Southward Ho!

It suddenly got chilly up in them thar hills. Cold wuss that I am...

This is the Malad River just below Bliss, Idaho. You can still see into the gorge when you drive over the bridge so I took the first right. It led to a rafting and kayak take-out/put in place with some nice scrub oaks for shade.

I'd just completed assembling my sandwich when the first boatload landed. It was a happy scene and I got to participate...marginally, not that I wanted more, but I was awake and right next to the ramp so it was fun.

But they kept coming....OVERLAND! A trailer with a large raft pulled up with about a dozen youngsters all primed for water activity. I can only take so much.

Up on top the road looked to continue on the other side of the highway. That's where I took the above video...at what appeared to be a power station. This time of year there should've been salmon leaping and cavorting in the rapids with BEARS prowling the shores and arguing over the best spots. Alaska maybe?

Still, it's pretty water. And Miracle Hot Springs is just down the road in Hagerman. 

But the friggin' pie store had just closed. And to add insult, the old guy, he could've been a year or two younger than me, said their strawberry-rhubarb was really good.

Ah, well. It's not like I *need* another  pie on my waist. But it's a tragedy; nothing, of course, compared to Greg's leg, but still. 

On The Snake

I was into Idaho on highway 93 when I remembered I had meds waiting in Elko. I called Twin Falls and discovered they couldn't transfer them.

I went north from Elko through Mountain City then turned west on 78 at Bruneau.

The plains of southwest Idaho are an insomniac's wet dream. The heat and gently undulating hills with not even the hint of a tree to break the mood, had me nearly in the fields more than once. But the magic is, apparently, still active. As I was about to slump over there came a short section of public lands. And down at the end, mit all der terlit paper und the beach between der beavers or river otters (it's hard to tell) was my camp. 

It was the heat of the day, 5pm. I managed to get the awning in place, soaked my shirt and made my way to the river's edge. There're some big ones jumping.

The call of the wild

Indomitable Bob - Hailey

His traverse to the pumps caught my attention. Using those crutches with a cuff that attaches to the forearm, he half dragged himself the distance; the expletives brought me over. They were sparked by his annoyance at having parked too far from the pump. He needed both hands to walk and doing it while holding the hose was too much. But he declined my help. Still, I was unable to leave.

He was 31 when he rolled his CJ5. His head hit against the rollbar putting him in a coma for two months. He awakened to find his right side paralyzed.

I didn't get the sequence of things, but he showed his enlarged right elbow; he'd torn loose ALL the ligaments in a skiing accident. His recovery(ies) peaked around age 50, but since then things had gone downhill. He'll be 74 in October.

He's had nearly all the vertebrae in his spine fused and had stopped counting the surgeries after the 30th. The most recent, three years ago, for the top of his spine, was done through his mouth. A lower vertebrae, still unfused, causes constant pain in his right leg. At some point he'd broken both collar bones.

• As he settled into the driver's seat, I asked why he hadn't checked out. He gave a glib reply, so I asked again. He folded his hands in his lap, leaned back a bit and said, "I never really thought about it."

We talked a bit more about his history. He'd been drafted in 1968 and after boot camp, spent two months in Paris, France. He was then sent to Kaiserslautern where he was an accountant. He'd had a ball!

His wife is still alive although it sounded as if she too has health problems.

I'm STILL incredulated he's never thought about it.

Idaho Joe's - Twin Falls

I made more than one trip to Twin Falls and each time it caught my eye. (The last one was to get a diagnosis of the cause of pain where my right kidney hangs out.)

They offered a ribeye, my fav. I've given up on store-bought beef as tasteless, but suspect the rumor about restaurants getting better quality is true so thought I'd give it a try. I like it seared on the outside and raw inside or, as it's known, black & bleu. Melissa took our order and we waited. They'd let their liquor license go for lack of business. This is a "family" restaurant -- with a loyal clientele.

The steak was astounding! It rivaled one I had at the steak house in Los Alamos in 2004 when Frayda and I went up to visit a friend. Jeff came out to accept my compliments and although I couldn't compensate Melissa as much as I'd've liked (I'm on a Low Budget (Kinks, 1979)), I did my best to let her know. (The shrimp dinner she ordered was good too.)

