I left Montana in Spring of 1866, for Utah, arriving at Salt Lake city during the summer.
I despise people who go to the gutter on either the right or the left and hurl rocks at those in the center.
If Antarctica were music it would be Mozart. Art, and it would be Michelangelo. Literature, and it would be Shakespeare. And yet it is something even greater; the only place on earth that is still as it should be. May we never tame it.