I love green. I have an attachment, almost an affinity towards it. I’m certain it comes from childhood when all of my outdoor gear was marked with green electrical tape. I was the youngest of four and my parents were committed to giving us as many outdoor adventures as possible, despite their lack of resources. We didn’t have a plane, or boat, or ATV, just an old Ford Station Wagon and an even older Coleman pop-up camper.
Organizing camping, fishing, and hiking gear for four young kids takes ingenuity. My parents devised a color-coding scheme to keep everything sorted. My sister was red, my oldest brother was blue, my second oldest brother was yellow, and I was green. To this day, when I receive a gift from my dad, it is marked with green tape. Everything green is mine.
The same could be said for Montana. It feels like mine. I was born in Montana, at the Bozeman Deaconess Hospital, and I lived there for a grand total of six weeks. My father was a school teacher and my mother stayed at home trying to survive four kids under age five. It’s hard to feed a family of six on a teacher’s salary, so my dad headed north to Alaska, where the discovery of oil promised a better future. When he found work, he sent for us.
It broke my parent’s heart to leave Montana. They loved their life there: fishing in the Madison, hiking in the Spanish Peaks, and raising their young family in the rural country. Alaska turned out to be a pretty good trade off for Montana. My dad told the story about flying into Anchorage for the first time and seeing the Chugach mountains. “The first time I saw them, I knew we were going to be ok.”
Alaska has been good to us, and I’m grateful for the sacrifices my parents made to bring us here, but Montana still holds a place of reverence in my parents memories.
I’ve felt Montana calling for me for years; so, when my best friend Jenni and our friend Nancy suggested Montana as the next destination for a girl’s trip, I was thrilled.
Nancy lived in Montana most of her life and has roots there. She was our guide and suggested Big Sky. Her logic, that Jenni and I were in lockstep with, was to balance the rugged outdoors with day spas and tempting restaurants. The trip was planned months in advance, giving me plenty of time to research hiking trails. All paths kept leading back to Beehive Basin in the Gallatin National Forest.
The morning after we arrived in Big Sky, we were winding our way up Highway 64 through the Spanish Peaks. Coming from Alaska, it’s hard to be impressed by mountains, but there’s something different about the Spanish Peaks. They feel old. The bright, granite-looking rock faces dotted with pines and bright green prairie grass makes you feel like you’re in Hollywood’s wild west. John Wayne is going to come riding up at any moment with tip of the hat and a “morn’n ma’am.”
The closer we got to the trailhead, the more disappointed I became. The rugged and wild Montana of my childhood dreams was now the luxurious West, bought and shaped by billionaires, whose multi-million-dollar monstrosities, designed to look like alpine chalets crossed with rustic log cabins, saturated the landscape. I just wanted to hike, to go on this epic hike in this wilderness palace so intertwined with my family’s history and share it all with my dear friends, but I was overwhelmed with inferiority. I didn’t belong and never will.
I’m an American, I should feel like I belong in any National Park. It’s mine, it’s yours, you know “…this land is your land, this land is my land”? Not true in Big Sky, Montana. That land belongs to the 1%. Sinking the knife in deeper is the fact that these pseudo outdoorsmen (I know, that’s judgey and a tad harsh.) only grace their faux-cabin chalets once or twice a year, and they sit empty the remaining time, just taunting the other 99%. My expectations hit a brick wall and shattered. Just like the author, Anne Lamott said “Expectations are resentments under construction.” It’s best to keep your expectations in check and wait for the beautiful surprise. It was time to do an attitude about-face and rescue myself from the bitter spiral. “Where did I go wrong? Why don’t I have a faux-cabin chalet? What’s my 401K up to today?”
Stepping on to the Beehive Basin trail is an immediate lift for any funk. To make it even better, my two dear friends were along for the adventure. While Nancy is comfortable in the outdoors, it’s not Jenni’s favorite thing to do. It’s dirty, there are bugs, there’s no Starbucks, and it’s just not her jam. The fact that Jenni was on board for this hike, made me feel very honored and grateful. And while it may not be her jam, once Jenni sets her mind to something, it is going to happen. She’s as strong and stubborn as I am.
The Hike
The trail begins in a valley next to a creek and cuts in along the side of a hill for a slight but steady climb. You can still see a few humbling homes (not humble homes), but before long you get to the switchbacks and enter the Gallatin National Forest, leaving the 1% behind.
