Their vitamins were lined up on the kitchen counter, which was void of any appliances, cookware, etc.

They eat a bowl of cereal for breakfast (a store brand, economy pack). They take two bologna sandwiches for lunch and a piece of fruit, usually a banana.

When they get off work at 4:30 p.m., they ride the roads until around 9, with the gasoline for such excursions being their only splurge. They seldom eat supper, either because they are too tired, too busy seeing the land, or just not willing to spend money they are saving to get them through the harsh winter they have been warned about.

They have no television. No movies. They apparently have no interest in dating anyone just now either. They are in bed by 9:30, 10 at the latest.

What gives? What would possess two healthy young men just a year away from 30 to live like this? One thing. The desire to be “turned loose, let go and allowed to live somewhere in the middle of Montana.”

Derrick, my younger son, and his friend, Rusty, are living the dream many of us just talk about. April 1, they packed up their fouro-wheel-drive trucks, loaded the F-150 Ford on a trailer to be pulled by the 250 Dodge diesel, instructed Duke dog (Rusty's lab) to load up, and they headed west. They had been planning the move for more than six months.

About two weeks ago, Daniel and I received an invitation to come visit. We flew out for the long Memorial Day weekend. I cried five times, maybe six, on my first day out there. I do that when emotion overtakes me and there is no other way to let it out. So awestruck was I at the beauty of the land, tears were my only release.

Snow-topped mountains stood watch over the green valleys that invited us to linger long in their embrace. Wildflowers were blooming everywhere. An abundance of wildlife including moose, mule deer, long-horned sheep, and elk welcomed us. Driving up from Salt Lake City, we passed through several old ghost towns that called out to us, but we didn't stop. I was too anxious to see my son.

In a matter of hours it became easy to understand why they had made the move.

They are renting a little house in the Bitter Root Valley (yep, the same one John Denver sang about) and are surrounded by national forests. It's the forest service roads they travel in the afternoons after work and on Sundays after church.

Rusty was with the Forestry Service and Derrick was a firefighter and paramedic in Georgia. Now, they both are working for Rocky Mountain Log Homes. They were thankful to have found their jobs within three days after they arrived in Montana.

Both would rather be working in their chosen professions, but time will tell if Montana will make a place for them in those niches. For now, they take it a day at a time. They are happy. They are thankful.

On Memorial Day, while the boys and Daniel did some kind of guy thing, I drove into Darby for “supplies.” On my way, I passed the Lone Pine Cemetery where I glimpsed a young woman stooped over a grave, shoulders bent, and shaking in grief. She was alone.

I drove for a mile or so before I turned around. Did I dare intrude on her privacy? Did I dare not?

Just after I parked my car, the grieving woman stood up from her stooped position over the grave and wiped her eyes. I waited. When she began slowly walking toward her car with an empty vase in hand, I started toward her. As our eyes met, I reached out to take her in my arms. I kissed her on the forehead, and slipped a copy of the little book I recently published into her hand. No words passed between us, but profound communication occurred.

I returned to my car and cried. For a few brief moments her pain was mine. I was glad to have had the opportunity to share it. I can only hope our encounter helped to ease the burden she carries.

We are all brothers and sisters, you know. The circumstances we are forced to claim as our own may vary. There may be a stark contrast between the locales in which we live. The color of our skin may be different. But our triumphs and losses make us kin. We are meant to care for one another.

It is my prayer that Montana will care for my son and give back to him what he gives to it. They have embraced one another. It is Georgia's loss.

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