We pulled off the interstate in Bozeman, Montana and following the Madison River headed to Norris, where a dirt road led us through cow pastures and other-worldly rock formations. We had traveled through the fronts of some strong storm systems with lightning dancing across the sky and gusts blowing Tommy around. Up on a ridge, we witnessed the most perfect rainbow arcing across the smoke black horizon. In flatter area, we stopped in scraggly sage brush and set up the tent. The gusts of wind that brought big drops of rain that pelted us made us seek out better shelter from the elements. I found a mound and we moved the tent a hundred yards so that it was hunkered down in a dugout somewhat protected from the surges of summer storm air. After moving the tent, we cowered in the truck, waiting for the storm to pass. We popped open some Moose Drool, the unofficial state beverage of Montana, or at least, one that we always pick up in the gas stations while passing through the state. As we waited, a line of cattle nervously advanced from behind the truck. I hadn’t noticed, but I had parked Tommy smack dab in the middle of a cattle trail. Confused, the cows hesitantly dispersed, surrounding both the truck and the tent. A cow stood staring and sniffing at the tent, totally perplexed and reticent to keep on keeping on, even on her familiar trail because a foreign object blocked her path. We waited and waited. Finally, I went out and played cowboy, shooing them away, their eerie green eyes were glowing in the darkness broken up by my bright LCD flashlight. They reluctantly held their ground, not paying me any mind nor knowing what to do with the Californian Cowboy with an identity crisis. I climbed the mound harboring the tent and discovered a massive crater created by a small meteorite or a mythological creature reminiscent of the smoke monster on the television program Lost. I could only think, This is Montana and this is what happens when a Californian comes thinking he’s a cowboy.
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