The Beige End of the Rainbow

I used to think nature’s beauty meant dark green pine forests. Or blue lakes so deep no one has ever reached the bottom. Or something bright enough to catch the eye like a ruby-throated hummingbird.

But driving through Paradise Valley at dusk on the last day of February, surrounded by the ocher hills and sage-brushed slopes, I find myself asking: How is this dry, barren brown valley so beautiful I just want to stop and soak it all in?

As I wind from Yankee Jim Canyon toward Corwin Springs,  the light slowly drains from the sky, and the valley gathers itself into shades of brown. Chocolate — milk and dark. Russet - yes, like the potato - and tawny like a cougar staring at me from atop a rocky ledge. Beige that is somehow alive rather than boring. They’re all here. And the land is glowing so brightly it feels like my eyes, my body are glowing.

This high, dry valley could be mistaken for barren. The ruggedness — brown hills, muted sage, grasses bleached by wind and sun — might be dismissed as dull beside the deep emerald forests and postcard lakes people expect from Montana. The land is still so rugged I expect to see cowboys and tourists in stagecoaches, American Indians on horseback next to me when I look out the window, heading for a buffalo hunt or a trip into Yellowstone. Not high-end spas being built at the edge of the blacktop.

Nothing here pretends to be what it is not, even that high-end spa I want to try, and the land does not care if I am impressed. It did not soften for my benefit, and if I freeze in a blizzard or misjudge a river crossing, the valley will not apologize. Respect blooms here before anything else does. I am not in control of this place. I am the guest, and the land is a kind but unforgiving hostess.

***

I remember the first time I was stunned by this valley when it wasn’t lush and fertile. It happened slowly as the summer scorched it dry from the verdancy of spring. Then one day, the golden grasses and fawn-colored foothills made me catch my breath. At first in dismay, then in amazement. And I realized the deep green of this valley is an anomaly.  

We’ve been here nine months, and Paradise Valley still startles me - even in its plain, khaki coat. It never repeats itself. One day it’s the way the river gleams silver and blue under fluffy cotton clouds. Another it’s the gray-blue and pearlescent pink sunset in a liquid sky as we head towards Bozeman. Today it was the browns and the muted greens; the way the grasses and hills seemed lit from within as the sun slipped away.

There is a glow that touches mountaintops at dusk called alpine glow. Usually, it crowns peaks in pink, coral, purples, and blues. But tonight the glow lingered lower — on gray and tan hills, on sagebrush and dark chocolate boulders that look like they were hurled from the mountaintop by an angry giant. It was as if the earth itself held onto the last light and refused to let it go.

And driving through it, I felt something thought-provoking. As I mentioned, the glow felt like it was coming from inside me. Which made me wonder: Am I beige?

Sometimes I feel beige. Plain, quiet. A background color. Necessary, perhaps, but not celebrated. Not the vibrant yellow of someone sparkling at a party. Just…there.

But, as I drive through the dry valley every week, I realize, beige is not nothing. Beige is the herd of deer, hidden along the roadside; it’s sandstone and swaying grasses, and the inside of a tree. Beige is the canvas on which everything else rests to be vibrant. The bright yellow maples of autumn wouldn’t shine as bright against a deep green foothill as they do when surrounded by sandy hills and bleached valley floors.

Maybe I am beige with veins of burnt red running through me, the color of Devil’s Slide above Yellowstone Hot Springs. Streaks of black where fires have burnt out, and I’ve had my fair share. Maybe my beige is smudges of sage and sweetgrass, clearing and cleansing. Maybe I am not dull — only subtle yet powerful. And that’s okay.

Is this valley a mirror reflecting me back to myself? Or am I projecting myself onto it? Is that too mystical? Too indulgent? As I drive, I don’t care if it is - it’s where this winding road is leading me. And I feel blessed to have this vast valley of paradise to let my thoughts bounce off the hills and the space to think.

***

We’re told we’re made of stardust. Fine. But why can’t we be made of dirt and pine needles and river stones? Why can’t we glow like the dry, parched earth does when the light is slowly pulled from the sky? 

Maybe beauty isn’t always a purple alpenglow on the snow-capped peaks or a sparkling yellow “life of the party.” Maybe a glossy brown is what remains when the unnecessary has burned off and the lessons of life are starting to take root. Maybe brown is what survives. And maybe that’s beautiful, too.

One thing I do know - this valley doesn’t ask me to be brighter. It asks that I simply exist like it does — wind-scoured and sun-bleached and unapologetically itself. And the longer I live here, the more I feel something in me becoming subdued, simplifying. The noise quieting. 

I don’t know if I belong to this land yet. Nine months is nothing to a valley carved by wind and water over time so long I can’t begin to comprehend it. But I am trying to be observant of the way light moves across the hills, the way the river swells and shrinks, the way winter does its own thing, no matter how much we need the snow - just like Utah - the place I was glad to leave behind because it left nature behind.

Paradise Valley doesn’t let me ignore nature - I face it every time I drive through it. Whether I’m greeted by views so green I want to stop and roll around in the grasses or so golden brown one spark would ignite the whole thing. 

And maybe one evening, driving through ocher and sage as the last golden light bleeds away, I won’t be asking whether brown is beautiful. I’ll simply accept that - of course it is. Its beige beauty doesn’t need to show off. It’s already glowing - quietly, steadily, and without spectacle.

credit for the photo