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Sage is suddenly everywhere—everywhere, that is, where it’s not too parched even for this hardiest of dryland flora. Low, vertical cliffs of tan sandstone have replaced the steep, evergreen-covered mountains as the dominant landform. We have just entered another world: the Bighorn Basin.

The canopy opens where a shallow stream crosses the path, revealing two small, silvery blue butterflies flitting about in slow and bouncy patterns. As I find my footing rock-by-rock across the stream, I recall an unusual aspect of the life cycle of these butterflies.

In murder mysteries, the protagonist is often surprised to find a crime. A national park was the last place we expected one.

On a warm June day, at our farm in the Mission Valley, I was watching my husband and son play in the yard, honeybees from our two colonies buzzing nearby. Suddenly, my attention was captured by a steady increase in the number of bees on the air, catching and refracting sunlight with their golden bodies.

Where initially the herd was scattered throughout the sage along the forest edge, they had now moved toward the road and were gathered together in a tight cluster. They were nervous, gazing toward the trees, ears cocked forward. They paced anxiously, some spinning in circles. I could hear a lot of mewing and a few barked alarms. These are clear signs a predator was near, probably the grizzly bear and cubs I had spotted in the area the day before.

Riparian zones are found along the banks of a river, stream, or other moving water source, surrounded by vegetation that relies on water. These habitats are home to a wide range of flora and fauna that meet birds’ survival needs.

For two weekends in May, I visited a pale yellow goldenrod crab spider living on a bright gold heart-leaved arnica flower outside my family’s cabin on Flathead Lake.

While we łoqʷm t sox̣ʷép (cleaned the roots), I listened to them reminisce on old stories, told with our Indian humor. The day was full of laughter and joy and connecting to our culture.

Alpenglow. Those fleeting moments of purple mountain majesty. That time of day when the snow-capped peaks seem almost ethereal as they are awash in violets, pinks, oranges, and reds. But what actually is it?

In its quiet presence my anguish receded until I had calmed, feeling drained and open to the world again. Since that experience I have wondered—was that real? Are Blue Jays capable of empathy?