She's got a thing about "NO SUGAR!!" which I've appreciated in my effort to drop the extra 80 pds I've accumulated. But those pies -- in the case by the register -- had the look of authenticity. And although we all know how far looks go, I know I'd enjoy seeing just how far. Perhaps you'll let me know?

8/23/17 Chef: Jeff; server: Melissa served. Superb!

Idaho Joes Restaurant & Bakery (REAL pies!!)
598 Blue Lakes Blvd N
83301
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Kettle Falls, Idaho - Not a Xenophobe in Sight

Time to do laundry. 
When I asked how many quarters it took he explained how one dryer got hotter. His openness came as something of a surprise since, when I'd visited this part of the world before, folks seemed noticeably xenophobic; it turned out he'd done a stint in the military which often fosters an easy amiability. When you know you're going to move within a short amount of time, you make friends quickly, or not at all. 

While he folded sheets and pillow-cases I learned he'd grown up in California, been stationed in Clovis (NM) and Alaska, spent eleven years in the mill in Kettle Falls before returning to school to study massage. He's a Rolfing specialist and has been in business for three years. Thus, all the sheets. In addition, he's a watercolorist and his wife does ceramics. 

As he told his story he described how, at 18, he'd joined the Air Force hoping to travel. Vietnam was going strong and his Mom was opposed to him enlisting. Stationed at Clovis, New Mexico, he spent most of his time in the barracks and sent his pay home. His Dad had died when he was 12 and with two siblings his Mom needed the help.

When stationed near Seattle he and a buddy went into town and got a room. It turned out the buddy was dealing drugs and the cops showed up. They hauled them both in but Greg's sergeant knew he wasn't the type and got the Base Commander to get him out. The sergeant's help came as a surprise as he hadn't given Greg a clue that he was in such good standing. 

In those days a bust like that would have ruined Greg's military career. Listening to him tell it, I recalled the era, the violence and the lost lives. A friend spent four years in a Federal penitentiary for possession of two, thin joints. I was in Nashville, Tennessee when Stokely Carmichael spoke and I knew first-hand the validity of the race riots. I also demonstrated against the war. And now, over forty years later, it was heartening to be in the company of someone who'd come through it all, at least from what I heard, okay.

509-675-5572 or 509-675-5571

When I asked how he'd surmounted the world-famous American aversion to touch, Greg told me how the folks in this neck of the woods have to work for a living, the kind that caused Maynard G. Krebs's voice to break. Many incur injuries and when standard medical practices fail to alleviate the problem, people come to him. 

He described how a wife whose truck-driving husband had injured his shoulder led him by the hand and stood by while Greg rolfed him. The results were so impressive that word quickly spread and he's been busy ever since. (Mrs. Pritchett is a certified Rolfer as well.) 

While I was waiting for a dryer, Eggbert got a bath. The local chapter of Proud to Wear an Apron (PWA) was having a fund-raising car wash to send the girls to Texas to compete in the Nationals. They didn't respond when I inquired if they were taught birth-control, but the enthusiastic appreciation for my contribution begged the question: Were their attitudes developed through participation in the organization or did they choose to participate due to their attitudes?

Kettle Falls is something of a throw-back to the 60s with some contemporary twists. There's a good-sized organic foods and vitamin store where a woman in hiking boots, wearing a beaded cap and ankle-length skirt with a baby in a sling on her chest looked as if she'd just come from a Rainbow Gathering. Down the street, Kettle Falls Foods had, the evening before, held a grand-opening party to acquaint the community with the new owners, one of whom, who came out to dispense the propane, appeared to be of East Indian heritage. When I mentioned I'd bought out their stock of Sheaf Stout, he acknowledged his extensive selection of micro-brews. The times they are a chaaaaaannnnnnggggiinng...in spite of the xenophobes.

John Bardsley - Amazing Grace

It was hardly more than a huge turnaround for boat-trailers, but I was tired and decided to stay over in the one, small, camp-spot with fire-ring and tree. 

In the morning I spied the turquoise metro and HAD to go see wha'sup. He gets 49.1 miles per gallon.

John Bardsley played the bars in the '70s and '80s. He started with the guitar in his early 40s, then picked up the keyboard and lately had found a Suzuki Q Chord. Intrigued, I asked him if he'd give a demonstration. He sang half a dozen songs. I'm sorry I didn't record more.

