Montana is Not Mine (An essay)

 

Somewhere in Montana

Montana is not mine. Sometimes, I worry that I am the only one who suffers from this delusion, but I doubt it. I am not the only Montanan who uses bumper stickers and t-shirts, flags and rhetoric to proclaim my pride for this state. I am not the only one who tries to wish away the eyes of the world and the natural desires of humans to pursue and claim what is deemed to be valuable. I am not the only one who wishes that the internet couldn’t capture the images of the landscape, or who wishes that the interstates did not import more competitors in the race to claim every last inch of paradise. I hoped that I would be the last one through the gates before this place was frozen in time. In some ways, I think we all hoped for this miracle. 

The Eagles, in their Hotel California album, voiced the uncomfortable truth that “if you call someplace Paradise, you can kiss it goodbye.” They were using California in their example, but numerous other locations have popped into the national consciousness as Paradise, and then fallen from grace, like the Garden of Eden. For this is the natural human instinct, to try to capture and preserve a slice of utopia for eternity, to seek somewhere or something better. To be a part of the next big thing. And these days, Montana is the thing that has captured the greedy eyes of the world.  The state has become a prize to claim; the “Last Best Place” to have an amazing view, to strike it rich, to find tranquility, to retire or to raise a family, to conquer or be immersed in wilderness. It is imagined as a safe place, away from the crime and filth of the crowded urban areas, away from the droughts and natural disasters and seething masses, away from the boring ways of the Rust Belt or Great Plains, or East coast or anywhere where life is different. Montana has been designated as the last bastion of wonder and individuality and awesomeness in a world that has been overrun with sameness. 

And the people here cherish this designation. It makes us feel special, unique, tough, brave, prepared, strong, lucky. Montanan’s wear their colors on their sleeves. Not literally; there are no specific colors, but metaphorically, we dress, drive, walk and talk in certain ways that personify the nature of the place we live. We seek to preserve and protect this place from some intangible change, even when that change is ourselves. We feel loss when the characteristics that we imbue upon this place change or disappear; a loss similar to what we feel with fellow humans. Whether it is cowboys, miners, wilderness explorers, ranchers, or sporting enthusiasts, there is a sense that a utopia is vanishing before our eyes. There is a feeling like it is inevitable, no matter how hard we strive to prevent this change. We take stewardship of this place whether we have been here for eight months or eighty years. When we arrive, we marvel at the endlessness of this place, the potential and the mystery; and then at an arbitrary time not long after, we decide that we need to protect these aspects from the next wave of newcomers who will inevitably overuse, clog up or otherwise destroy those things we love so dear. We take up this noble cause, to protect the last vestiges of an imagined era from the ravages of the modern world. Wilderness, emptiness, open space, isolation, stark beauty, epic scenery, vibrant characters, vicious weather; all of these things are my own personal symbols of this state. On the outside lies development, population, greed, traffic, overcrowding, cacophony, boredom, and waste. At least, in my mental construct it does. I have sanctified my chosen preference as the ideal and demonized everywhere else as the lesser. I am surrounded with people who agree with me, which only further perpetuates the delusion. 

And yet, despite my beliefs that Montana is special, I have come to realize that it is this very belief system that is hypocritical. This state does not belong to me any more than it belonged to the hippies in the 70’s, the miners in the 20’s, the ranchers in the 1880s, or the trappers before them. It doesn’t even belong to the Native Americans even though they have been here longest. The idea of ownership is futile when the population waxes and wanes, when the human lifespan is limited, when the standards of ownership cannot be standardized. Who has more right to ownership; a man who has been here thirty years yet was born outside the state borders and yet has contributed to the community, or the child who has been here ten years and happened to have been born within the borders but has contributed nothing? We can create endless mind-twisters to determine who has the right of ownership, but they inevitably lead back to the same conundrums. 

I carry so much pride for this place, but I realize that I have been simultaneously carrying a sense of doom on the same shoulders. Yes, I have a utopian vision of Montana in which all of my preferences came true. I have a dystopian vision of Montana in which the supposed “outsiders” have completed their vision. But I have realized that it is really my own personal expectations that determine which is which. I have no more right to choose the path than any other Montanan with dubious claims of ownership. Montana is not mine. 

Substitute Montana for any other geographic location and you can repeat this exercise of pride, control, competition and loss. If I still lived in Alaska, or New Zealand or Vermont, the end result would be the same. Make it bigger or smaller, as in my town or country and the result is the same. Make it imaginary or intangible, as in sports teams or music genres or board games and the result is the same.  I claim ownership of the life I live and try to shape it to fit my vision, and likely, so do most people. I find myself constantly feeling like I must defend my place from the excesses of others. This is the natural world of competition. I wear a chip on my shoulder, a perceived slight by the uncontrollable universe, and constantly feel a sense of loss with every little change that I don’t approve of. It is ridiculous when I write it out like this, and yet it probably isn’t going to change. I am still going to stand my ground and fight for what I believe in, but when the imaginary burden gets too big, and I start to lose myself and my joy in a fight that doesn’t actually need to be fought, I may need to recall that Montana is not mine.