I smelled the first person I met in Missoula, Montana before I saw him. This, of course, isn’t entirely an insult. The individual in question wore a white wife beater that radiated a blue-collar cigarette and paid-by-the-hour musk. He was engaged in conversation with any who were within earshot regarding the fishing at a particular reservoir in the area. He was particularly interested in intel regarding musky and walleye. However, from the language he used to describe their methods of capture, I doubt that he could tell the two apart even if they wore nametags.

Further exploration of the state revealed that Montana folk are an incredibly diverse species, each subspecies possessing charming quirks and less-than-attractive idiosyncrasies. For example, the cattle ranchers that you see in small towns are as tough as the hides they tan. The wrinkles around their eyes and sun-browned skin are evidence of a life tied to the land they live on. The loose curls that fall out of their worn but ruggedly elegant cowboy hats quiet any remaining questions as to their belonging in big sky country. However, unlike many Montanans, part of big sky country belongs to them. Private land isn’t a bad thing. It is an American tradition that goes right to their heart of our individualistic ethos. It just can look a little funny right beside, say, a national park–an ego-obliterating monolith that reminds us that there are some stories that began before we got here and will be far from over when we’re gone.

There is another subspecies of Montanan that roams the hills with their agricultural counterpart. This creature is much more likely to be found at a craft microbrewery than at the Friday night rodeo. He drives a sticker-spattered Subaru to and from work and the local ski resort. He prefers the crowd at the local organic farmer’s market to socialize on his weekends off. In the brief summer months, his fly rods and mountain bike never leave his vehicle. Upcycled water bottles and repurposed material hats help him live what he sees as an eco-friendly lifestyle in one of the most beautiful places in the United States. As much as I appreciate the environmentally sensitive perspective that these folks bring to the table, they are largely to blame for the housing shortage in the state. Who would’ve thought ski, climbing, and trout bums would ever make an impact on the economy? Their eagerness to find a cheap place to live rivals the enthusiasm of a cutthroat that grabs a foam dry fly with startling gusto. But I can’t blame them. While humans rarely go without food in the United States, nourishment for the soul seems scarce. Here the streams are cold, and the mountains tall. That is a spiritual high that many Americans can’t find anywhere else. These outdoor junkies seem to be able to catch that enticing scent wafting down from the mountains more easily than those still captivated by the prospect of climbing the corporate ladder.

The third main strain of Montanan flies a little more under the radar than the first two do. You won't see them riding in expensive farm equipment on a five-generation family ranch. You won’t be likely to find them in an uppity bar or ski resort. They won’t be strapped into trad climbing gear on some uninitiated lump of rock. I’m talking about canyon critters. It could be easy to mistake these folks for a redneck (southern strain) or a hick (midwestern strain). Canyon critters find themselves in a class of their own, and are difficult to describe well. One thing is for sure, you know one when you see one. They could be spotted at local watering holes–the kind that simply list popular Western beers and their prices on a sun-bleached sign. The males of this species do not often seek the services of a barber, and usually wear long beards and unruly haircuts that were apparently done in a mirror with a pair of garden shears. Toothbrushes and other dental care equipment are apparently scarce in their native habitat. Their transportation does not reflect the zeitgeist of the average Montana resident in 2025. (It very well could be the Toyota Taco capital of the world.) A canyon critter has an affinity for pickups, but they sport no modern comforts, like rearview mirrors, matching side panels, or windshield wipers. Their vehicles are for towing, stowing, and going–nothing extra is wanted or needed. What these folks lack in class they make up for in lack of pretentiousness. They probably live near the fabled Blackfoot River. And they probably fish it with worms. They know how to exist in this wild place with few resources and simple tactics. While this lack of sophistication isn’t exactly something to aim for, it goes to show that Montana can draw out a no-frills approach to life that seems to be absent in our comparison-crazed social media-saturated lives.

I may have been a bit harsh on each flavor of Montanan. But then again, we all probably fit under more labels than we’d like to think we do. Montana has shaped all these people just as it has been shaped by them. A biologist would call this gene-environment interaction. Those Montanans with the proclivity to becoming downhill skiers and craft-brew drinkers move into environments with these things readily available. Then, they open stylish bistros themselves, or invest in a new ski resort venture, and thus alter their environment to better suit their wiring. But that is the nature of Montana, I think: transformative and transforming. This process can be observed in the non-human animals that call Montana home, too. Take Montana’s most iconic mammal, the grizzly bear. It is a symbol almost synonymous with the Treasure State. But a grizzly biologist who works in the shadow of Glacier National Park once told me that despite this mental association, the grizzly bear evolved as a plains animal. (This can readily be confirmed upon examining their tracks. Unlike a black bear, a grizzly’s claws are seldom imprinted, even in mud. This is because their claws are flatish–specialized for digging and foraging for plants, roots, and surprisingly, moths, which make up a staggering amount of their annual food consumption.) It was not until the time of European settlement that the grizzly bear was forced into the artificial confinement of high mountain ranges in the extreme Northwestern corner of the lower 48. Even the mighty grizzly had to adapt to what we think of as a Montane environment–an environment that attracts and sustains a melting pot of personalities and supports the wildlife that have called the state home before humans did. It is a living, breathing masterpiece that obliterates our unchecked assumptions, our unattended vices, and our unexplored inner potential. It is a grand stage that we can choose to honor with our best, or disgrace with our worst. Perhaps most importantly, it gives us enough wide open space to tell one from the other.

Montana(ns)

Worry