idaho — Page 8

Then came the stormy days of autumn.

October 24, 2010 by The Noisy Plume

Winter comes. I too will build my bed of silk.

I too will love the sun when she rises and miss her when she sets.

These veined, rumpled, multi hued vessels of spentness — newly released from the fingertips of trees — are so delicate and so content to catch the rain instead of the wind.

When I’m old and my mind and hands are clumsy, I hope to be just as full of grace.

All of Nature’s confetti seems resigned to the fates dictated by the seasons; gathered up in a finale of colorful clouds in the tree tops, fistfuls there on the forest floors and clustered in the spring-fed mountain water as it flows. That confetti has spun around, crackling and clanging its overripe, organic rhythms (those mourning songs for the decay and death of chloroplasts) for a short spell. The light has grown too dim to capture. Wary of the hard frosts, it modulated a cyclical song in minor keys, turning teary variations over and over in the thickness of the wind, before the cold began to creep down from the mountaintops. And now everything is settling, yellow, orange and red carpets the floors here, waiting for blankets of white, waiting for the lacy whispers of solid state, the hard winds of dagger and ice from the North and the sleep of the slumber months. I purse my lips and carefully blow my breath in a column towards a heavy grey sky; my eyes can see the white. The white, it comes.

Roots sink deeper, closer to the warmth of the core of Earth and we all hold on, just a bit tighter, as we spin and make our way around the sun.

Filed Under: autumn, idaho, seasons

In The Sawtooths

October 2, 2010 by The Noisy Plume

We take trips.

We take friends with us sometimes.

We leave Plume Gables early Monday morning, cross the desert, descend from the hills alongside the Salmon River and coast into Sawtooth country.

We stop at hot springs for a soak in the sunshine. We sit there in the water, on the river, flutter kick when the temperature becomes too hot, fan colder water into place with our hands and squint in the sun. We discuss how lucky we are to live in this state. Sam talks about how badly he wants to move back. He’s getting his soul crushed in Salt Lake City and is longing for Idaho again.

We arrive in Stanley.

A small cowboy town set against the silhouette of the Sawtooths; a young, unfolding mountain range with the toothiest profile I have ever seen. More impressive, in my opinion, than the Tetons of Wyoming, with a fraction of the crowds. We have lunch here, but it’s not enough to see the Sawtooths from this distance, we want to be in them.

We drive deeper into the landscape, find our trail head, throw our bags on our backs and set out. We tumble through lodge pole pine forests, drift over creeks, breathe deeply and comment on how many teeth this range of the Rocky Mountains seems to have.

Golden hour arrives and the world looks rich with color.

The peaks are covered in sunshine sauce.

The trees bow down beneath the weight of chroma.

We find a place on a jutting peninsula to camp for the night. There is light still, though we cannot see the sun anymore, and we fish until our fingers are numb.

When darkness falls we build a small fire with driftwood from the edges of the lake. We heat water. We push the bodies of brook trout onto the ends of sticks and roast them over the open fire until their translucent flesh turns solid and salmon pink. We peel the crisp skin from their sleek forms and pick delicious, fresh, crumbs of meat off of their spines and ribs until we can pick no more. We make tea. We sit and listen to the fire. At one point, I’ve just raised my cup to my lips when a falling star with a blazing tail swoops up from the next valley over and crests over the peak at the end of our lake. I fall all over myself with a mouth full of tea, pointing and choking so that the boys can catch a glimpse of a 6 second long star fall over our campsite. We marvel. I have tea on my jacket. What a merry fire.

In the morning, the lake is still. The world is filled with reflection and reflections. We fish more. I consume cups and cups of tea.

The dogs ramble about and the world is hushed. In the middle of the lake, the water is boiling with rising trout. They take the sun in their mouths, and bugs too, swim those things down deep into the depths where no light naturally goes and there they plant the warmth of the world so that all things aqueous have a source.
At least this is what I daydream while I look out at the radiating rings the fish leave on the surface of the water, each time they rise up.
Rise up.

In the center of our campsite, a dead, gnarled pine, twisted in a smooth swirl down to its roots by a lightning strike, scarred with the marks left by bear claws, firmly rooted. I wonder when it will fall.

And then the sun crests the peaks to the East and instantly, the temperature changes. We mobilize. We put our bags on our backs. We walk.

