This is the first in a series of posts about life in the Ninemile valley of western Montana.

Our cabin rests in a little valley that’s a tributary to the Ninemile valley in northwestern Montana. It faces a small field about an acre or two in size. On the far end of the field is a steep incline where it meets one of the mountains that surround our valley. Right at the base of this mountain is a small creek called Cromwell creek that drains our valley and runs into Ninemile creek a couple of miles downstream.

Although it flows all year-long, Cromwell creek is not very wide, and during the summer months, we can usually step right across it without getting our feet wet.

Last night we had a meteor shower, so after getting home from work, I turned off all of the cabin lights, went out to the driveway, pulled the tailgate down on my truck, and sat there looking up at the stars. Tami is on a camping trip with our three sons in Colorado, so I was by myself.

It was as dark as it could be outside. The surrounding mountains, covered with lofty Lodgepole and Ponderosa pines, were an effective barrier against any unwanted lights or sounds from my neighbors further down the valley. I was alone in total darkness, except for the silver glow of the moon which was in its first-quarter stage, and the brilliance of the billions of stars in the Milky Way that charted a course across the dome of the night sky. I sat there for twenty minutes, awestruck, as stars fell from the sky; some more spectacular than others; the drama of their exit left me wide-eyed and feeling humbled and small but still privileged to be allowed to witness such an event.

I hopped down from the tailgate and made my way back to the cabin. Once on the porch, I turned and put my hand on the rail and peered into the darkness across the field toward the creek. It was a very peaceful night, but I suddenly realized that it wasn’t at all a quiet night. I had grown so accustomed to the night sounds that I had stopped hearing them. Although my sight was barely able to penetrate the darkness more than two feet in front of me, I closed my eyes, because doing so has the effect of making the ears work better, and I wanted to hear what I could hear.

The first sound that I became aware of was the buzz of insects as they went about their nocturnal business. Strangely enough, the loudest of these was a moth flapping its wings as it crawled up the screen door behind me, exploring for some neglected hole in the screen through which it could gain an entrance into the cabin. Moths rate very low on the “yuck” scale as far as insects go, but they are among the most annoying by virtue of being attracted to any available light source. At night, that meant that I would have to endure their landing upon, and subsequent dance across, the screen of the television as I lay in bed; attracted to the glow of pixilated electrons. There was a time when I would have jumped out of bed and attempted to end its dance with swift retribution from a fly swatter, but I soon learned that every flying insect ever created seems to be hard-wired with the instinctual knowledge of what a fly swatter looks like and the damage that it can do, so they always disappear every time I pull one out.

I wasn’t worried about the moth getting inside, so I turned my attention to a different sound that was coming from the flower garden in front of the porch and slightly below where I stood. Something was rustling in the mulch and leaves. A mouse that was living under the porch had come out in search of something tasty from the garden. I’m not sure what kind of flowers—if any—mice will eat, but if he wanted to dig around in the mulch for a fat worm or a centipede, I was happy to let him eat his fill.

About that time, on the hill behind our cabin, a coyote yapped. He was soon answered by another one further up the valley.

Across the field, I could hear Cromwell creek murmuring as it made its way down the valley to join Ninemile creek. From there, it would flow into the Clark Fork River about six miles to the south-east. I’ve often wondered how long it took for the water in Cromwell creek in front of our cabin to reach the Clark Fork River. Someday I will devise an experiment to put the question to the test. Perhaps it will involve a person stationed at each end and a flotilla of little yellow rubber duckies.

There was a slight breeze that blew out of the west. It had a chill to it that was uncommon for an August evening, but if this year is like last year, we could see snow on the ground in a mere six weeks.

As I turned to head inside for the night, I heard a screeching, almost “tin-whistle” sound coming from one of the trees along the banks of the creek. It was probably the sound of a female Long-eared owl—the males making a deeper “whoop” sound compared to the females.

It reminded me of an old Swedish poem from the late 1800s. Some of the words are:

“When through the woods and forest glades I wander
And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees;
When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur,
And hear the brook, and feel the gentle breeze.”

You may recognize it as the hymn, “How Great Thou Art.” 

I doubt that there is a finer hymn played in any cathedral anywhere in the world than the one played in my little mountain valley on a starry summer night.