Medora Magic

Bluebird Bob, from a couple of posts back, told us we had to visit Medora, North Dakota. I know that when Bob says you have to see something, you have to see it. So we left a day and a half to explore the South Unit of the Theodore Roosevelt National Monument in extreme western North Dakota. Medora is the little frontier town just inside the park. It has touristy stuff, which lots of people like. That's good, because it keeps lots of people there, and you can pretty much have the park to yourself. We only had eyes for the wild places.

I have to say that of all the parks I've visited, TRNM is the mostest. It's almost ridiculous how scenic it is, and stuffed with fabulous animals. Which are not stuffed. Which are alive and rockin'.

But let's set the scene. We were amazed at the colorful formations, the badlands we'd heard but never seen. The kids wanted to explore and climb, and Bill and I went along. We quickly found out that the many-hued formations were made of the slickest, most glutinous clay we'd ever stepped in. Yiiiikes. I went down hard and came up absolutely covered in wet clay. This put me in a very foul mood, because I knew I'd get it all over the car. Liam and Phoebe had slid down a hillside on their pants, not realizing that this clay was forever. So we were all instantly filthy and gummed up. I stripped the kids down, Bill dug their suitcases out of the overloaded SUV, and we changed them right then and there. Pah!

The day definitely improved from then on. We found some honest rocks for climbing and jumping.
And picture-taking.
The spaces went on for miles. We were happy again.

Nearby were some grassy hills to climb.
Creviceflars.


The little black dot is our first Medora bison.
Bill wants a closer look.

I drop to the ground in worship...
photo by Bill of the Birds

of blue penstemon.

For a Moment, Happy

All too soon, it was time to head east, back to North Dakota. Oh, it was hard to leave Montana, so we made one last stop at Makoshika State Park, which is a paleontological site southeast of Glendive.

We never found the dig or any fossils, but the scenery was terrific. Transformative. We drank in the evening, making the most of Montana's midnight sun, when it stays light until almost 11 pm in June.

A mule deer doe came walking carefully up a draw, her attention ahead of her.

Her huge ears swiveled side to side as if she were apprehensive of ambush.

Oh, the light was so beautiful. I could see myself painting the scene with her just so, touching light across the grasstops and casting the foreground in deep violet shadow. Oh, to have world enough and time...for now and for the foreseeable future I'm painting birds, but someday...deer.

Suddenly she vaulted into space.


She pronked high, looking for danger.

Her springy tendons and slender, resilient legs carried her high up into the air, over and over.




She wasn't so different from my daughter, whose lightness I envy as I grow closer to the earth.


The grace in these children comes alive when they are allowed to gaze out over miles of wilderness. It turns into something electric, something beautiful, infused with the spirit of the landscape.


I couldn't stop trying to keep some of it for the coming winter. And now I'm glad I did.

There is a thought scrabbling around in my head that's hard to catch and contain, so it's going to come out in pieces. It's about happiness, that most elusive of human emotions. If emotions were birds, happiness might be a rail, skulking through the dark reeds of dissatisfaction.

You can take trips with your family, and think back on them, and think, "Yeah, that was a great trip. I was really happy out there in Montana."

And what I'm thinking is: Why does that feeling have to be remembered as just part of a great trip, isolated in occasional memories, floating out there on its own? Why not look at that trip as part of a continuum of good things, an integral part of your great life, and think of it when you step back to take stock, as we so often do?

Because this is your life, this moment in Montana. And these are the people you love most.


And you set up a camera on a tripod to record this moment, this evidence that you were happy for a while.


Believe it. You are.

These are the gifts that wilderness can give to us. Small wonder we turn to it again and again.

Bob's Bluebirds

It is a rare privilege to be shown a place that is special to someone. Visiting Bob Niebuhr's mountain bluebird trail not far from Great Falls, Montana, I think we may have seen the most beautiful bluebird box trail on the planet.

The Man himself, author of beauty and grace, written on the land in bluebirds fledged from his boxes.
A caravan of cars snaked from the Mountain Bluebird Trails conference site to Bob's turf, and we hopped out to check boxes along the way. And to breathe. Oh, the air was so sweet and cool.


Mountain bluebirds are bigger than either western or eastern bluebirds, and they often lay clutches of six pale blue eggs. Being broad of shoulder, they need an entry hole that's 1/8" bigger than their smaller relatives, too.

Some three-day-old mountain bluebirds.


Mountain bluebird babies are lovely, smoky brown and even-colored, unlike our dappled gray eastern bluebird babies. These are about 13 days old.

I loved seeing my first mountain bluebird babies, but I was blown away by their surroundings. What heaven it would be to have an excuse to drive Bob's route once every week.

We compared notes on development and predator deterrents. The Science Chimp always loves to talk shop with other bluebird box landlords.

And of course, she had to get her nose into every box.

As did Science Chimp Junior (this was taken in North Dakota.)

Everywhere on Bob's trail, wildflowers nodded in the breeze. This was the finest stand of prairie smoke I'd ever found. A few lupines add their blue.

Not sure what this is. It looks a lot like a Gaura I planted in my garden this year, but it's much denser and more compact. Yoo-hoo, Caroline from South Dakota?

A natural garden.

Ever dream of having that Montana ranch, brushing out a brood mare's tail, and riding out each morning to watch the sun ascend over the rolling hills?

Me, too.

Tree swallows were gettin' busy, too, enjoying Bob's lodgings.



Mountain bluebirds hovered and dove on grasshoppers.

Heavenly, the only word for their blue. Well, maybe celestial. Same meaning.

Wonder if anyone would pay me to live out here and run these boxes when Bob got tired of it? No, he already has good volunteers who help. Rats. And he doesn't show any signs of getting tired of it.

I'd do it for nothing, anyway.

A northern checkerspot stops in its meadowbouncing.

More prairie smoke.

A shy larkspur

and some lupines.

A neighbor brings two little grandsons, still in their jammies, on his four-wheeler, to chat with Bob, who seems to know everyone. Liam looks on in envy.

Bill of the Birds gazes out over the expanse.
I try not to imagine this place in the dead of winter

preferring summer meadows and birdsong to howling blizzards.

And so it will stay in my memory, always June, with the song of warbling vireos

and lonely barns against the sky

and Bob fixing a loose roof on a bluebird box

sending thousands of new bluebirds out into the Montana skies

making the world a more beautiful place with every mile he drives.

I salute you, Bob Niebuhr, and all those who work for bluebirds. Thank you for bringing our little family to Montana, to find ancient runes and hunker down in tipi rings, to float down the Missouri River. You've made a place in our hearts that we will always come back to. Thank you for all you do to bring beauty to the land. You are appreciated.

last two photos: Bill Thompson III