There’s time for reading while the boys fish at lunch. I’m on a slab of granite, warm in the sun, gnawing on a carrot and some hummus in a corn tortilla. Every now and again, I look up across this lake, watch Sam cast out over the water, listen to the wind in the trees. My eyes take in more than this, small details that I won’t mention here. The left side of my bottom is wet from where a small strand of water is flowing across the boulder I’m perched on. I don’t care.

We hike on, beneath rambling cliffs of water and glacier polished granite. I wonder how I could incorporate granite polished texture into a piece of jewelry. I bend down, pick up a small granite rock and put it in the pocket of my pant leg. I’m not sure what my plans are for it, but I know there’s a fragment of an idea connected to it and I don’t want to forget where the trail begins with the concept. I’m working on it. I’m working on it.

We clobber a set of switchbacks and come across a beautiful, neon blue swimming hole. The water is frigid. It’s fresh snow melt. They boys decide to swim. I peel off my layers down to boy shorts and a sports bra, climb over boulders and stand by RW, he’s whining about the water temperature, I look at him and Sam standing about, awkwardly, in their boxer shorts; I climb atop a rock that juts out over the water and cannon ball in, recklessly. Underwater, my scream begins. I can’t hold it in. It’s involuntary. I’m just an animal in icy waters fighting my way, fist over fist, to the air. When I rise up to the surface my breath comes out in uncontrolled pants of panic. I dog paddle for the nearest piece of rock and claw at it like a frightened and discombobulated little beast. The boys finally get in the water and their bodies react the same way. I crawl out into the sun and lay there, skin against granite, seeking warmth and energy from the sun. I’m like a 115 pound lizard.

We hike the pass.

Exposed.

Granitic.

Hot in the afternoon sun.

I’m not out of breath, not once, even when we hit 9300 feet above sea level.

And the view from the top,

the view from the top:

The boys take it in. I wonder if they wonder the things I’m wondering at any given moment? Do they accept the beauty around them with less or more analyzing? Do they simply soak in it? They’re discussing topography while I think about how close I am to the heavens and feel the swirl of God passing up through the valley below me. I stretch my wings. I rise up.

We stay a while and sit in silence, sometimes, as the wind pushes and pulls at us. The shade is delicious. I’m by Robert’s side. Life feels good, we feel filled with purpose, relaxed by creation, stunned by the beauty of the world. Our senses are sharpened in the Sawtooths. These mountains cut away at our cumbersome and useless baggage, leaving us a bit cleaner than we were the day before. There’s a realization of smallness. There’s the interlude of silence. There’s a bird there on the breeze.

I wonder about underwater topography as I look down.

Twin Lakes stretch out beneath us; luminous teal pools.

I see to the bottom and perhaps beyond.

Can the elements hold wisdom? Are these lakes reservoirs of wisdom? What do I see when I look deeper? What can I learn? When I glean what I can from the surface of these lakes, how do I reflect on those simple little truths, held there suspended in those blue waters? How can I make sure I get it right?

We come around a corner, near Twin Lakes, and see her standing there. Her two fawns aren’t far from her side; I hear them grunting. They run off and I insist that the boys wait while I walk down and feel the warmth of their beds. That animal warmth that tells me they were real, that their long legs did fold up here (like matchsticks neatly laying in a box) beneath the broadness of their bellies in the heat of the afternoon. I feel close even though they’ve covered ground now and are watching me suspiciously, or curiously, a few trees over. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there.

The sun sets here and I’m on the edge of Alice Lake. As soon as that distant star swings beneath the West peaks I start to shiver. The wind picks up as the valley sucks sinking air down into the depths of the mountain roots and I put on my down jacket.

It’s much colder than it was the night before.

We make dinner, roast brook trout on sticks over a small, open fire.

I brush my teeth with dumb hands, chapped from the cold.

When I finally crawl into the tent with RW, I know I’m going feel cold all night long. And I am. We’ve left the rain fly off our tent so we can look up at the stars through the mesh. There’s a lodge pole pine skeleton leaning out over my bed, I look past it and see Cassiopeia, tethered to the gnarled tip of that dead stand. All night long she whirls about there, picketed like a horse in the back country after a long ride. Hobbled, despite the fact her cosmic fire could burn through the rope that wraps around her ankles. She doesn’t care about being anchored to this patch of earth. She’s still intent on relaxation and lounging, way up there, in the heavens.

