For me, Gallatin Valley is still defined by my childhood memories of weaving through rows of corn, sitting among moist, shaded soil and ripe raspberries, brushing the dirt from orange carrots, eating fistfuls of green beans only moments from picking off the vine.
My dad arrived in Gallatin Valley in the early 1970s, trading the hot and humid red-dirt climate of Oklahoma for Montana’s snow-capped peaks, cold flowing rivers, and thin alpine air. He had taken a summer job with the U.S. Forest Service during college, venturing into the fabled West, and was immediately captivated. Just as soon as he could after graduation, he found his way back, setting new roots in fertile soil along Middle Creek west of Bozeman.
This was the homestead where I grew up, the home surrounded by dappled light, venerable cottonwood trees, and the wide green blades of grass. My dad passed away in 2024 and in so doing he left this legacy to me.
As I cared for his affairs, I found myself sifting through old documents and photographs, treasures of an era that preceded digital gratification. One image, in particular, gave me great reason to pause.
In a blue envelope labeled “1976” in my dad’s calligraphic script, I found a photo of him at 30 years old, crouched on the earth with his sleeves rolled up and red hair tousled. His mother has a hand upon his shoulder and stands smiling for the camera. Stretching behind them is a new garden plot with the inaugural year’s plants toddling up from the soil. Beyond the garden is a clear and unimpeded view all the way to Mount Ellis and Leverich Canyon in the Gallatin Range.
It was from this small rectangle of earth that our family reaped great joy each summer of my growing up, and to my great surprise, that began when my dad was a bachelor.
For me, Gallatin Valley is still defined by my childhood memories of weaving through rows of corn, sitting among moist, shaded soil and ripe raspberries, brushing the dirt from orange carrots, eating fistfuls of green beans only moments from picking off the vine. Gallatin Valley is dark topsoil, fields planted with crops, dirt roads, livestock.
While great change has come to the valley, the roots of the region’s verdant past remain in the soil, and my heart delights in reading the stories of those seeking to contribute their share of the change with intention. It is from this deep place of caring that I find great joy in participating in the production of Edible Bozeman. And with this issue, in particular, I delight in embracing the fruits of this soil.
Jessianne Castle
Editor in Chief
