Interpretations of Home by Nora Blair

I very much consider myself a high desert mountain-loving kid. I’ve grown up rock climbing and scrambling all that Colorado’s Front Range has to offer. I feel most at home in the dry ponderosa pine forests that lead up to the magnificent flatirons I’ve always considered to be a part of my backyard. Simply put, I am a lover of my dry western home, and this WRFI section of canoeing on the Missouri River has forced me to confront a fear unbeknownst to me: fear of being on the water, and of depending on it. The first few days of canoeing, I had a ball of stress in my chest, and every time a rock would come into view or we would float through a rapid, I’d feel that ball tighten. I began to try and look around when possible, and perceive what The Breaks had to offer me aside from a river that’s foreign nature, while being truly gentle, scared me.

Shortly after our takeout from Coal Banks Landing, I began to notice the White Cliffs of Eagle Sandstone. They shot out of the riverbanks like great beings, and their presence calmed me and made me feel closer to home. One evening we camped along the river at a site called Eagle Creek, and from there we explored a section of the White Cliffs that eventually narrowed into a slot canyon. Walking away from the Missouri River felt as though stepping into a different world — a world that ecologically resembled much of Colorado. Within the canyon we saw douglas fir, sagebrush, and yucca, and while making my way through this little oasis, I felt incredibly elated, as I’d found small pieces of my home almost 800 miles away. This feeling rejuvenated me, and I then felt ready to be on the river again, as my familiar friends awaited me on the banks at the end of each day. This catharsis allowed me then to experience all The Breaks had to offer — no longer was I stuck in my fear of water. I didn’t realize that the daily stress of canoeing had left me until our arrival at our next camp after Eagle Creek, where I felt light and free. What awaited my now clear mind was the breaking down of all perceptions I had of Northern Montana, from ecology to humanity. I was entirely a student of the Upper Missouri River Banks in all its glory.

Before this trip, I thought the Missouri Breaks would be flat and barren, devoid of much life besides the Missouri itself. I was greeted instead by an abundance of life, from coyotes and golden eagles to greasewood and cheatgrass. I was also greeted with the presence of cattle and decaying homesteads along the banks — a remnant of humanity’s presence in this landscape, and its absence.

Our class was informed in a conversation with Lars Anderson, an American Prairie Reserve biologist, that the population of Phillips County has been decreasing by 10% each census since 1920 (Phillips County encompasses a section of the Upper Missouri River Breaks National Monument). This fact highlights that The Breaks are losing their human population, but the land itself is the true teacher of why people are leaving this landscape. This environment is not kind to humans. It was harsh on us even though we were only on the river for 10 days. The temperatures of our paddle days generally hit 89 degrees and the dryness of the land was felt as we struggled to find the comfort of shade during the hottest parts of the day. This then made me question how hard it must be to call The Breaks home, and maintain a permanent livelihood in conjunction with the land’s harsh nature. A migratory lifestyle feels required to live on this land. Furthermore, since I had begun to equate parts of the Missouri River Breaks to my home in Colorado, the question arose in me if my home was a truly livable space?

The temperature extremes of Colorado’s Front Range are far less than those of The Breaks, but the dryness persists. A manipulation of the land is necessary for me to even consider it a giving landscape — all our water is dammed, and if left untampered by humans, the creeks would run dry by September, not to be rushing again until May. It feels fruitless though, to question the livable nature of any extreme landscape, as there will always be people who call it home, myself and the residents of Phillips County included.

Equating my home to the Upper Missouri River Breaks allowed me to feel safe and comfortable in this landscape, creating a sense of camaraderie between myself and the land — and even the water. With me I take home questions of my own livelihood in Colorado, and what it means to live in, and love, such a harsh, dry environment.