Later on, in the smaller hours of the morning, the moon rises. Each time I open my eyes, it’s higher in the night sky, lighting up the mountains; pearly white fangs in the round. I hear a faint song, off in the distance, intermittently. Wolves? Elk? I drift in and out of a shivering sleep. There’s a draft coming down into my sleeping bag. It’s passing through a small hole between my face and the mummy hood on my bag. I think it’s emitting a tiny whistling sound. It’s so late, but there seems to be music and light in everything.

Morning rises, there’s that same anticipation of being touched by direct sunlight. We watch it creep across the West side of the valley, across the water. Oh hurry up! Sun! Can’t you see my hands are numb? I have a cup of tea. We fish. We eliminate any traces of evidence that could possibly inform an individual that we once endured a cold night here. At the last possible moment, we peel our down jackets from our bodies and stuff them in our packs. We put our bags on our backs. We walk.

We come down. Literally and figuratively. We descend to the valley floor, we see the Lost River Range in the distance. We see new opportunities. We hike in silence. We laugh. We stop to let the dogs drink from the river. We talk about living in mountains like these. We talk. We do. We make plans. We leave a trail of breadcrumbs so that someday we might return.

Filed Under: idaho, sawtooths

Home Again:

September 30, 2010 by The Noisy Plume

I’ve been in the backcountry of the Sawtooths, here in Idaho.

I can’t wait to tell you all about it and share the details with you!

We’ll chit chat soon,

Filed Under: idaho, mountains, rocky mountains, sawtooths

The magic…

September 28, 2010 by The Noisy Plume

…is in the details.

Filed Under: autumn, city creek, idaho, pocatello, rocky mountains, west bench

Sketchbook Journaling: September 19, Scout Mountain

September 21, 2010 by The Noisy Plume

Note: This is a collection of my writings from my personal journal. A lot of it is thinking out loud, sorting through thoughts, processing the world around me with paper and pen. I share it with you because I think you’ll understand and relate to some of my ponderings. I’ve shared carefully here and know you will be careful in return. Thank you!

Love, JSL

It’s morning now. It’s cold. I can hear a cacophony of bird music breezing through the Douglas firs and the wind is singing careful arias in the aspen groves. Crescendo. Diminuendo. My hands are freezing. Each fingertip is an ice cap drifting on friction melted waters across the white of this page. And now the staccato of a woodpecker. How lucky am I to hear this symphony? How well it matches the score of my heart.

I’m brewing a second pot of Earl Grey, just to stay warm. Thank God the sun is just within reach of where I sit. As soon as it crested the top of Scout Mountain I could feel the air temperature swirling with warmth; like adding hot water to a cold bath. Ah. There now. A fresh cup of tea for my hands.

Penelope and I have been for a long walk and back. She looks like a small red pony galloping about in a tall Northern jungle. At one point, she located a handful of ruffed grouse that burst into flight and drummed deeper into the forest to escape her ferocity. At a bend in the trail, we stumbled into a few free range heifers. When they saw me they turned and trotted deeper into an aspen grove. With all the crashing and crackling of grasses and bush, Penelope was terrified and galloped down the trail, shrieking at the top of her lungs, until she was around the next bend and out of sight. Some watch dog. She’s all bark and no bite. I wonder what she feels when she is fearful. Is there the same thrumming of the heart that I experience? Is she grateful when I pick her up and speak those fears away — quietly and carefully?

The light here, as all morning light is, has been so soft and blue. It’s been easy to fill the memory card on my camera while sifting through the bits of detritus on the forest floor.

Each berry, each leaf is so delicate and unique. I want to honor each one with every individual image I capture. Each thing I see, each magical dapple of sunlight drifting down from a yellowing aspen crown, deserves to be remembered for the sacredness of its immaculate and unique design.

In the same way, I want everything I create to be uniquely concocted, special in its own right, worth claiming, collecting, cherishing, loving. I don’t think that’s too much to ask of myself as a creative person if indeed I do believe that my desire to create is a reflection of God’s ability to create. I look around and all is so good. There’s a crumbling humbling going on inside my chest. Who am I. What am I. This grace. This grace. I’m a child on my knees. There’s a bloom of faith.

