Big Wood River

Last week when the sun briefly shone I traveled south to see the Big Wood River cut through a sage brush canyon . The area is called sheep bridge after the above, dilapidated and shottily refurbished suspension bridge. I only had the guts to go several feet out on it as it groaned, cracked and bent under each footstep. Planks had been nailed slopppily, provididng little structural support. I could see water between the cracks. Although the trail seemed well worn by hooves and it would seem could hold the bodies of many sheep, the sight of the dark, swelling water below and the visions of Indiana Jones kept me close to the bank.

Trout Friendly Police

In many respects this has become my life. The trout seem to bounce around the walls of my skull at night. During the day it can consume me, my phone calls, emails, thoughts, strategies and plans revolve around making friends with trout and the folks who collectively have the power to save or destroy them. The logo has me wrapped up like a burrito, a pig in a green blanket. I'm the trout friendly cop on the block, I can't help it. For the summer it is most of my mission. It has sent me smack into Idaho's Aspen or Jackson Hole--Sun Valley. I've seen houses and properties that haven't been imagined in most of America. Lofty modern homes with cement floors of radiating heat, decks overlooking the river, sprawling post and beam spreads whose floor plans are like drunken characters of the alphabet. There are outdoor covered porches, like lavish living rooms without walls, beautiful furniture, fire place and rustic mantle, elk hanging over the scene next to a silver grill station flanked by stainless steel counters, fresh flowers on the table to entertain the bees. And that's just standard. There are folks with native plants arranged in their gardens, water conscious drip irrigation systems to make any Portland homeowner drool in green envy. And then there is the "wretched excess" which people at the office call it. The mansions plopped on the canyons like expensive manure, astroturf green lawns, blue spruce twenty feet tall that came on huge trucks special ordered to the fancy of the second homeowner who may get the chance to pat themselves on the back for their foofoo lawn a few times a year. There is Arnold Schw....not gonna try's house with a pool like a lake sandwiched between public land-hummers, private jets, spas, violently overpriced restaurants as one reviewer put it. And still it can be flipped, and you have the hungry surface, the renters, the day laborers, the young and the interns like myself, loving that mountains stand so close and at that at every moment there are lessons on how and how not to live.

North Fork of the Big Wood River

Last weekend I was a little desperate to get into the mountains after nearly two weeks and a thousand miles of just sagebrush. The North Fork of the Big Wood River begins as a trickle on the alpine slopes of the Boulder Mountains. I didn't make it that far with the snow sheets still in place, but was able to lodge myself in the middle of nowhere quite easily. Only two signatures on the trail log were marked 09, and beyond an old avalanche slide that spread down from a steep slope to the river, no one had yet stepped.




I know this is predator scat of some sort, with the white hairs and all but cougar or wolf I cannot tell.

Greenhorn Gulch and Lyon's Marsh

The sun that blazed for the first week and a half in the Wood River Valley gave in to thunderheads, boiling in the mountains, advancing their anvils over the plains like the heads of curious snails. This past week has been Portland weather with a dash of thunder. It has made for a couple of interesting scenes, from the dramatic clouds above to the red-winged black birds I caught in a marsh near my house.

Gooding's City of Rocks

On a Friday morning I packed all my gear ready for the rocks. After work it was only an hour and a half through the Camas prairie and into the sage brushed Bennet Hills, separating the Prairie from the large depression of the snake river plain stretching east to west across Idaho like a thick smile.

Miles of sometimes rugged, rattling roads gave way to a view down a pillared canyon and then topping a ridge, an expanse of hoodoos and eroded rock, hunched or erect, twisted and broken, awash in sun, dotted the hills as they sloped off toward the river plain.

My plan consisted of backpacking into one of the canyons, but the quiet breeze and the occasional gurgle of a meadowlark left that classic feel of sagebrush desolation and I realized I was far enough out as it was. I used the truck instead as a base camp and tracked off toward the largest canyon I could see, flanked by yellow balsamroot which reached willowed bottoms of water aching to move.


The sun sank in a quiet fury the way it often does in the desert, ushered down with the occasional mourning dove and screech owl. I could sit on a rock perch and watch it for hours, while in the east the dark had taken hold. These are the kind of spots that make the west great. No t-shirts, shot glasses or National Park calendars here.

The Camas Prarie

It' s one of those landscapes that creeps up on you. The kind you daydream through until a the hulk of the Soldier Mountains comes into view. I headed out to have a look as many at the land trust told me it was worth the hour ride. I startled a herd of mule deer at the marsh, and saw antelope grazing on the plain, but never close enough for a photo.
The next evening I would be back and even the next after that for the RanchFest party held every year at Deb-Da-Doo Ranch. There were bands, fireworks, camping - all on a small scale. But the people were friendly and the scenery terrific. It was nice to be with people more my own age, but odd to be in the festival atmosphere without a single familiar face

In Idaho

This is definitely the first time Mikey has made an appearance on the blog...This pretty much sums up his world view. At least he's got a helmet on. Connecticut seems back in the distant time now with the new job gaining steam. But this was a gorgeous day, and unusual in that the entire family was out on the farm at once.