John & Ginger

There were a few others sitting around the dock in the morning sunshine and a Springer Spaniel enjoying the water. You'd have to have been there to feel the spirit of it all, but the video hints at it. 

Grace, who, with her husband, was sitting nearby, pointed out that "We're never too old."

Sawtooth National Forest Going Up in Flames

Smoke & Flames!! Bambis on the run!!

Thousands of firefighters are battling the devastating conflagrations in the Sawtooth National Forest. Flames light the skies at night while the smoke makes driving all but impossible.

Hotspot!!

Flagmen warn of low visibility and signs are posted at every turnout listing the dangers of smoke inhalation (cough, cough).

From Challis to Stanley, herds of deer shepherd their bambis across the highway as the elk, bear and others flee in terror. I watched with terrible sadness as a hephalump (with singed fur and a surly look in its eye) trudged its way to safety.

The sun shines dimly through the haze and there's a Satanic vibe in the air. It's as if the Apocalypse has come. And who knows, perhaps it has!!!

It's great! I have the place to myself!

Sublime or Mundane

I'm reading Peripheral Visions (Harpercollins, 1994) by Mary Catherine Bateson. She writes about how the doxa is all about entertainment. She describes the syndrome as an unending need for new experience and stuff. The youths get music and cars. We oldsters get doctors and meds.

Bateson posits how the whole thing fuels a superficial awareness that's blind to subtlety. By way of contrast she compares it (consumerism) to "practice." She points out how in the process of practicing, students become aware of subtle changes and nuances. She neglects to acknowledge the many who get bored, but her point is about attention to and appreciation of details.

I'm tempted to say, "Change is change! What difference does it make whether it's subtle or a two by four up side the head?" But one thing that's noteworthy is the difference between changes that occur within us and develop our understanding and empathy for others and changes in our behavior because we got a good nose-job or now feel superior because we got a new truck.

Each day as I pack and unpack Eggbert I notice things. (Remember the end of Eeyore's Birthday where he happily puts the limp rag of a balloon in and out the empty honey pot?) The experience, although not generally recognized (by me) as a practice, happens at least twice a day. Sometimes the packing creates more space (not a small thing....pun intended); sometimes the over-ripe garbage waiting for a dumpster detracts from the driving experience. Other changes are just plain interesting.

Speaking of over-ripe, the stove hose (image below) is a good example. Sticking out the way it does it's a problem. If it gets broken the stove won't work. I COULD detach it and stow it somewhere, but there's an o-ring inside the connector that's just waiting to get lost...and, as Grandfather was wont to ask of Peter, "And if the hunters hadn't come? What then?!!" So, it hangs there. And when I file it amongst the other stuff, I usually tuck the dangle into a corner or some such. During unloading it hangs up on stuff.

The other day as I was watching the grass grow, my gaze crossed the verdant expanse and saw that it (the stove hose) had tucked itself into a hole in the back (see image). This didn't result from practice and I'm a bit loathe to denote it as a subtlety, but I did notice it. I mean, I haven't bought any big trucks lately so to help me feel better about myself when stuff like this happens I pretend I'm watching a truck commercial on t.v. and think about how I'd feel if I saw MY truck there on the big screen (52 inches AT LEAST!!). I pump my elbow up and down, rotate my fist and imagine the envy of all the passersby if THEY knew how observant I am. And then I wondered....Would the envy of idiots enhance my self-esteem? Anyway, it just goes to show how you can benefit from doing something over and over (bbuuuurrrrrrp!).

Since then I've purposely placed it that way. It seems to be working. It'll be interesting to see if a sublimity will emerge.

So that brings us to mundane. I was raised on wine....with dinner. Around the age of sixteen I was hanging around with a family that had inherited five acres outside Cleveland (Ohio) and was doing the back-to-the-land thing. It was that era, you'll recall. As part of the "trip" he grew potatoes and made his own beer.

There was a rite of passage every time you came to visit. (Bateson is enamored of ritual too.) Upon entering the house you were handed a bottle of homebrew and a joint.

The weed was always good, but I wasn't a beer enthusiast. All I knew was it was so thick you could stand a spoon up in it. I'd coddle it all evening and when no one was looking, pour some into a plant.

