We rise early in the faint alarm clock glow, layering up for the late November cold. Where yesterday the unknown catapulted me from bed, the knowing has me fortifying myself with gas station coffee instead, as we follow the glowing GPS pins into uncharted territory yet again.
Blaze orange sits shotgun in every passing vehicle we meet as we slowly roll down muddy roads in pursuit of something new to me.
We park and head into the great alone on our feet, armed to the teeth. Rick Hutton’s voice tells me of his plan A, B, and C, while detailing every plant we see.
I find a new rhythm following his lead. His back is my beacon — when he stops, I stop and try not to breathe. When he crouches low just shy of skyline, I mirror his movements and learn by what I see; decades of his time spent in the field reflected back to me.
We head higher and higher for a bird’s eye view; we’re smooth and quiet, he more than I, with each new ravine we climb. We stop to look every few yards, and sip by sip the glass reveals more than it did before.
We crest and quietly watch while the world begins to wake. eastern Montana is large and lonely and bitter here where the canyons stretch as far as the eye can see. Riddled with coulees to puzzle, it’s a harsh maze of territory to untangle with your eyes before daring further with your feet. The land looks empty to my passing glance but Rick’s eyes sort out details that are lost to me in a muddled sea of brown and grey. “Game eye” is an acquired thing they say; with binos in hand, I steady my fingers on the bill
