RIGHT OF PASSAGE
May 18, 2013
Yellow blooms of skunk cabbage peeked from the nearby forest fringe as I plunked spotting scope to the hood of my Jeep wagon. A gentle breeze wafted from the woods and I paused to take a deep breath before bending to the scope's eyepiece.
He wasn't a big bear as bear's go. And he was ebony, whereas I'd hoped for one in cinnamon color phase. But he was THERE, grazing amid a mountainside meadow, not more than a half-mile away. I jerked the scope from its perch, folding it while leaping into the wagon.
The farmhouse was rustic board and batten, perched at the end of the lane, surrounded by disordered brambles and a rickety picket fence long overdue for a coat of whitewash. While hurrying through a gate hanging by only one hinge, I could see the meadow and the still-grazing bear. A worn path led to the door. One could sense more than hear or see or feel movement behind the door when I knocked. It swung open. An elderly gentleman held a newspaper in one hand, the doorknob in the other. "Yes?" he asked.
He was stooped, his hair as white as bleached muslin, thin on top but hanging an inch below the top of his ears and curling over the collar of his open-necked plaid flannel shirt. Tiny steel-rimmed glasses perched halfway down the bridge of his nose. Eyes faded with age peered up at me, over the tops of the glasses. "What is it?" he asked again.
"I'd ... I want to go bear hunting," I said. "There's a bear feeding up yonder, in a meadow. And ... and I wondered if it'd be all right if I went up and tried for him?"
The old man's forehead pinched as he stared up at me. "Do you have a gun?" he barked.
"Yes, sir." Then he smiled.
"Well, son, that's all you need."
That's the way it was in Montana forty-five years ago. The sands of time have trickled through many flips of the hour-glass since, and it's not as easy to access private land as during those halcyon days. But it's not as tough as some folks think, even now.
Most Montana landholders are motivated by the same instincts as humans everywhere: a) they want to do the right thing; b) they want to know what's in it for them?
In the "right thing" scenario, the landowner wants good relations with others sharing the Treasure State. The fact is, he needs them working with him in tandem to keep Montana the "Last Best Place" for his kids and their kids to survive on the land.
Yellow blooms of skunk cabbage peeked from the nearby forest fringe as I plunked spotting scope to the hood of my Jeep wagon. A gentle breeze wafted from the woods and I paused to take a deep breath before bending to the scope's eyepiece.
He wasn't a big bear as bear's go. And he was ebony, whereas I'd hoped for one in cinnamon color phase. But he was THERE, grazing amid a mountainside meadow, not more than a half-mile away. I jerked the scope from its perch, folding it while leaping into the wagon.
The farmhouse was rustic board and batten, perched at the end of the lane, surrounded by disordered brambles and a rickety picket fence long overdue for a coat of whitewash. While hurrying through a gate hanging by only one hinge, I could see the meadow and the still-grazing bear. A worn path led to the door. One could sense more than hear or see or feel movement behind the door when I knocked. It swung open. An elderly gentleman held a newspaper in one hand, the doorknob in the other. "Yes?" he asked.
He was stooped, his hair as white as bleached muslin, thin on top but hanging an inch below the top of his ears and curling over the collar of his open-necked plaid flannel shirt. Tiny steel-rimmed glasses perched halfway down the bridge of his nose. Eyes faded with age peered up at me, over the tops of the glasses. "What is it?" he asked again.
"I'd ... I want to go bear hunting," I said. "There's a bear feeding up yonder, in a meadow. And ... and I wondered if it'd be all right if I went up and tried for him?"
The old man's forehead pinched as he stared up at me. "Do you have a gun?" he barked.
"Yes, sir." Then he smiled.
"Well, son, that's all you need."
That's the way it was in Montana forty-five years ago. The sands of time have trickled through many flips of the hour-glass since, and it's not as easy to access private land as during those halcyon days. But it's not as tough as some folks think, even now.
Most Montana landholders are motivated by the same instincts as humans everywhere: a) they want to do the right thing; b) they want to know what's in it for them?
In the "right thing" scenario, the landowner wants good relations with others sharing the Treasure State. The fact is, he needs them working with him in tandem to keep Montana the "Last Best Place" for his kids and their kids to survive on the land.
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