This is how the day begins, peering out a plastic window 2,000 feet above the valley floor. The helicopter womp-womps through the crisp morning air. The city streets are black and quiet below.

Another day is ramping up under a cloudless September sky. Lamps flicker off. Shadows appear under the rising sun. Out there it’s so soft you think you can fly.

It’s not every day we see Montana from this perspective, sailing over the landscape in a low-flying, slow-moving helicopter (slow compared to United Express to Denver). We don’t get to see the light come to the East as darkness retreats to the West.

The best we can hope for is to climb a mountain and linger at the top. The best we can do is stand in the wind and appreciate the valley views and distant ranges. Appreciate what such arduous trips are willing to show us.

Anyone who has floated the Dearborn River or scaled Red Mountain knows the size of the landscape. They know the effort involved in achieving a goal. They know the grunt and grind it takes to reach the top when your pack is overstuffed and your feet are blistered because you’ve worn cotton socks in place of smart wool or fancy wicking fibers.

It’s not easy peddling up the Mount Helena Ridge Trail on a sweltering July afternoon. It’s not easy to reach — let alone climb — Granite Peak in the Beartooth Mountains.

But from up here, up in this machine that flies, it looks like it should be easy. You should be able to step into the Bob Marshall without losing your breath. Or swim the Missouri River without losing a stroke to the current.

The mountains look docile. The rivers look tranquil. The land stands big and peaceful like the gigantic pastel painting you wished you had on your living room wall.

Down there, the terrain moves and twitches in the shadows like it will never change, looking solid and resistant to the most powerful forces. Down there, you know its quiet, even while the wind rushes and the blades chop over the headset.

Our pilots catch a station from Cutbank. Or is that Havre? It’s AM radio. It’s the hog market and American Woman. It’s the farm report and “How Deep is Your Love.”

Two thousand feet below it’s the herd of antelope running. It’s the farmer’s tractor plowing away in a lonely field as big as some cities, a long column of dust fanning out behind him.

It’s the hills like a desert twisting and folding above the prairie. Then the prairie melts into the Rocky Mountain Front. It’s the Marias River bending back on itself, or the Smith River fading into the distant haze.

It’s the light playing off the terrain, casting deep shadows and pictures upon the world.

It’s you knowing that when you land, when the womp-womp ends and the blades stop turning, that place down there is the place you call home.

Reporter Martin Kidston: 447-4086 or mkidston@helenair.com