Mounds of a low-growing, spike-leafed grass form a mat in front of prairie dog holes on a ranch just north of Billings. The grass is not native, the prairie dogs
I’d never really noticed all the different types of grass. Standing in a field of grassland with our cycling crew and Steve Charter, Steve is talking about the forage kochia.
I was pedaling. Hard. Each gust of wind blasted my raw face, and I leaned into it, groaning. The wind groaned back, hitting me with gusts upwards of 35 miles
The house at the corner of 7th Avenue and 23rd Street looks like a 2,400-square foot lunch box with a brilliant tin roof and desert-like landscaping. Mellow, yellow sunlight bounces
The harsh light of the Exxon Mobil conference room is unforgiving. I try to focus on the company spokesperson’s overview of the refinery’s production. The Billings refinery turns crude oil
In the words of the great Bucky Preston (Hopi elder and activist), “I guess I’m an environmentalist.” What was meant by this seemingly simple statement was that through the actions
“Screedle on!” Someone shouts as we descend steep Navajo Sandstone slickrock. This is our third expedition as a group and we are each carrying twelve days worth of tightly packed
It was full speed running. Sand flying, daypacks forgotten, every one of us dying of curiosity for what lay beyond the bend of the sandstone walls. We had reached a
Almost two weeks worth of food and gear descend onto my shoulders in what I know is the largest backpack I have ever carried. I turn around and blindly splash