Leaky Buckets

  This isn't T'ings, but its a similar Montana bar... If you wander around Montana, particularly in the small towns, and you happen across someone you know, someone will likely paraphrase the following slogan. Montana is just one small town with very long roads. You would think that with a population of a million people, it isn’t so much a small town anymore. Seven hundred miles from east to west, four hundred from north to south, the fourth largest state in the United States, Montana is anything but small. And yet… This past week, me and David took off from work early and hit the road in the big Ford. There was an open mic in the town where he grew up, Jefferson City. It was about 120 miles, two hours over Elk Park Pass and the Boulder Hill and a bunch of other oddly named geologic features and funky small towns. Along the way, we passed three vehicles that I knew and I lifted a hand in greeting. One of the local plumbers, the ex-wife of one of our co-workers, a casual acquain...

  My little hobo camp             The year was 2017. I was fresh off my whirlwind adventures Down Under and found myself in Vermont biding my time. I was working with my Dad and Uncle in the woods for the summer building a cabin, honing carpentry skills, trying to save a double decker bus from the ravenous forest and rebuilding my savings for my anticipated return to Montana. I was living in my little teardrop camper in the driveway of the jobsite, waking at dawn to watch the sun climb up over the Green Mountains and spending my evenings sitting in a lawn chair with my guitar watching the same sun sink into the western abyss.  Life was simple. Cereal and toast for breakfast. A leafy early morning dog walk through the woods with Deke. Wander over to the timber frame cabin project, sweep yesterday’s sawdust and dig out the chop saw. Wipe the morning dew from the tailgate of my Toyota and lay out my toolbelt. Work through the muggy hea...

  Some back road near Fort Peck, Montana We have a tradition that has been running for as long as Sam and I have been together, nearly five years now. One weekend a month, we load up the car with our camping gear, cooler, dogs, and all the usual roadtrip fare and set off to see some distant corner of Montana. For a state with three rectangular corners, there are far more distant corners than you would mathematically expect.  This is my greatest joy of life in Montana. Anytime we want, all we have to do is wander down some random dirt road for thirty miles to find a lonely landscape masterpiece living quietly under this endless wealth of sky. While the crowds seem to find their way to Yellowstone and Glacier, seeking an audience with the profound world treasures, we glide down some empty highway in Chouteau County with complete autonomy and no clock on our shoulders. With the radio blasting, we flip quarters at intersections, some mornings seeing more planets than cars. As the ...

  Approaching the Great Husky We crossed the great sand dunes like intrepid explorers. The bitter December wind howled across the mountains, blowing sand in our eyes, so we hunched forward, climbing ever further into the strange desert. We strained our eyes into the fading light, seeing only more dunes as far as we could see. Atop a knife-edge ridge, we settled down to gaze at the dying sun. It was Christmas Eve.  Our guide perched on the sands, golden fur gleaming, wind rippling the waves of sand and fluff as he gazed balefully at us. Sam approached like a pilgrim finally finding a teacher. He sat in silence, majestically surveying the great desert. Our footsteps slowly blew away the way we had come. As Sam sat beside the stonelike husky, he slowly turned his head and she buried her face in his fur. It was heartwarming and stoic at the same time. I snapped a dozen pictures with my old camera.  We were traipsing through the Great Sand Dunes of southern Colorado. The Sangr...

   Bombs away, Bridger Bowl 2012 The feeling of gliding through bottomless powder is almost indescribable. It must feel similar to being in outer space, floating through existence full of joy. When I launch off the edge of a mountain side down a hideously steep slope littered with stumps and boulders into a field of fluffy white powder, there is a whooshing in my ears, an exhilaration of excitement and fear. I am addicted to the feeling because I know how wonderful it feels even though my lizard brain is wired to be terrified of this exact action. I have attempted to hike up some of these mountain slopes in the summer that I fearlessly descend in the winter and am astonished at the incredible steepness. Somehow, by strapping on 185 cm boards to either foot, I am comfortable hurling myself off vertical drops where a tumble could mean death. That is the joy of skiing, the thrill, the soft landing, a face full of powder and a laugh.  I have spent thousands of days of my life...

  Another new house with gray siding, and well, gray everything Let me start this by saying that personally, I like gray things. I wear gray t-shirts, drive a gray pickup truck, use weathered gray wood as trim and wainscoting in my bedroom. I have been into gray for a while. It has a nice feel to it and I think it looks good with my skin tone. Even after writing this article, I will still be into the color gray. There is a gray movement going on in architecture right now. From commercial buildings to rural residential, everything is turning gray. I am convinced that this gray movement traces back to a style that was coming into vogue when I was in architectural design school around 2011. Back then, we called it Scandinavian modern; a style from predominantly Norway and Sweden that used fairly standard vernacular house shapes in new ways. The early designers used the same material palette of wood siding and shingle roofing that makes up most residential houses, but they included lar...

  The Brunswick Bowling machines It was January 2020. I climbed the long steep staircase out of the Silver Mill restaurant dining room. A rush of cold air swirled as I stepped into a large storage room. Clutter filled the space, party decorations, tables, old beer signs. But behind all the junk I could see retro blue stripes disappearing into a false wall. I clambered over to a small hole and peered into the darkness. A large room sat hidden above the restaurant. In the gloom, I could read Antler’s Bar and Bowl on the dusty old machines. I was staring at my winter project, renovating the 1950’s bowling alley into employee housing for the restaurant below.  In the late 1800’s, this upstairs had been built as a boarding house. But around 1956, someone had the brilliant idea to install a four lane bowling alley above the Antler Restaurant. For decades, it had been a town staple. Piles of old score sheets sat in boxes tucked behind the dormant machines. Dozens of local kids had ...