Warm fires and cold nights, these are the things of fairy tales and folk lore. Sitting beside the fire was not only a way to stay warm, it was there that families found the center of their union, where romance and connection flourished.

Living in the New West as I do, at the very heart in fact, in Bozeman, Montana, I cherished the fire and the warmth it brought to my body and soul. And so too have the thousands who have moved here. But with their dream so too has come a new theif of the very spirit for which they moved here.

Today was not a cold day, rather a crisp 28 degrees with the typical crystal clear Montana skies of which legends and license plates are made. The snow from last week still drapes like frosting on the trees and the mountains blue green seems almost alien in it's richness. But something is amiss.

There, across the valley lies a blanket of white and grey. It is not snow. Wisps of it float about deceivingly elegant in their form and rich in their transparency and delicacy. In fact, a temperature inversion was holding this art show earthward, creating an at once beautiful and chillingly vexing realization of its composition. Smoke. True, much of it is from the diesel pickups and trucks of builders and commerce, but the wispy nature speaks volumes to the origins in fireplaces and wood stoves providing warmth and comfort to their occupants while choking the livability of the valley floor.

That's the problem with coming to paradise. The idyllic scenery and rich stories of postcard like photos like the one attached to this story bely the fact that too many of these "good" things can cause ruin to that which they most cherish. But a bigger question: How can something that has been such a staple of our cultural history be so bad for us and more importantly, how do we deal with the fact our dreams may be bad for us? Everything in moderation they say. I just hope we've got the ability to say "when".