Leftovers, Missoula, Montana

A kayaking friend showed me her massive calf bruise last week, and then explained that, despite warmer days, our currently cold nights stave off rapid snow pack melt and thus keep river water levels fairly stable, and pretty much ideal for undaunted water fiends. (Yes, this is my simplified interpretation of what she really said.)
So, these leftover fall leaves will have to continue their waiting for high water to send them on a rapids adventure.

But devoted kayakers are zipping into dry suits and heading out to Alberton Gorge to get back in the water while the gettin' is good.

Wayside Humble, Missoula, Montana,

"But to the spirit which has stripped off for a moment its own idle temporal standards, the grass is an everlasting forest, with dragons for denizens; the stones of the road are as incredible mountains piled one upon the other; the dandelions are like gigantic bonfires illuminating the lands around; and the heath-bells on their stalks are like planets hung in heaven higher than the other." - G.K. Chesterton, "A Defence of Humilities," The Defendant

Courage, Ray Froehlich Trail, Missoula, Montana

“But courage does not consist of a lack of fear. Only a fool has no fear. Courage is the ability to get the job done in spite of fear. He got the job done.” - Thomas Sowell, of Chuck Stone (1924-2014) intervening in a hostage situation

Walking - or simply being - amidst Montana’s vast wide-openness recalibrates situational perspectives, and engenders hope to displace worry. 
I highly recommend it when courage needs replenishing.

Determination, Missoula, Montana

“There's a fine line between stubbornness and the positive side of that, which is dogged determination.”

- Jeb Bush

“The most essential factor is persistence - the determination never to allow your energy or enthusiasm to be dampened by the discouragement that must inevitably come.”

- James Whitcomb Riley

Budding Pine Cone, Missoula, Montana

I’m not sure if this little budding pine cone is correctly called by a different name, but I do know I’ve never looked closely before at such a one emerging. It’s lovely how the lower layers wrap around the needles; this version appears so much more delicate than its final sturdy self.

Crocus Chorus, Missoula, Montana

“…Spring

hastens in on gossamer wings.
Armed with yellow crocuses that sing….”From
Gossamer Wings By Anita Griffith

Crocus Welcome, Missoula, Montana

A perfect Montana spring evening: The sun shines. The wind blows alternately gusty and gently. Young K. and her middle-school league team ardently practice softball skills. J. and I walk about the park and neighborhood environs.

“Look! What are those?”, says J.

“Crocuses”, says I, “and the first I've seen in this glorious gold!”
“Take a picture!” says J, “Nobody’s home….”.
So I did. Actually, I took several.
And we didn’t get caught and stammer awkward apologies for crossing the driveway and sidewalk of strangers and crouching cozily at their front doorstep. Nor did we (as would be more likely) initiate chatty conversation to compliment their stunning flora (that pretty much hollered across the yard, "Hey! Over here! Yah, that's right, I'm talkin' to you....")

We just checked for a clear coast and walked on into the buffering breeze.

Riverbank, Corvallis, Montana

"...I want nothing more than to speak simply, to be granted that grace.

Because we’ve loaded even our song with so much music that it’s slowly sinking

and we’ve decorated our art so much that its features have been eaten away by gold

and it’s time to say our few words because tomorrow our soul sets sail.

If pain is human we are not human beings merely to suffer pain;

that’s why I think so much these days about the great river,

this meaning that moves forward among herbs and greenery

and beasts that graze and drink, men who sow and harvest,

great tombs even and small habitations of the dead.

This current that goes its way and that is not so different from the blood of men,

from the eyes of men when they look straight ahead without fear in their hearts,

without the daily tremor for trivialities or even for important things;

when they look straight ahead like the traveller who is used to gauging his way by the stars,

not like us, the other day, gazing at the enclosed garden..."

From "An Old Man on the River Bank" by George Seferis (1900-1971)
Read the entire museful text here.