Catarina Mendoza arrived in Bozeman in 1992 for a nursing job at the hospital and stayed for the mountains, which she insisted were “just like Jalisco, only colder.” She worked the night shift at Deaconess for thirty-two years and knew every back road between here and Livingston before the four-lane went in.

She bought her house on Durston in 1996 for what her daughter Isabel calls “a reasonable number” and what the current Zillow estimate calls “a down payment in Bozeman proper.” Catarina refused to sell when the first developer knocked, and she refused when the second developer knocked, and she refused when the third developer brought cookies. The house still has the original siding. The neighborhood now has three breweries and a meditation studio.

She measured the seasons in elk sightings and the price of hay, not in housing starts. Her freezer always contained green chile, deer sausage, and a Tupperware of something she made for whoever stopped by. The lifted trucks and the Subarus both waved when they passed her on Durston. She waved back at all of them.

The view of the Bridgers from her kitchen window hasn’t changed. Everything else has.