Many beerless years later I found myself having to observe a Friday-after-work ritual that involved several six packs. I'd never "acquired" a taste for it, but that Lite was even worse than the dark stuff I'd had as a teenager. I practiced my coddling and between sets admired the office plants.

sublimity?

Then, in a subtle and nuanced moment; someone put a stout in front of me and said, "Try this."

I was trebucheted back to the days of beer and joints and heedless of consequence whupped out my silver cigarette case, extracted a thin one, lit up (inhaled!) and took another swig. I could do this!

Since then, more than 30 years have come & gone. (Yup, ah iz gettin' olde.) I've practiced with stouts and just for grins and the sake of change, porters. Yesterday I bought Obsidion Stout from Deshutes (Bend, OR) brewery. It's not bad but I like Sheaf Stout better.

It's the mundanities that keep us humping. We camped, Eggbert and I, last night in Malm Gulch about 40 miles West of Challis, Idaho. The steep, tawny-colored hills shined in the light of the full moon which rose out of nowhere, moved across a horizontal linearity and hours later disappeared behind a peak. The silence unsullied.

A lone bicyclist showed up this morning while I was fixing breakfast in my birthday suit. He said hello and went on. I donned my swim trunks. When he returned he allowed as how he and his wife hike nude and everyone goes skinny-dipping at the hot springs. So, no big deal.

Adventure through comparison. And my (formerly) fav cup

He then told of a petrified forest about a mile and a half up the road. I hiked in to see five, count 'em, five, chain-link-surrounded stumps on a hillside (see image). They vary from four to six feet in diameter and the tallest is about six feet. Not what I'd call a forest, but it COULD offer some relief from the mundanity....of the same old beer.

Jeez!! Fencing!

The vegetation is similar to the high desert of Wyoming and New Mexico (lots of sage), but with mountains. It was nice to be able to see a distance. And I appreciated not having trees whispering and soughing away.

The road up the Gulch only goes 1.9 miles from the highway....barely enough to get away from its noise. But traffic is light this time of year; school is back in session and the hills help block the sound. So three stars for Malm Gulch on highway 75 West of Challis, Idaho. Any more traffic though and I'd have had to give it a one.

And people ask, What do you DO out there?" I'm busy, I say. It's a circle after all, that encompasses the subtle, superficial and doesn't really have an Either or an Or. And although I'm enjoying Bateson I still consider Waiting For Godot the finest bit o' lit(erature) ever written.

Return of The Salmon

Photographs can't capture the grandeur.

The Manning Bridge - Originally a toll crossing run by a woman and her husband. 

A narrow spot -
About 300 feet across

The Bridge from upriver

Sunset Near Sand Bar , a rafting stop. 

I was well into my 16th year when I first read about the Salmon River. The article told of a mountain man, Sylvan Hart, who lived at  Mackey Bar. As with most of my wanderings, I figured I'd get there somehow.

I wandered the woods and had a great time, but disdainful of maps and uninclined to ask directions, I never found him. I spent three summers in and around The River and looked forward to stopping by again.


After Eugene (see: Voodoo Donuts 8/4/12), I headed eastward. I'd met a couple of surveyors on my way to the Fishtrap Writers' Conference who told me about Der Kleinschmidt Grade (see: Ah hung muh butt...8/14/12). One of the changes that occurred over the years was my aversion to maps. Now, after extensive perusal I saw that Der Grade made it an easy shot over the hill to Der River.


Things here too have changed, albeit only recently. Last year they started paving the road. For over 40 years it was a rocky, bumpy, single-lane dirt traipse (sorta like The Natchez Traipse) cut from the side of the mountain. They disdain guardrail so ya'll can still dump yer old cars off the edge. And they kept the single-lane designation. It's only true in a couple of places, but the sign was cheaper than adding a center stripe.

So anyway, the easiest route from Baker City, Oregon to Council, Idaho is over the Kleinschmidt Grade. And from there the Salmon River Road leaves off the highway at the South end of Riggins.

Ah hung muh butt o'er the Kleinschmidt Grade

The dropoffs are sharp enough to make it do-able (doo-doo, that is). 
And unfortunately, the cat-hole suggestion as per the Nat'l For Svc, is out of the question; hits jus' too dang steep. 

Photos can't capture the distances. And although I gave it a shot with my MP3 recorder, the calling of the chukars (partridges) was too faint. 

