Ever since I first heard about Tippet Rise, I've wanted to visit. It's an art installation and concert venue on a 12,000-acre ranch in south-central Montana, roughly halfway between Billings and Bozeman. At Tippet Rise, large-scale sculptures are connected by 13 miles of trails, all set against the backdrop of the Beartooth Mountains.
I was determined to visit this year. In fact, I planned my most recent trip to North Dakota around a stop at Tippet Rise on my way home. It is not a place you can just stop by—this is not a roadside attraction. Admission is free, but Tippet Rise limits the number of daily visitors. You have to arrange for tickets far in advance, or win their annual concert ticket lottery. Until a few days before my trip, I was on a wait list.
Then, floods hit this part of Montana, washing out bridges and homes. It looked like Tippet Rise might not even be open while I was in the area. The facilities were unaffected by the floods, but towns nearby were hit hard, and Tippet Rise sent its employees to help out. Bridges leading to the ranch were washed out, forcing closures and delays for visitors and residents. Tippet Rise wasn't certain it was wise to add to the traffic. I, too, felt conflicted about being a tourist when so many people were suffering loss.
Yet Tippet Rise opened, and I was able to go. I set out early from Billings, too early. I was so eager to get there that I arrived 30 minutes before the ranch opened. I could hardly help myself! I told the gate attendant that I had been thinking about this place for so long, that I wanted to make sure I could spend every minute possible there during the seven hours of time I was allotted for my visit.
Technically, my visit was on Day Eight of my roadtrip—if you've been following along here for any length of time, you know that Day Eight is when things can and do go sideways. Dead batteries, speeding tickets, stomach bugs, foiled plans, lost phones, weird spots on camera sensors, physical and metaphorical roadblocks, emergency vet bills, petty misunderstandings...the list of potential hazards is long and instructive. (And yes, some of those things did happen on this journey, but not on Day Eight.)
Nothing went wrong on this Day Eight. It was a perfect day. The sun was bright, but there was a pleasant, light breeze and the temperature hovered around 72 degrees. I had sunscreen, a hat, ample water and snacks, and fully charged camera batteries.
There is minimal interpretation at the sculptures themselves, although there are rangers on the trails to help you decide where to go and to keep you safe and answer questions. If you get tired, they’ll radio for a van to come get you at one of the trail intersections. For many long stretches, though—hours at a time—I saw no one.
I have tried for two weeks since my visit to write about what it was like to be there, and I have struggled to get the words on the page. Tippet Rise is designed to be a place of conscious observation. You are encouraged to have personal experiences with the sculptures and the land. This is why, in part, I was so drawn to it, why I wanted to go. But I do not know how to describe the internal experience of conscious observation and the joy of being fully present in a place, not without boring you. This is what poets do best, and I am a journalist.
Perhaps all these photos are one way to share the experience?
As I was leaving, the gate attendant I first met in the morning asked me what I liked the most about my visit. I thought about his question for a moment, not sure I could fit my answer in a sentence or two. I told him it was the final hike across a ravine, from portal-to-portal. I didn’t mention this, but I was tired when I began the final stretch—I could feel a blister forming on my right heel. I’d already walked at least nine miles, and my decision to hike from portal-to-portal meant four more miles until a van could come get me to take me back to the visitor center. But I didn’t care. I didn’t know when I would return, and I wanted to see as much as possible on my visit. I have never seen so many wildflowers, I told him.
Later, as I drove to Bozeman, I thought more about what I loved the most. It was the physical sensation of being there, the hard 13 miles of it, in the elements. There are rattlesnakes, after all! It was how I noticed the birds sitting on barbed wire, and how when they took off in flight, the wire vibrated in the absence of their slight presence. It was the way my peanut butter and jelly sandwich tasted as I walked through the prairies. The sound a rubber mallet made when I banged it against one of the sculptures—and the glee of the permission to make noise with big art. The memories evoked by spotting prairie smoke wildflowers, a plant I knew because someone who cares deeply about prairies identified them for me and others in North Dakota six years ago. It was how I maneuvered my body to find the best angles and light for photos. The smell of the manure—this is a cattle ranch, after all. And the big skies of Montana, oh my heart!
It was also the solitude—although I never felt alone or lonely. I understood my connection to where I was and felt honored to be able to be in this place where others have trod the earth for thousands of years before me. What a privilege to have it all seared into the folds of my brain, into the skin of my heel and the freckles on my face.
Perhaps most importantly, it was the freedom to be there, to experience these sensations in my body without interference. You do not have to go to Montana to see art or to feel these feelings or this freedom. But it seems especially important right now for women and everyone else in America who fears for their bodily autonomy to insist on time and space for the joy, too, of their physical experience.
Love,
Erika
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Here’s what else is bringing me joy right now:
The Swimmers, by Julie Otsuka. It’s a short, near-perfect novel about what happens when a pool suddenly develops a crack. This is also a book about dementia, which I’m glad I didn’t know when I began it, because I might not have picked it up. More here, if you want to learn more about the creative use of point of view in this novel.
The Bear, on Hulu. Try not to binge it! Here’s what it’s all about.
The playlist for my most recent roadtrip keeps making me happy.
I sleep poorly in mummy-shaped sleeping bags—too confining!—and this quilt is my favorite new camping gear. (It’s a splurge, but we bought it during the REI annual sale, and applied our dividend.)
A stranger in a coffee shop told me on Friday that I looked like “summer personified” in this hat, which made my vain little summer, obviously. It rolls up for packing!
Finally: It’s been a busy, joyful summer for meaningful work, too. For Stateline, I wrote about the connection between housing and seasonal employment, and why states are struggling to provide adequate public defense.
Tippet Rise? Never heard of it but now I’m intrigued. Sounds inspiring.