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.
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.
