Seven eagles perched on the skeletal-like limbs of the pines next to the scrap metal pile at the dump. They balanced, unmoving, unscathed by the humans below. They watched and waited. There they sat, motionless, as a mountain of rusted scrap metal twisted toward the sky.
I chucked out the holiday trash into the bins, jammed some paper into recycling and got back into the rig to leave. The baldies didn’t move. I thought how they’d have more luck by the frozen lake of fishermen. But what did I know about being hungry. I was still full from the jolly season.
I didn’t fully grasp their patience. To them, the dump wasn’t a wasteland. It was a vantage point, and they were likely far hungrier than I’d ever been. Maybe they were waiting for roadkill, forced to compete with the folks now heading to the food pantry because Congress treated hungry kids like a budget line-item that Montanans could live without.
As I pulled away, I imagined that we’re all just scavengers now. Some with a luxury of being full as we watched the world go lean. It’s like we’re running on empty with the gas station a long, uncertain way down the road. I shifted in drive, left the silent birds of prey to their wasteland.
The new year started off with a bang. The prospects of cheap gas come fall rose through the morning air like lazy campaign promises. The reality is as cold as a winter morning. Congress pivoted to regime change, installing a viceroy to run things south of the border, funneling taxpayer dollars onto foreign soil while gutting the public services at home which keep families from suffering.
It’s like we’ve seen this movie before. The shock and awe was real back then. The prize of black gold feels all too familiar. Then, like now, gas prices remain high for Montanans. Once again, regime change feels like the price we pay for the idealistic campaign promise of two-dollar gas.
I thought of Dad, a Merchant Marine who spent his career hauling crude from the meanest ports on the planet back to American shores. He just shook his head at the news decades ago, a silent protest from the man who knew the true cost of oil. I remembered an in-law’s snarky crack about our oil being under their sand, and the hollow feeling war left behind.
I pushed my rig harder, feeling the restless rage of Highway 93 as the big trucks hauled past me on the left, their spray hitting the windshield from the wet road. Ahead, The Big rose out of the valley, a shimmering vision in the hazy morning light. Fresh, wet snow clung to the pines, not the skeletal limbs of the dump trees, but lush, white-draped boughs that looked like a painting.
I imagined the skiers, the families on vacation, the laughter echoing from the slopes as kids screamed down the groomed trails. The Flathead really is a great place to live, a shelter for those who can afford the peace. Quite a blessing to be alive.
Days earlier, the dark hill had been lit up like a sprawling Christmas tree, a beacon of light for the travelers stepping off nonstop flights from cities far away. It looked inviting, pleasant, and achingly familiar. I felt that sharp tug of envy, the slopes ahead and the scrap metal pile behind me. The eagles unfazed. Reality tugging at my heart strings.
Back at farm, I threw another log into the woodstove and sat down on the couch. The house was warm, the dogs lay in beds by the heat. The yes-men of Congress came racing back into focus. These gazillionaire politicians are letting local kids suffer while their corporate buddies profit. It felt cold, unnecessary. Much needed change hung in the air. I know others feel it too.
I sat there in quiet, watching nothing, seeing Montana. I knew I wasn’t the only one staring into the void. A strong stench of much needed political change hung in the air, thick as the winter mist over this season’s rainy Flathead. We’re waiting like seven eagles sitting in gaunt pines.
Our time is coming, any day. Don’t worry about Montana. The work is being done every day by good people who know that the fog of Congress is eventually breaking. Lend a hand where you can. The change we need isn’t complicated, rather practical. With a little help and some good old-fashioned leadership, Montana’s better, more affordable days remain straight ahead.