Without meaning to, I spent a lot of time yesterday thinking about Montana.
Make no mistake, I’m still planted firmly in Ozarkansas, committed physically and invested emotionally. But “the last best place” is in me.
It remains. It’ll never leave me.
I first visited in 1974 while traveling with a church group, a relatively brief stay that included Flathead Lake and Glacier Park. Four years later I lived and worked in West Glacier from late May into September. Two years ago, Deb and I arrived in mid-August and spent 30 days within Montana’s boundaries.
Add that up and it accounts for less than six months of my 66 years. Even such brief exposure, over the span of almost half a century, made an indelible impression on me.
Coincidentally or not, yesterday afternoon I caught Deb going back through photos from our time in Montana. Seems it made quite an impression on her, too.
The state of Montana is the grandest, most magnificent place I’ve ever been — and yet I’ve chosen to live the rest of my life, with The Love of My Life, in The Ozarks of northern Arkansas.
Montana may well be “the last best place.”
But in all the ways that matter, this is where I belong.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.