The Life and Times of the Plume

We left the farm in light drizzle, passed the sage and rabbit brush on the driveway in creamy greens and mustard yellows, popped up and over onto the main road to see the river below, teal and tranquil and buzzing with whitewater runs.

Up on the steppe we moved into the clouds, visibility none.  Headlights of oncoming trucks surprised me into exclamation!  The road wound about and then shot straight up and over the hills — lava flows and rock formations eerie in the wet light.

In the next town we realized we were quite hungry so we stopped for a bite to eat.  The waitress frightened me so I said thank you too much and avoided eye contact as I ate my burger.

We rose up and up again into our local range, into heavy clouds and skiffs of intermittent snow, over the pass (I remembered when it was all wildflowers) and dropped down the other side into quiet trees and steep side hills.  We scanned for dead wood.

“This close to the summit is picked over.  We’ve got to go deeper in.”

We dropped deeper still, the creek rushing alongside.  We turned onto a smaller forest service road, I watched the new creek rolling in the opposite direction, watched for deep pools that might hold fish, watched the fog banks envelope the tree tops, pointed out beautiful rock outcroppings to him as we went.

Still no dead wood.

We passed a hot spring, a miniature Yellowstone but void of crowds and the camera flashes and the trampling and murmuring of crowds…just a simple mountain face cut with a bevy of hot creeks, steaming in cold air.  We stopped to pee.  I put my hands in creek water, gasping as I always do when it’s hot to the touch.

“Do you want to come back and soak once we’re done cutting?”

We agreed.

We rolled on and looked closely at every hunting camp we passed and agreeing our elk camp is sublime in comparison.

“It’s so quiet there.  We’re tucked away.  We can’t hear any trucks coming in.  We can see the full breadth of the valley.  It’s glorious!”

We watched for trees to cut.  We stopped to survey a few only to agree that they were too close to the creek.  We drove on.  A truck pulled over to allow us space to pass.  I looked to my right and saw a two track cutting through the creek and pointed it out to Robbie.  We slowed, twisted an uncanny u-turn across a campsite and dipped the truck and trailer into mountain water.  Up the other side I watched as the trailer bumped and shimmied over rocks making awful groans.  We crawled up the slope and hit a honey hole of dead lodgepoles.  Bingo.  And so we cut.  Or, more accurately, Robbie cut.  I wrangled 8-10ft sections of tree, rolled or end-over-ended sections down the slope to the trailer.  We lifted and loaded, one by one, our winter fires.  I felt the bones of my hands and wrists grinding, carpal tunnel from the past month of overuse, and yet, I lifted.  Our last tree was a beauty.  It sounded like a freight train as it crashed to the forest floor.  The glorious scent of pine heart exploded into cold air amidst the righteous green scent of crushed pine needles and stirred duff.

“Oh mercy.  The woods are alive.”

We stopped at the springs on the way home, tired and hungry, hiked up to a nice pool with the bag of food I packed that morning, stripped down to our skin and dipped in to healing water beneath snowy peaks, like only Idahoans can.

I love having him home again.  I like to grab him and kiss him whenever I like just because I can.  I like to witness him in action and appreciate all he brings to this partnership.  I like the feeling I have of being whole again, less alone, more together, more sound, more myself.