Montana, a Coonhound and Me

Not many can say they spent their 12th birthday on a trip with four adults and a coonhound name Homer. 

Uncle Orville raised coonhounds and was delivering the pup to a relative in Montana. The car was crowded. Aunt Ianca didn’t like dogs and I don’t think my parents did either. So before we began the 400-mile journey, Uncle Orville parked Homer’s box on my lap.

“Oh goody,” I said. Uncle Orville missed the sarcastic remark and Homer took the insult without a flinch. This was before air-conditioning, but even with the windows rolled down, he gave off an ominous odor which all but gagged those of us in the backseat. Only half grown, he had a lot of manners to learn.

It was my first honest to gosh trip to Big Sky Country. Everything was a true wonder to me. Ranchers owned thousands of acres of land. The ranch where we stayed had 14 sections of land and hundreds of cattle. The house was done all in western décor; cowhide sofas and knotty pine furniture. The mammoth fireplace really impressed me. The new part of the house was attached to the original log cabin and that’s where I slept.

Their neighbors were all characters that no imagination could make up. One was an elderly lady, complete with a Stetson hat and boots, that owned a whole township and was always involved in lawsuits. On the other side was a man who took a shotgun after the most innocent trespassers.

We visited one neighbor who lived along a creek among picturesque buttes. Their house was an authentic log cabin which had only recently been wired for electricity. They still used a cook stove and gas lights, an avocado green refrigerator being their only modern appliance.

Horseback riding in the peaceful giant land left a dent in my heart and an ache to return.

Getting into the car for the return trip home, my eyes met a somber face, a familiar one, that begged me to take him along. With a mixture of sadness and glee, I said, “Goodbye Homer.”