Here in Hailey temps have been hanging steady in the mid 70's with humidity at around 25%. It's been so dry that I've been continuously thirsty, having sweat wicked away by the wind and sun before I could even notice I was perspiring-a tricky situation. But I'll live. I've recovered from the drive out as well. Without a doubt it was the most taxing long distance drive I've attempted yet. My stay in Fort Collins with Tim Wood, while fun, was anything but relaxing. The elevation combined with no joke- three beers- had me reeling. The next day I struggled through the Wyoming steppe, past towns built around flame belching oil and gas refineries and open pit mines. The new west sits atop the surface of the old like a pimple. Towns like Little America, a tiny highway hamlet, lend a face to inexorable change. Against a backdrop of glittering wind turbines the sun exploded on the horizon in a sunset unmatched against the previous nights. There is always the moments in a road trip where the earth seems surreal, the people small and helpless, and the journey tragic and feeble. It happens in big country mostly, on that day falling on me like the gravity of a big decision about to be made. But it always passes and the next morning the sagebrush valleys of southern Idaho stretched toward high snow bound peaks. And then quite suddenly I arrived.
After much eating and sleeping I took a hike up Carbonate mountain to get my bearings. Above is the town of Hailey stretching north to south between the foothills of the Pioneer Range and Smokey Mountains.
Wildflowers on the hilltops were in bloom. Indian paintbrush, the red in this photo, added to the scenery. There have been plenty of wildlife stories that bring the landscape alive, from co-workers stumbling onto wolves in hot pursuit of an elk, foxes running along the back porch, to moose in the rivers. Idaho is the wildest state that gets the least attention nationally. Although Sun Valley, north of Hailey is now a world class destination for the wealthy. Supposedly Bruce Willis, yes Bruce Willis, owns a bunch of the historic buildings in town. It's an odd mix of the mega wealthy and the old west, an experiment continuing to offer new data. Perhaps best about the town is that within ten minutes you can be looking at snow studded peaks in roadless valleys, accessible by tough roads or hiking trails. Options for recreation are unlimited and I have a three day weekend approaching...

Spring Finally Spring

Say what you will about warm summer nights, thigh deep powder, or fall foliage, a winter in Duluth places Spring sturdily at the number one spot for favorite seasons. Last fall I missed the foliage. Instead I found a brown, soon to be dormant world. Arriving in mid April however, every stimulus seems fresh as if seeing it for the first time. A whole host of birds that heretofore had existed in a blur of ignorance suddenly came to life. There have been bluebirds, field sparrows, scarlet tanagers, a parade of woodpeckers. I was calling for Chuck on the hill behind my parents house (not unusual) just after a string of 80 even 90 degree days when I stepped into the richest woods I had seen since the west coast. Ferns, trillium, marigolds and mosses creeping by the brook. No bird call I have yet heard rivals the seemingly tropical, liquid whistle of wood thrushes. I first heard there. Basically I have been consulting guide books constantly to know the names of what I've seen or heard all my life. To suddenly take the time to realize the complexity and diversity of an environment shines a light on an unfortunately once dark part of my mind.
I know he poses

One morning I passed some roadkill on rt. 219 that bisects the farm and a timbered bog. I thought it an odd color for a fox and turned around to find a once healthy bobcat laying still on the pavement. It was unfortunate but interesting to finally see one up close, see the paws, the teeth, compare it in size to our housecats-the stubby tail. When you can drive a mile in any direction and find a new sub-development slashed into the woods with gaudy homes plopped hastily, its hard to believe bobcats are still running amok.

It's been easy to see and hear spring happen with all the work we've accomplished. We planted 14 hundred seedlings, delivered and planted pine trees, revamped the flower beds and landscaping of the house, scraped, sanded, and powerwashed the house for painting, dug ditches and so on. It's been intense. But after an unemployed winter-immensely satisfying.
As if he never comes with us...







When Chuck gets wet you have to stand back and just watch the mayhem. There will be jumping and rolling in the grass, howling barks and circles ran at full speed, in other words mindless running with the intention of going nowhere. Post water is a prime time to get bowled over. His eyes gloss over and when running straight at you it looks like a cinder block on legs. Often he'll pick up any stick near him, shake his head violently, drop it, run to retrieve but miss and commence again the mindless circles. It is a sight to behold. During the instance that inevitably ensued I decided to hang my camera from a tree branch. It's that ridiculous.


And at last but of course not least there is the spring pig. No not swine flu. I'm talking about the monster in my hand there. 7.5 pounds of redemption. It had been a while since I had been in the old Tracker, but Tim had it running like a honey. With his 5 lber early in the day I couldn't even entertain the thought of getting one bigger. I hate to say it, but the going got tough, and when it did I tied on a senko. I know it is the bait that's made many a novice feel like a pro but hey - at least I landed it. It's the biggest bass I ever caught. Considering I devoted years of my life pursuing them, it was awesome in the truest sense. We threw her back of course, as she was fat with eggs.