On the Snake River just below Oxbow Dam

Evening

Downriver

Were I of philosophical bent...

View from Camp -- It's Payette National Forest.

It was too beautiful to just drive by. But the only place to camp is in the road. And that's what we did (above photo).

That's the river in the center.

The temperature rises quickly, but the silence maintains. And no whispering pines, neither.

STOP!!! STOP!!! A Thrift Store!!!!

Like myself, many others find entertainment in the thrift stores along the way. If you happen to be on highway 95 between Grangeville and Cottonwood, Idaho, you'll find a fine collection at Second Hand Treasures located in the old Fenn store...on the right if you're going west. It sits back from the highway about 300 feet (.1 Km) on a rural road.

I, being Lucky Herrmann, happened along at the serendipitous moment when a bevvy of women were disembarking. It was Saturday, a day they're normally closed but they'd chosen THIS one as Women's Excursion Day.  Apparently not resenting my maleness, they beneficently allowed me entrance. I found some great German comic books from the early sixties. As we were reveling during the cash exchange she commented that Fenn is a German Community. (Day're effry vare!!!)

Hours are stated (on the business card) as Tuesday - Friday 10 - 4, but the proprietress said it was open when it's open and closed when it isn't. All proceeds support Summit Academy (The link is NOT an expression of support. I'm a devout agnostic.)

The High Road to Challis, or Salmon...Idaho, that is.

FR 55 has its ups & downs, but most of the time it's well-behaved.

BLM land a few miles S of Salmon (click to largen)

Forest Road 55/055 is the scenic route between Challis and Salmon. It's mostly dirt, but is prominent enough on the Official Highway map. For some reason I didn't notice it. As luck would have it Mrs. Nancy Russell, a watercolorist and member of the The Purple Easel Co-op Gallery in Salmon, happened to be out for her morning hike as I was packing up.



I'd camped in the National Forest not far from the BLM Shoup Bridge Campground on south 93 and was getting ready to go to Challis when she came by. Somewhere in our chat she mentioned the road that went around the hill to Williams Lake also went on to Challis. I didn't register it at the time, but that ole subconscious did. When I left I took the road to Williams Lake. Three days later I arrived. And these are some of the scenes from along the way.


email:   mfhalb@gmail.com
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Big Springs -- Origin of Mesa Falls, Idaho

John Sack's Cabin at Left (click on photo to largen)

This part of the U.S. is so beautiful it's almost more than one can stand! But it's an American tradition to embrace extremes...so allow me to encourage you to go from the drama of Mesa Falls to the serenity of their origin, Big Springs, Idaho.

The Springs apparently reminds everyone of what we once had. Everywhere I looked I saw graffitied "Remember The Cuyahoga." In spite of that, I took some pictures.

Huge trout live in these waters. There are signs that say no wading, but small children are regularly dragged from the shallows into the four-foot depths never to be seen again. It's a wonderful place.

Mesa Falls, Idaho - On the Road Less Traveled

From the Boardwalk

One of the sights on the road less traveled is Mesa Falls. Highway 47 parallels highway 20 but has alot less traffic. There are lots of places to boondock too.

The Lower Falls (unlike the Upper) is free to look at. About a mile below Lower is a large turnout with a trail leading to the river that had me wishing for more stamina.

Cats' nightmare

The Upper Mesa is a National Forest Fee area. Like most, of that designation, it's free to holders of the Senior/Access Passes. The visitor center has an exceptional collection (in the back room) of pelts, tracks, insects and bird skulls. The numerous pelts give insight to the variety of fur-bearing mammals that once roamed this land.

email:  mfhalb@gmail.com

Alpine, Wyoming - Filet Mignon, Capers & Laundry

Two miles from the border of Idaho, Alpine, Wyoming, is a cosmopolitan hub-of-the-universe offering all the essentials...including capers.

To the North the highway is bounded on the west by Palisades Reservoir and some mountains on the East. Here and there a stream flows down. There are only a couple of roads into the mountains and, as far as I could find, few dispersed camping sites...and those were taken.

Forced, FORCED, I tell you!! to resort to a campground, I was pleasantly surprised to find Calamity C.G. almost empty. I chose tent site C-11 at the top of the hill.