It was right about here that I started to notice that I wasn’t hitting my stride. I’m typically a little stiff and winded when I start a hike and then I hit my second gear. Jenni said “Damn, I didn’t think I was this out of shape.” She’s not and wasn’t. I had been hiking all year, I should have felt better. Nancy seemed fine, she’s in great shape and weighs like 90 lbs. soaking wet. I was struggling and we hadn’t reached any notable incline. My legs were heavy and my breaths were shallow. This was embarrassing, especially for an avid Alaskan hiker.
It wasn’t until later, surrounded by nachos and beer, that we realized we had climbed up to just under 9,000 ft in elevation. All of my hikes in the Chugach start at sea level. It never occurred to me to check the elevation in Big Sky, which I now know sits at 7,218’. Jenni and I both felt better.
The switchbacks were moderate and before long you reach the valley. To just be in the valley felt like a reward. To be surround by the Spanish Peaks felt like home.
We pressed on, fording streams, and refueling with peanut m&ms. It was a beautiful day. We never stopped talking and laughing. As much as I treasure my adventures in solitude, I am always overwhelmed with the joy of a shared experience with true friends.
The far end of the valley gave way to our final climb up to the basin. Once we reached the basin, we were battling the snow which surprised me because it was July and I, of course, had no idea we were over 8,000’.
There was a lake both Nancy and I wanted to get a glimpse of, so we pressed on through the snow. Jenni was game, but didn’t have the best traction on her shoes. We circled back for Jenni, took our selfies, and headed back down the mountain. And not a moment too soon.
The afternoon thunderheads were rolling in, and the rain and lightning were not far behind. It was time to get off the mountain. We hustled our tired and shaky legs down the trail as fast as we could.
Despite being faced with imminent danger, we blissfully descended while chattering away, solving each other’s problems. Back in the car, soaking wet and hungry, we wound our way down through the community of one percenters. I felt rich, and lucky, and happy.
It’s been months since I went on this hike. (Yes, Jim, I know I’m late on the blog.) I’ve had some major changes in my life since my trip to Montana. I took a job for less money. I lost my beloved Kitty. And I changed my priorities. I think it comes down to how you measure wealth.
If I continue to use the “faux-cabin chalet” as my yardstick for achievement, I will be constructing resentments for the rest of my days. I choose to shift my perspective, to rescue my expectations, and define wealth in the immeasurable. I will define my wealth by the fact that I am just as excited to go home as I am to go on vacation.
I make less money now, but I am out of my office that was a box within a box in a corporate structure that made me feel constantly anxious and irrelevant. I now work in a place that tourists pay thousands of dollars just to glimpse for a moment, and in a job that rewards and challenges me every day.
I will measure my worth, sitting on the back deck of my tiny but charming house, that I bought by myself, surrounded by flowers I grew from seed and planted with my own two hands.
I will measure my inheritance each time I take out the flyrod still wrapped with green electrical tape, and practice that roll cast my dad taught me.
Most importantly, I will measure my wealth by the company that I keep, the friends who are always there for me. The friends who go hiking with me at 7,200 feet, maybe thinking at every step that there’s somewhere else they’d rather be, but they keep climbing, because that’s what friends do.
That’s how I’ll measure my wealth.
Shout Outs
If you’re going to visit Big Sky, Montana, bring along some great friends and definitely make an appointment at Santosha Wellness Center. It’s an unpretentious and authentic day spa that includes yoga, healing arts, and is home the best facial I’ve ever had.
A place I would have eaten at more than once was the Gallatin Riverhouse Grill which sits along side the Gallatin River and has some incredible BBQ. There’s a bit of a wait, but it’s worth it.
If you want to go fishing but forgot your gear, the guys at Gallatin River Guides will hook you up, and shamelessly flirt with you. Good gear and an ego boost!
And a place not to be missed is the Soldier’s Chapel, just off Highway 191. This memorial chapel was built by the Story family to honor Nelson Story, IV, and the fallen men of the 163 Infantry who gave their lives in World War II. It’s a small and humble chapel surrounded by a magnificent cathedral with Lone Peak as its spire.
Straight Up, Hold the Tent 
Fantastic!!
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One of our best adventures yet! I’d go again, which says a lot!
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