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    Exodus Into Montana

    From Angelo Pecora, Seeley Lake, Montana, sent Dec. 5, 2013

    It took me 61 years to finally get “West” into Montana.

    I used to come every year via vintage Harley Davidson but to get here to Live, and I do mean, live, was truly a gift from God.

    I’m a Native American of Italian descent but I was born in Ohio. For Christmas (one year) I got a plastic set of cowboys and Indians, more correctly a set that depicted the Battle of the Little Big Horn.

    In any event in that round tube containing the figures was a very intense and informative booklet about the battle complete with historical photos. That started my love affair with the state and it never left.

    I would daydream even in high school of being a mountain man since I did long line trapping and on weekends would build a winter camp and spend Friday night, all day Saturday, and walk out on Sunday and get back home.

    I remember thinking I was up on the Continental Divide as I sat deep in the woods boiling my coffee, when in reality I was in northern Ohio.

    Then life got in the way, although I never forgot Montana.

    Starting in 1990 I started making forays here on my old scooter every summer for two to three weeks, mostly to the Yaak area.

    Fast forward to 2010. My wife retired from the state of Michigan, and we decided on a move.

    I was on the dock of the feed mill where I worked in Dexter, Michigan, and Kat (my wife) called.

    Her exact words were, “Hey gotta be in Seeley Lake in four days, can you get off and take me?”

    Why in the world do you have to be in Seeley Lake?

    “I have a job interview,” Kat said.

    I think I got home before she hung up the phone. She got the job.

    Now I, for 60 yrs have a preconceived idea of what Montana is and you or anyone else cannot change it.

    So when she said she found a place to rent we came up.

    The first home we looked at was kind of a subdivision south of town. The house was too nice for me

    I was disappointed

    “What do ya think?” she asked and like my father on his trip to Italy I said, “it’s ok.”

    Then she said, “well, there is one other place is you wanna go look.”

    We drove north out of town about 6 miles, turned down a quiet road and there, on the Clearwater was our home.

    Back in the timber, the river backs our place and borders it on the west.

    Now every morning, coffee in hand, I walk onto the back porch, stare off into the deep timber and think, “the eagle has landed.”

     

     

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