1957 Cummins Diesel (click to largen)

Next morning I supervised the Corp of Engineers launch of their tugboat to clear driftwood from near the dam outlets. Afterward, I explored Little and Big Elk creeks.

Little Elk is pretty small, but there are three (count 'em) dispersed camp sites along it. All were taken. Big Elk looks like good fishing but no camp sites.

The drive up Sheep Creek is beautiful and worth the price of the gasoline, but the area is closed for revegetation.



I found filet mignon for $8.99/pd at the Alpine Market. The butcher ground it up and with the aforementioned capers it made superb beef tartare.

Click on photo to largen

It was late afternoon when, following my Lucky Herrmann instinct, I took the road out of the center of town toward a large canyon. It was the Grey's River road. The Grey's is the last undammed waterway in the U.S. that connects with the Columbia and the Pacific ocean. I soon came to an area of dispersed camping and, as luck would have it, with a beautiful overlook of the river.

Traffic on the road was intense and as the day advanced, it worsened. As beautiful as it was, I decided to push on. However, for those of you who don't mind neighborus proximus or being ogled by passersby (there's not much room between the road and river), there were quite a few dispersed sites. And everyone looked suitably civilized.

Knowing I'd have to drive a while to the next forest, I stayed another night at Calamity Campground. Cheryl and Mike, the campground hosts, are the best! From Mustang Island (Gulf of Mexico) to Palmer, Alaska (NE of Anchorage), their pit toilets are the cleanest.

I was about to mosey on North but an R.V. park owner said the only laundry facilities in the next four counties was in Thayne, 18 miles south.

We Have Ignition

DANNER Boots Update: 10/24/14 
I had the heel lowered (twice) to make them serviceable. I've had to replace a couple of eyelets and the stitching between the upper and the lower had to be renewed, but now, after two and a half years, I'll buy Danner again....or maybe Wesco.

After summering in the Yukon t'other day, I 'cided ah cud do with some REAL boots. I'd burned through several pairs over the prev 18 months and couldn't find a good used pair anywhere. The Redwing 899s I bought in 1976 had dry-rotted tuh death a few years back, but they'd served well so I bought another. Wouldn't yuh know it? I got the one in 10,000 that had too much dye. After a mild day of traipsing, muh feet'd be as yaller as an ole dawg an' smelt lak carrion.

Even sleepin' by muh lonesum ah had tuh warsh muh feets. Hit took 'bout uh year tuh decide hit whar the boots, not me. By that time the warranty had xpired. The regional supervisor stepped in tuh make hit right, but hit took dang near an act o' Congers tuh git his attenshun. Thet wuz the incentive tuh try Danner.

Ah found uh pair uv Fireline 18000 (now called Flashpoint II, I think) at Kaufman's, a trusted Albuquerque supplier to police, fire-persons and similars. I paid $260.00. Hit's only been a month, but so far hain't no trace of dye nor stink. When I went to the Danner website to see what they charge I discovered a whole wide world of shooz unimaginable. Check out STUMPTOWN...hit's uh trip.

The plan is to leave in the next couple of days (5/23) for the Tetons. Ah'm headin' fur the West side, East of Ashton, Idaho. Judging from the map, there may be enough elbow-room to hang out for a while. Then, as summer ripens, I'll segue into The Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness in central Idaho.

I'm coming full circle. In teen years I'd winter over in a city, save my pennies & pine for Spring. I read about Sylvan Hart in a magazine and set out to find him. I wandered the hills near Burgdorf and Warren, Idaho in the then Salmon River Primitive Area. I suspect I never got anywhere near Mr. Hart, but the trout were excellent! And judging from the photos, Burgdorf hasn't changed much.

It’s been eight months in Albuquerque. My neck and back are still sore from the accident, but I can’t stand being in town any longer. The barking dogs, motorcycles, reek of asphalt have reached critical mass.

Here's Eggbert near Duncan in SE Arizona. (I'd read Duncan is/was a thriving art colony and went to see.) As you may note, the passenger seat is missing; the tan lump in front of the dashboard is my pillow. The edge of my sleeping bag is hanging out the door. To the right of the clear jug is my one-gallon propane tank. It'll go two weeks of cooking and heating bath water. The stacked boxes are food, pots and pans & assorted kitchen ware.