Stream of Consciousness Writing | Cook City, Montana Pt 1.

Feb 25

Instagram is like this annoying vampire who consistently hovers around you. Sometimes she sinks her teeth so far into your neck, that your life force begins to get drained. Other times you’re able to fend her off with holy water and garlic. Mentally I’ve been good with Instagram over the last several years. I’ve taken my power back from a digital platform that tried to control me. Recently however, I found myself mind numbingly scrolling from reel, to reel, to reel. Some I laughed at, some I was disgusted at, while others fell on deaf ears. I don’t know what it is with Instagram, the push and pull it has over so many. Well I guess I kind of do, so I’d be a hypocrite if I bashed any of it. As I’m writing these words, my ultimate end game is to share my photos along with this blog post on Instagram. “Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?” (Alanis Morissette’s song Ironic played on the radio as I drove through Yellowstone Park.) I haven’t really been on there too much in about a week, as I’ve once again felt drawn away from the thing that in my opinion is sucking the life out of many. I do miss thumbing through some of my friend’s story feeds, and I probably will once again soon, but for the time being life has felt much more refreshing.

Inside Yellowstone National Park looking towards the North.

It’s currently 6:03 PM in Cooke City, Montana. I find myself 7,580 feet above the sea for the third time this winter. With 75-145 residents (no doubtingly less in the winter), no cell service, the closest brand named supermarket two and half hours away, a few watering holes, snowmobiles outnumbering vehicles, a gas station to pick up provisions, and surrounded by the vibe of being at the edge of nothingness, no wonder why I find myself drawn to such a place that can quite literally be cut-off from the rest of the world in an instant. The scenic Beartooth Highway does connect Red Lodge, Montana to Cooke City heading eastbound, but it closes six to seven months out of the year due to the weather. Out here in the winter, you feel a million miles away from all the noise.

I pull into town, welcomed by southern hospitality of all places. Four stroke engines reverberate through the air. The smell of exhaust mixes with the subalpine coniferous forest. The sun sets over the northeast entrance to Yellowstone National Park. A bluish/orange tint signals the end of the day.

It’s 17 degrees Fahrenheit. The fading sounds of snowmobiles still echo. I have a book entitled “Winter” (notes from Montana.) It’s a memoir and collection of essays detailing the authors experience living as a caretaker in Montana's remote, off-the-grid Yaak Valley during a harsh winter. Inspiration for these writings? Maybe, but I’ve yet to open it. I will in a bit.

Am I alone, technically no. The dog is comfortably sleeping near by. The heater is set to 70, my body normally runs cold. Darkness has set in. Three nights and two full days to create and enjoy the solitude and quietness of Cooke City. What lies ahead …

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