Three weeks ago when I brought my father to this serene place of Cooke City, Montana, the sun had yet to make her appearance in the sky at 7am. At 7am this time around, I found the sun making first light upon the peaks that surrounded me on a 7 degree Fahrenheit morning. What’s up with all those 7’s?

The dog and I went for a morning walk. It’s quiet! That quietness only a few can still appreciate.

The Miners Saloon sits empty from the night prior, awaiting its next round of guests this evening. I may be one of them. The Cooke City General Store which opened in 1886, remains boarded up for the winter, surrounded by mounds of seasonal snow accumulation. We stroll to Cooke City Coffee. Inside three young girls are working behind the counter. A pretty blond greets me, as she loads the rack with freshly baked cinnamon rolls. Little Eva sings “The Loco-Motion” over their stereo. I order a London Fog, and browse the tiny bookstore in the back while waiting for it to come up. It smells of Lavender. I add some honey, round up the dog and head back to my room.

Cooke City Coffee: The smell of cinnamon rolls, lavender, and books.

The USA has just won their first gold medal since 1980! I watch with glee, but if I’m being honest, the 3 on 3 overtime was a bit of a joke. A win is a win though, and the United States took down their heated rival from north of the border. For some of the American olympians who were conflicted about representing the USA, I hope they heard Jack Hughes speak post game! I digress!

What is it about hiking in the winter? I’m far from a hiking aficionado, but the elements of the winter add a certain allure to an already strenuous ordeal.

We pass numerous parties near the trail head bullshitting about whatever over morning coffee and or breakfast. Some are ready to fire up their snow mobiles for the day, while others prepare for back country skiing. Straight up the trail we go! The sun glistens through various trees, as they seem to grow endlessly into the heaves above. Every so often, the wind blows powdery white snow from their limbs. Moss hangs from the trees, like the hair on the face of a grizzled elder. Crunch, crunch, crunch, upwards we continue to go. We reach an overlook that looks down into a canyon and westward towards Yellowstone Park. Knee deep in snow, I pull out an apple. As I bite into it, a crunching sound is made, much like the snow we had been walking in. It’s crisp and sweet, like the air we are currently breathing. The wind blows gently through the canyon, a frozen waterfall sits off to my left. A clear sign that winter is meant to slow down, pause, and reflect.

Knee deep in snow we rested above the world below. The crisp bite of an apple, equalling the feeling in the air.

We continue on for about another half mile till we reach an open field. Trudging our way through knee deep snow once again, I find deer tracks. The only sign of recent life, that is until a hooman and his dog make first tracks. Time to turn around. We meet a large group of skiers going up, as we are coming down. I hope they stay safe. Avalanches are a real threat out here. Dinner awaits me in just 3 more hours.

I step into the Miners Saloon. A sign at the entrance reads, “we have no wi-fi!” Bummer, what shall I ever do. It’s a rustic place. Made of wood. I’m drawn to the table that just three weeks ago my father and I sat at. It reminds me of a place in upstate New York where we used to snowmobile when I was younger. Speaking of snowmobilers, they line the bar, and various tables no doubtingly winding down, or some winding up, from a day in the mountains. A pool table lies empty in the room next to me. Silent slot machines wait patiently, for those hoping to cash in on quick riches. I order a wood fire pizza, because good pizza in Montana is hard to find. I get green peppers, but no pepperoni, mushroom, olives, or chives. Crispy crust, blackened edges, decent cheese melt, but still not east coast comparable.

I ordered a local Montana bourbon to finish off my evening. It smells like wood and vanilla. I’m looking at the warm golden liquid in front of me thinking to myself, why on earth did I spend so much of my life abusing this stuff? I know why! When I meet people now I tell them that I don’t drink anymore, and if I’m being honest with y’all I don’t. My relationship changed with alcohol during the summer of 2019. If you want to get technical though, I can count the number of drinks that I have on one hand in a year. It better be a special occasion, and I know where to find the off switch now! What’s so special about this occasion? I’m in the mountains, I’m writing, I’m creating, my dog is waiting for me back in the motel room. How Earnest Hemingway of me. Cheers!

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