There are cattle grazing outside, their black hides contrasted by the white snow that both covers the ground and clings to each needle on the pine trees. Tiny flakes continue to fall from the low clouds that envelope this high country. The air feels damp, as if the moisture can't decide whether to remain frozen or arrive as droplets of water. The beef drift north from the hill to the west and down into a valley, eventually I will see them on the mountain to the east since they seem to enjoy their daily trek from one side of this dwelling to the other. Perhaps some deer will take the place of the bovines in the small window here that reveals the outside world. It may be that the deer have already arrived. Unless I spot an ear moving, I often don't even see the deer at all. The only visible activity at the moment comes from a little red squirrel searching for pine cones. The squirrel usually will stand up and chatter at me gazing from the window, but today the snow on the ground seems to have given the tiny red gatherer a greater incentive to work rather than take a conversational pause. Inside this little place, the old furry dog naps on the wood floor. She occasionally awakens and raises her shaggy head, gazing around the room, probably making sure that all is quiet as usual. And she finds that to be true, a typical morning in these mountains.

Typical but still somewhat odd, as in many ways the things in this structure in which I live are not of the current century or even the last one, it's more like much of the old west still remains. Not in every way, there are nods toward technology: light bulbs, an electric heater, LP gas for a small stove, running water, a good roof that doesn't leak. I compare these luxuries of the modern age as I take inventory of the room while refilling my fountain pen and pouring another cup of very strong black coffee. There is a key-wound clock on the wall, a saddle sits in a corner, a rope, chaps and spurs nearby. True artwork even graces one wall, a grand friend who is an artist brought me a painting she'd done of a cabin not too far from here. I really enjoy seeing her depiction hanging over the desk. My friend's husband said it was perfect for here, as he'd framed the painting with wood from an old outhouse. I'd agree, it's perfect.

Not all in sight is authentic to the old west period, of course. I readily admit that my lever-action rifle leaning against the saddle and single-action revolver hanging by holster and gunbelt near the window are both chambered in 44 Magnum, a caliber unheard of in the days of horse and wagon, though maybe originally thought about many years ago when Elmer Keith first began reloading the 44 Special. A 12 Gauge pump-action riot gun gathers dust by the door, my acknowledgement that mountain lions live here, too, just as the dust on that shotgun confirms my thought that it's rather unlikely I will have any close-range lion problems (but not impossible as a friend's trail camera photos clearly show a big cat not too far from here). At the moment, with eight wild turkeys outside the window, I'd bet that any lions are elsewhere. If I'm mistaken, it could be that mountain lions heard the same thing about wild turkeys that I did, the turkeys are awful to eat since they taste like the pine cones that they constantly ingest.

There's a Bible on a shelf and a Lakota peace pipe and medicine pouch hanging next to the Bible (I might as well be on good terms with God and Wakan Tanka, though personally I think they are one in the same, but in any case, I'd rather not get either arrows or lightning bolts shoved in my rear end). A big Bowie knife takes up most of a table, I really have no idea why except that it looks good right there and I'm too lazy to either carry the thing or find a more permanent spot for it. I suppose that knife is the beginning of my decorating career. I suppose the metal tray of loose tobacco and the stack of cigarette papers lend the place an air of authenticity, but I must admit that I need to replace the cheap disposable lighter with a box of wooden matches for a true sense of old-west realism. Other than the lighter, I'm relatively satisfied that most of what is visible could at least at first glance fit into 1885 rather than the current year.

I suppose this home is decorated with mostly cowboy gear, though I'm really not a cowboy unless that term could be used with a person who lives out here, wears western clothing and owns an iron horse. Long ago, I had a lot of things with that particular horse's brand on them (Harley-Davidson) but those things are part of the past rather than the present, the bar and shield tattoo on my right arm thankfully excepted. I choose to use the word "decorated" to describe what is in my view rather than more accurate terms like "piled up everywhere." Decorated gives the impression of intentional, as if my pitching a coat and hat on a chair was a deliberate act intending to make the scene reminiscent of a museum display rather than a bunkhouse, though in time I may be able to come up with a concept which I'll term "bunkhouse decor" and then take some photos for a large-format coffee table book that nobody will look through anyway.

As the snow continues to swirl around, I roll a cigarette and walk outside to smoke it, immediately learning that the jacket I am wearing, made of plastic fibers in China rather than wool (it was advertised as wool, too bad I never checked the tag until now), something from my past life complete with fancy camo pattern and hunting logo, is useless in this climate and contributes nothing to my own warmth. I decide to donate it to the old dog for a bed. The lesson here is to wear wool or be cold. It's too bad that like most clothing available now, finding wool items made in this country, or much of anything made in this country, has become difficult or impossible, at least locally. After several searches in a few nearby towns, I gave up trying to find some leather gloves made in the United States. At least I did find some imported by a company based in the United States, though it was sad to see that the old glove company Wells Lamont had turned to overseas sources.

I guess that's my complaint for today, something to do with imported junk that isn't as good as what used to be made right here. I wonder if anything is truly made right here. I guess I was, but that was long ago in both years passed and lives lived. I dig out an old USA-made Filson sweater (new production is all imported) and attempt to discuss this problem with the dog, but she offers no advice. Maybe tomorrow I will come up with something else to whine about and my furry friend will again act like she is listening. She probably won't have much to say tomorrow, either. No matter. She knows I don't complain often. We have food, it's warm and quiet in here and beautiful outside. Considering those blessings, it may take me quite a while to think of something else that's bothering me. I tell the dog and she just wags her long tail and goes back to sleep.