.  I took a deep breath and continued on up the trail, a rejuvenated sense of purpose flooding my thoughts.

Perhaps this sort of experience is a key contributor to Missoula's progressive culture.  The Environment is important to Missoulians because many of them have very personal relationships with nature.  This relationship translates into a broader value system, one that makes for a socially-conscious community.  Those who choose to stay and make lives for themselves in this town certainly don't do it for economic reasons; maybe they do it for spiritual ones. 

This revelation was confirmed when I reached the summit.  It had been a hard climb, and towards the top I debated turning back.  My thin trail runners were no match for the three inches of snow I encountered on the particularly steep final stretch.  I was a little surprised to find another set of footprints in the snow, meaning that I wouldn't be the first person to reach the summit that morning. 

The grade finally leveled out and I found myself on the top.  I unleashed Reuben and he took off at an excited run, following his nose to a nearby tree. 

I walked a little farther before spotting it--proof of this inexpressible experience that I've been trying to convey.  There it was, imprinted in the snow at the end of the footprints: a giant peace sign, large enough to been seen by passing planes.  I stared at it blankly before realizing its significance. 

Everything I'd been struggling to articulate now seemed clear.  I had the answer in front of me. 

The equation is simple:   Man + Mountain = Peace

Selah.

Fact & Fiction

A staple of downtown shopping, this little shop is conveniently located at 220 N. Higgins. Last year, when I worked downtown, I would often find my way to Fact & Fiction to escape the drudgery of the office. The staff is exceptionally friendly and you can rest assured that you're buying local when you shop here.  Fact & Fiction is an independent bookstore known for its wide selection of regional works. Check out their website at http://www.factandfictionbooks.com/

MoonCougar Books

This place is a local treasure located near the University of Montana.  The first time I stumbled upon this store, there was a local bluegrass band using the space to practice.  It happened that the owner was one of the band members and he invited me in to listen.  The selection of books here is good and you can find some really excellent buys, but the real advantage of shopping here is the fact that there is an excellent coffee shop in the adjoining building.  Moon Cougar is located at 1221 Helen Ave. 

The Book Exchange

Located at 2335 Brooks St., at the intersection affectionately known as ‘Malfunction Junction', this is a great destination if you're serious about browsing a wide selection of new and used books.  I frequent this store more than any other in town, partly because of their variety, but mainly because of their great prices and reasonable trade offers.  I traded in Kerouac's Dr. Sax, which I found to be his most eccentric work, for $4.50 in store credit (not bad considering I paid only $6 for it when I bought it only slightly used). The Book Exchange offers an organized, well-maintained assortment of books that includes all major genres.  I highly recommend checking it out.

Shakespeare & Company

I'm not sure if the owners of S&C knowingly ripped off the name of the famous Parisian bookstore that Hemingway often frequented in the1920's, but, regardless, they run a first-rate bookstore.  It's not the largest store and it only sells new books, but it has other marketable qualities that make it a true gem.  The atmosphere, for example, is warm and inviting.  A French doorway offering fiction on one side and non-fiction on the other conveniently splits the space of the store. There are many regional works featured in the selection and the walls of the store are adorned with magnificent local art.  This place is definitely worth a look.  Check it out at 103 S. Third St. West.

This is by no means a comprehensive list of all the bookstores in Missoula.  I only featured my favorites. Here are some places that I would advise you to stay clear of: Barnes & Noble, Waldenbooks, Hastings, and The UM Bookstore.  These are over-priced and/or corporate money-suckers whose only concern seems to be the bottom line.

"Hi, I'm Wyatt.  Nice to meet you."

"James.  Good to meet you, Wyatt."

"So what's happening?"

"Nothing, man, I'm just glad to be inside."

"Yeah, it's artic out there."

"It's not as bad as it was last week."

"Was it bad last week?  I can't even remember."

- 
"Oh, it was frigid.  You notice more when you don't have heat."

"You don't have heat?"

"Not where I'm staying now."

"So what do you do, burn wood?"

"Sometimes I have a fire."

"A fire?  Where do you live?"

"Up Mount Sentinel."

"Oh, are you renting one of those places up Maurice Avenue?"

"No . . .  "

"There really aren't any other places on Mount Sentinel besides those couple of houses up Maurice Avenue . . . by that A-frame."

"Well I'm not renting a place.  I'm just set up with my tent sort of over the other side of the ridge."

"You mean you're camping?"

"Sort of."

"How can you be camping?  It gets down to below zero some nights."

"Well, I spend a lot of time at the library.  And usually I just crash at people's houses if I know it's going to be cold."

"Wow, I've known people who do that in the summer, but not this time of year."

"It's not too bad, actually.  I've got a nice Persian rug laid out and my sleeping bag is really good."

"You've got a Persian rug in your tent?"

"Yeah, well, I sell Persian rugs.  I'm just waiting out the winter before hitting the Silk Road again."

"Right, the Silk Road, like in Asia?"

"Yeah, you know, like Marco Polo.  I'm going to get rugs--I'm making the trip to bring back a bunch."

"So you sell rugs?  Okay."

"It's actually really lucrative."

"That's why you live in a tent?"

"I just don't want to be tied down by a lease or anything.  Plus, in the past when I've rented houses or apartments, I've just wanted to go out and buy furniture and stuff to put in them.  Then when it comes time to leave you have get rid of all that shit. It just ties you down."

"So how long have you been here?"

"Just over four months."

"So you know a lot of people?"

"I've met a few."

-
"Who do you know at this party?"

-
"Actually I just saw a bunch of people walking in the door and I followed them in.  I don't really know anyone."

"Okay, well it was really interesting talking to you, James. You'll have to cut me a deal on one of those rugs when you get back."

"I'm not coming back here.  I'm heading to Nevada."

"The other end of the temperature spectrum?"

"Right."

"Okay, well stay warm."

"You too."