|Photo credit: Mountain Brook by Michael R. Ritt - 2017|
Our cabin rests in a little valley that is a tributary to the Ninemile valley in northwestern Montana. It faces a small field about an acre in size. On the other 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 brook that drains our valley and runs into Ninemile creek a couple of miles downstream. During the summer months we can usually step right across the brook. But at this time of year, with all of the melting snow, there is too much mountain runoff to attempt it.
It is a very peaceful experience to come home from work at night (usually around midnight). Our valley is typically very quiet and still, except for the deer that dart across the mile long gravel road that leads up to our cabin. I can look up on a clear night and see stars that are so big and bright that it seems I should be able to pluck them right out of the sky.
As I step up on our porch and turn to face the field, although I can’t see it, I can hear the water flowing through our little brook. At this time of year it is an actual roar, but in a few months it will wind its way down to a gentle murmur, accented by the sound of buzzing insects and maybe the screech of an owl.
I doubt that there is a finer symphony played anywhere in the world than my little mountain brook on a starry night.