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A stocky guy, white chef’s coat, puffed chef’s hat and jeans picks oregano and thyme from the garden. His braided gray-black hair hangs down his back to his waist. Hands full, he walks past the slashed poles of a teepee. Turns out this was one of his first homes it’s where he delivered his kids. That’s Gary, Gary Hastings. Master of the bold stroke and mastermind of Coyote Roadhouse Inn and Restaurant. |
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A chipmunk creeps up to the bunch of grapes left on the porch. She grabs one, tugs, and tugs again—no go. Keeping a close eye on the porch’s occupants, she gnaws through the stem. Grape liberated, she hugs her prize to her chest and bolts for safety. Then, the eerie drill-trill made by a night hawk, hunting with its mouth open, muscles into the silence. Venus rises in the east as the sun eases out in the west, throwing its lanky rays through the pines. |
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 Whitefish is huckleberry country. A little like blueberries, they grow wild all around here. By August, they’re mighty good eating. A late summer Montana hike without stopping for a huckleberry munch is just no hike at all. Bears love huckleberries, too. They’re a large part of both the grizzly and the black bear’s late summer diet. You’ll want to stay out of their diners.
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