Eastern Oregon

I’ve traveled well over 6,000 miles on western roads this summer, hairpinning through mountains, rolling heavy-footed through deserts, squinting into the sun, and slipping gratefully into the shadow of tall pines.

The modern conveniences of A/C, cruise control, and iPods do little to ameliorate one basic fact of the West – it’s lonely out here.

On the road I settle into lonesome like the seat of a well-worn saddle and surrender to long thoughts and deep feelings.  They spool out like a dust trail on a windless day, and, like the dust, eventually settle into place.  It’s a steadying comfort I don’t find in any other locale.

I have a notion as to why cowboys seem heroic.  Their real lives on the range were often monotonous as they plodded along, sweat-stained and eating grit behind a milling herd  They are heroes because they stared down loneliness and made it their anthem.

A twang of solitary misery underlies every chord of the old Western ballads, and hearing those plaintive tunes has the unexpected effect of easing my mind.   With Hank William’s “I’m so Lonesome” cranked up, the miles pass effortlessly and the horizon beckons.

One of the challenges of photographing the West is to capture the slow thrum of those sun-bleached distances.   If less is more, then out here, nothing is one helluva lot.  It confounds the usual aesthetic of photography, but it’s the essence of the western landscape and a certain way of being.  Country music found it, and now, camera in hand, I’m on its trail, too.

Bozeman, MT

With my dog Nina, I walk the Chris Boyd Trail along the backbone ridge that runs from the center of Bozeman, MT out to the mountains. At the beginning the trail skirts Sunset Hills Cemetery, now veiled by a row of lilac bushes with leaves just unfolding.

The sound of a trumpet draws our attention. A man in VFW uniform is bent down next to the open door of his pickup, softly warming up with “Anchors Aweigh”. He plays it once through, then walks off into the cemetery.

As we go on, there are glimpses of the funeral procession. There are many cars, and from the two white limos in the lead, several people emerge. One woman carries a bouquet of flowers. Some of the men are in cowboy hats. One of the mourners wears a black cowboy hat with a high, domed crown. He has on a white shirt and black vest and pants – formal attire. He and the others walk further into the cemetery and disappear.

Whoever is being laid to rest is nameless to me, but I do know Chris Boyd for whom the trail upon which I walk is named. Chris was head of the Gallatin Valley Land Trust, and the trail system — Main Street to Mountains — now stretches nearly as far as he envisioned it many years ago.

I never met Chris, but he called one day to welcome and encourage me when I was new to land trust work.  Before I had the chance to meet him, he was gone, too soon. His friends and colleagues named the front segment of the trail for him. I shed a few tears for all our losses — the person honored in the cemetery, Chris, and others.

As the trail loops back, I think about Chris’s good work, and how it goes forward, here and elsewhere. On the return, we again skirt the cemetery, walking beneath an overhang. Above, I hear the intonations of the minister, but not his words.

Suddenly, a 21-gun salute, in three salvos, thunders overhead. And, then, “Taps.” Every note is clear and true.