![]() The men I talked to seemed to me not moved to a riot of seasonal slaughter but simply to be going out to kill edible meat. It was hunting season when I drove through the state. The calm of the mountains and the rolling grasslands had got into the inhabitants. Its people did not seem afraid of shadows in a John Birch Society sense. ![]() ![]() It seemed to me that the frantic bustle of America was not in Montana. ![]() Here for the first time I heard a definite regional accent unaffected by TV-ese, a slow-paced warm speech. Montana seems to me to be what a small boy would think Texas is like from hearing Texans. The land is rich with grass and color, and the mountains are the kind I would create if mountains were ever put on my agenda. It seems to me that Montana is a great splash of grandeur. Of course I know now she was a mouse-haired, freckle-nosed, scabby-kneed little girl with a voice like a bat and the loving kindness of a gila monster, but then she lighted up the landscape and me. Once, when I raptured in a violet glow given off by the Queen of the World, my father asked me why, and I thought he was crazy not to see. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection, but with Montana it is love, and it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it. The next passage in my journey is a love affair. ![]()
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