The Life and Times of the Plume

On Sunday night I told RW I needed to do a short camping trip — I wanted a little break, away from civilization, out in the Idaho I know and love, before we fly through the last few weeks before our move.  He sweetly acquiesced to my demands and on Monday afternoon, I found myself driving West with Tater Tot at my side.  By early evening we reached City of Rocks, oh what a sight for sore eyes.  We had our choice of camping spaces as there was hardly a soul to be seen for miles.  I strapped my runners on my feet and Tate and I took a sunset run through, up and over the granitic formations that have made this little cove of stone famous within climbing circles.  It was gorgeous.  The sagebrush was painted moon silver and high up on a ridge a pack of coyotes sang at us in their swooping falsettos.  I felt romanced half to death by that big country, wobbly in the knees, wide of soul and bright eyed.

That night, I made a nest beneath my truck canopy, read by headlamp for three hours before drifting to sleep while the music of raindrops slapped at the sides of my Tacoma.  It was pure heaven.

I’ve felt due for a little adventure for some time now.  RW and I have been hunkered down for months with the Airstream and general work demanding most of our time and energy.  Time off has been spent in our local mountains or most lazily with a book on a couch.  To take myself out to brush up against Idaho was the perfect way to celebrate spring and my love for this state.  I must also confess, I’ve felt a bit of seperation anxiety over the idea of leaving Idaho this summer.  I’ve been a touch sentimental about my aspen groves and a very special stand of juniper that bends around one of my favorite sections of mountain that I run frequently.  I dig deep into memory and recall what those spaces look like and feel like at the height of summer, when the sun is so long in setting and the grasshoppers are scratching at my knees when I pass through tall grasses, and I feel a bit sad.  I love it here.  I’m going to miss it.

So I suppose, this little jaunt to the City was also my fondest attempt at saying farewell to my stomping grounds until November.  Oh, Idaho, I’ll miss you.

In the morning, I brewed a cup of coffee and blinked at the power of the sunlight pouring down out of the sky, the granite grew warm beneath my palms and the birds were magnificent.  They began their singing as the night sky turned from star-prickled black to midnight blue and what a lesson is there for humans — to rise each morning with a song on our lips, so eager to begin a new day, hearts bursting with anticipation for what every moment might hold.  To strive to live with hope, with the start of every day.  Then at night, to sing the sun down to sleep and revel in the magic of the daylight hours before tucking head beneath wing and nodding away to the downy comfort of bird dreams.

I strapped runners on my feet again and ran a lower trail before making breakfast and some delicious coffee.  I sat there quietly, alone, listening to the world turn, the breeze in the conifers, sniffing at the hot scent of sage warming and feeling the slow hope of green in the aspen buds.  Pure magic.  Later in the morning Tate and I did some wonderful scrambling to the top of the Breadloaf formations, looked out over our valley and simply gave our minds and hearts space.  We wound ourselves down and squandered some of our life minutes up there, basking in sun and twirled by the wind.  In the afternoon, I made a nest in a granite hole and there I sat with a book and some iced tea, for hours, reading, sipping my nectar and watching the ravens and vultures ride the updrafts between granite slabs — their victorious wing spans glinting in the high sun.

Dinner was easy and I continued to read while the water was boiling.  With the sinking sun came a resounding chill, after eating I rallied and scrambled up to the top of Bath Rock to watch the final strains of day turn the world brilliant and soft.  Sunset here is likely better termed moonrise.  The white of granite in any direction seems to reflect any and all celestial light so the landscape glows at night, like a thousand ghosts gliding up from the earth.  The coyotes seem to sing the shadows into shades of blue and I think the stone grows a faint pulse and slinks taller in the night light.  It’s an enchanting place, to be sure.  I feel changed in the summer months when I sleep out on the rock under the moon, perhaps newer too, in some soul-sense, like the space of that place peels away some of the crust of age and leaves me in a new sort of youth, radiant and goosebumpled in the night wind.  It’s like something straight out of a Narnia book!

Night came on, I made my nest in the truck, read for a few more hours and once again fell asleep to the song of rain.

I rose early, as early as the birds in the morning.  As the night faded into day I could see low heavy clouds that didn’t seem to promise any lifting.  I was chilled deep in my bones.  I packed up and Tater joined me for a final hike before we hopped in the truck and made for Pocatello.  I arrived home just in time to clean the bathroom and bake bread before one of RW’s rookie brothers arrived for a visit on his way North.