I try to see the world around me fully; the detail, texture and holiness of each leaf, bug, branch, bird, fish and beast. I can’t help but want to catch everything in my hands in an attempt to cure this zealous curiosity that boils beneath the veneer of my senses. Is that wrong? In light of recent blog commenter harassment over catching and releasing fish, is it healthy to quench my curiosity? Is it healthy to allow my curiosity to go unquenched? Is it wrong for me, for my species, to interact so fully with nature, even if I’m graceful and careful in my quest?

Now the aspens are lit gold in the pour of sunshine through conifer. Penelope has climbed inside my down jacket and is keeping my core warm. The wind is moving through the wild rose bushes, swinging the rose hips like lady dancers on a light hearted stage. I’ve collected a bag of rose hips, the largest rose hips I’ve seen in all my life, to go in herbal teas this winter. I’d also love to encase a few in resin. Their color and shape is so sublime, organic, fresh and sensual. In point of fact, I’d like to encase this moment in this space beneath resin. I’ll wear it over my heart to help lighten the load on heavy days.

I can hear a shotgun pounding in the distance, every now and then. It’s Robert and Farley collecting dinner for our table tonight. How magnificent is that? To interact with nature this morning, to take what we need to feed our bodies and souls, and then to return to town, to the business at hand, to the grapes and plums staining the counter tops and splashing about until they find themselves locked tight in canning jars and sitting quietly on a pantry shelf until some cold day in winter we draw them out and sustain ourselves on their sun spun wholesomeness.

Oh. The wind. The wind. I find it remarkable that there are people in the world who have never heard the wind sigh like this, who have never been without the incessant white noise of the city. Urban living is beautiful and ripe with convenience and the steady flow of humanity! I sometimes fear I am out of touch with humanity. Has it hardened me, this hermit life, has it made me less compassionate towards humans? I’m removed from the scenes that present themselves to city dwellers. The homeless, the addicted, the impoverished. The living, begging and stealing of the streets; people selling all that they have, even their bodies, to feed themselves, clothe themselves, secure their next fixes. I don’t see them. Does it mean I don’t love them? Does it mean it isn’t my problem or I don’t care? Since I live in a wild space which is, ecologically speaking, just as vulnerable as a human being, is caring for this space my compassionate duty? Is this my responsibility instead? Do I tend to this space the way I would a broken person in a back alley? Is it right to see nature this way? If I need to do more as a human, for other humans, how else can I go about it besides sending money to organizations? I love elk. I love wolves. I love jackrabbits. But I need to love people too. We all need to love people. That’s where unity is. It’s not enough to just tolerate the existence of others, everybody needs love. I’m working on this concept constantly.

Last night, after the sun set, I looked up at the sky, imagined myself plucking a star as one would an apple. There are so many up there, burning and twinkling, which would I choose and would it be selfish to keep it under glass in the living room? Could I find a bell jar big enough for my pet celestial? The moon offered a bright silver pulse of light into the small morning hours. The window at my back, in the van, was open and thrust cool sheets of breeze down the small openings of my sleeping bag.

I didn’t sleep enough last night but I feel so refreshed this morning.

I haven’t showered but I feel so damn clean.

Robert is back now. Farley too. Happy. Manly. With birds in hand; probably the prettiest grouse in existence. RW and Farley have taken four of these beauties for our dinner table for the week and it was hard work and a fair fight. They look exhausted after hiking up to the top ridge of the mountain where a Douglas fir crown grows on nearly vertical slope to find this bird and bring it home.

I’ve just finished inspecting this large male up close. I turned him over and over in my hands, taking in his mustard yellow eyelids, his underwing feathers, his tail feathers….everything about him I took in slowly and carefully. Such a beautiful bird… I’m humbled by this harvest and totally blessed to be taking the energy of this animal into my body. There’s something so holy about hunting to eat, the effort of the work involved, the skill and courage it takes to so carefully end the life of a living thing. I feel so sad. I feel so thankful. Does everything always have to be so complicated?

In a few moments we’ll load up Talulah and coast down the mountain and into town. To ensure I return soon, I’m going to leave a small wedge of my heart behind. I’ll tether it to a tree and come back to tend it from time to time. It will be safe in these woods. Surely. It will be safe.

Filed Under: idaho, journal entry, nature, pocatello, rocky mountains