The Giving Winter
By Bill Buseman
Broadcast 11.5 & 11.8.2025
Wintry landscape along the Clark Fork River. Photo by Allison De Jong.
Listen:
I don’t know when it happened, but winter is not much of a friend to me these days. I know we need the snow and the water, but do we really need seven months of it? I have been ready to toss in my mukluks and woolies for a few years now. That is, until I hooked up with a prescription to take away my pain.
My cure, participating in the Montana Master Naturalist Course, involved taking notes, reading guide books, nature journaling (what was that?), and classroom discussions once a week for three months. It also involved the elephant in the room—getting outside. I was hesitant, to say the least.
I took a stab at my first task. Get outside. With a purpose. Ha! I thought. What kind of trickery is this? Snow boots, layers, gloves, hats—there was no way the cold was going to get me! But it tried.
I was challenged to start a nature journal and draw and write about what I saw out there. My first outing was a short trip to a local trail along a stream. The day promised to be overcast and cold but that could not stop me. I was on a mission.
I trudged along, blank journal, pencils, and micron pens in my pack. The trail was wet and icy under the fresh snow. I saw my first signs of life—animal prints in the fresh powder. Canine. Hiking boots. I took my gloves off and brushed off a downed tree and sat for a spell. The journal was bulky and the pens wet and slippery. But I was determined, even though I have held no drawing implements in my hand since first grade. It felt fresh, good. The trunks were brown, gray. The needles of the ponderosa pines were vibrant green against the white of the world.
My eyes trained on movements in the tall cottonwoods. Birds! No, wait, falling clumps of snow. The white stuff started falling and I actually heard the snowflakes hitting all things earthy. Combined with the song of the river it created a soothing symphony.
Still, no signs of life. But what at first bothered me soon became relaxing. I felt as if I were at one with the surrounding winter that just hours ago I despised. I don’t know how long I sat there. I guess it didn’t matter. I packed up, without writing a word or drawing a thing, but for some reason that didn’t bother me. I walked up the trail through the snow and looked at my boot tracks and took a picture for identification purposes for the rest of the class.
At my last few steps on the trail I stopped and looked around. The snow-covered trees, the fresh powder on the ground, the swift-flowing stream—all brought me into a place that I never knew existed.
I then heard a loud squawking sound. I looked up through the falling snow and saw movement at the top of a cottonwood. There, slamming its beak against the diseased tree, was a large woodpecker with a bright red crest and long bill. A pileated woodpecker. I watched it for a while and felt the wonder of the experience. I wasn’t cold. Even though it was white and snowy, there was a much more colorful world to see than I ever thought possible.
I got home and wrote in my journal. My blank page invited me to write down my experience. It was surprisingly easy. I started, “I can’t wait to get out and share my journey in my journal.” I grabbed a micron pen and began sketching. The words and drawing came easily, and I knew then that I was on my way to a new world. A world without end which only days ago seemed, well, seven months too long.
Every week since 1991, Field Notes has inquired about Montana’s natural history. Field Notes are written by naturalists, students, and listeners about the puzzle-tree bark, eagle talons, woolly aphids, and giant puffballs of Western, Central and Southwestern Montana and aired weekly on Montana Public Radio.
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Interested in writing a Field Note? Contact Allison De Jong, Field Notes editor, at adejong [at] montananaturalist [dot] org or 406.327.0405.
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