Montana Magic

by Roxanne D. Hicks

My memories of herding sheep for my grandfather, a Sioux Indian, during my childhood summers remain sweet and precious to me. My grandparents lived in the northeastern-most corner of Montana, nestled next to the borders of both Canada and North Dakota. Grandpa owned a flock of three thousand sheep, one of the largest in that area during that time. He enlisted the services of his many grandchildren to shepherd his flock.

Herding sheep meant getting out of bed before dawn, wolfing down a large pancake made by Grandpa, loading up in his old pickup, and bouncing out to the sheep pastures in his ancient truck. I loved it.

I loved every minute of my shepherding summers: The pungent yet sweet fragrance of wild onions when crushed underfoot. The delicate and captivating pink and orange flowers bursting from the cacti. Sheep bells jangling throughout the mass of wooly bodies. Bleating lambs separated from the ewes. Barking dogs as they readied the flock. The clank of metal horse shoes on the rocky hillsides. My assigned mount and loyal companion, an ancient gelding who wandered where he pleased.

Grandpa saddled a half dozen horses each morning for the grandkids who couldn’t. I remember the delightful snort of an impatient mare. The creaking of saddle leather and the whine of an old windmill as it slowly rotated in the soft morning wind.

Badlands National Park in South Dakota (not quite Montana). 🙂

Dawn crept over the horizon about the time my grandfather opened the gate and released the flow of sheep to bounce, dart, and scramble across the spacious prairie. Deep pockets of night clung below brilliantly sun-lit hilltops, creating a sharp and soul-stirring analogy of light vs. dark. The magnificent thunderstorms over the Montana prairies, enhanced by minerals in the soil, create spelling-binding light shows and demand the respect of anyone caught out in one.

People tell me the eastern half of Montana is an ugly drive. I tell them to get off Highway Two and explore the badlands. Rugged bare red, pink, and purple rocks birth fertile folds of vibrant vegetation, abundant wildlife, meandering creeks, and on occasion, predators.

The prairie lands of Montana are fragrant, poignant, and embedded in my soul. Sadly, my grandfather sold his flock a decade prior to his death due to the falling price of wool. Consumers turned to other forms of cloth and no longer demanded wool for clothing.

If I did my job as a writer, using strong description and verbs, you, my reader, are now smitten
with the remote and challenging charm of Eastern Montana, just as I am. Come join me on my
next visit.

Roxanne D. Hicks has been writing from childhood, receiving a first rejection notice at the age of seven. She has written eleven novels, five historical fiction, five romantic suspense, and one children’s chapter book. Besides writing, she enjoys baking for and receiving guests at her summer tearoom in a blueberry patch. She lives with her husband of fifty years, a bossy Shih Tzu, cats, and a flock of chickens that keep the bugs off the blueberries. Readers can visit her website at RoxanneDeeHicks.com.