Life amid Death Story and Photos by Tom Alvarez A few miles west of Stanley, I stop at Park Creek Overlook in the Sawtooth National Forest. I stand at a small viewing and parking area off a circular
Canoeing Silver Creek By Martha Ripple “The weather is supposed to be beautiful,” Penny Traylor said. “Don’t forget to bring sunscreen and binoculars.” Penny, who’s with The Nature Conservancy, had arranged for a small group of us to
In the Flower Season Story and Photos by Jerry W. Davis It happens every year in late winter, even while the snow lies deep and the hint of spring is not yet carried on the wind—my thoughts turn
A Solo Anniversary By Kris Millgate It’s my fifteenth wedding anniversary. I lay my fly line on the East Fork of the Salmon River at sunset. I help cook dinner on my truck’s tailgate-turned-table. I mingle with every
Coastal Forest Thriving in Idaho Story and Photos by Dennis Pence Bob, a forester for one of what I call the alphabet agencies, sat in the passenger seat of the pickup as we drove to the Grandad area
Twenty years ago, Mother Nature unleashed one natural disaster after the next, all over Idaho. Continue reading
Rock Creek Canyon isn’t particularly grand. It is easy to overlook. People do it every day. It isn’t listed in the Southern Idaho Visitor’s Guide as one of the “sights-not-to-be-missed,” nor is it overloaded with curious visitors.
The canyon isn’t ablaze with fiery red rock, and crystalline waterfalls aren’t part of its allure. It isn’t associated with the romance of Ernest Hemingway or with fly fishing. Rock Creek Canyon is mostly quiet, revealing its secrets only to those willing to seek its secluded, subtle wonders. I know, because I’ve been exploring the canyon for more than ten years as a walker and a runner, and I feel that with each visit to this wild space my claim to it has gradually grown into a deep and inexplicable connection. Continue reading
The water washes the numbness from my legs as we drag the kayaks behind us up the river. Despite it being the start of June in the Owyhee Mountains, early summer in the high desert has brought temperatures that make me regret leaving my gloves on the kitchen table at home.
The thought of handling metal tent poles with bare hands sends a shiver through my body and I’m glad that four miles of the Owyhee River flow between me and the campsite. Continue reading
On a warm summer day in 1995, I was on my way back home to Caldwell from a two-day fishing trip to the South Fork of the Boise River.
Rather than return by way of Mountain Home and the Interstate, I decided to take the more scenic, and definitely more bumpy, road that goes up the hill from Danskin Bridge to Prairie and eventually to Black’s Creek Road. I’m always on the lookout for new waters to test with rod and reel, and my map showed there was a tiny creek off to the west of Prairie.
As I approached the area, I saw a glint of water through the thick willows, and was surprised to see that it was more than the mere trickle the map had indicated. I turned up the next dusty lane I came to, guessing correctly that it paralleled the creek in the direction of its source in the mountains not far to the northeast. Continue reading
I’ve lived my whole life in Camas County, which is almost exactly the size of Rhode Island but has long had a population of around one thousand. The county’s single east-west valley has an elevation of about five thousand feet above sea level, while to the south are low mountains, and to the north are peaks that reach higher than ten thousand feet. Extremely cold winter temperatures (1990 saw an official low of fifty-two degrees below zero) and deep snow discourage everyone except the hardiest individuals from living here.
The farmers and ranchers who settled this area in the 1880s scratched out a living. Mining was a major effort and the remains of dozens of small operations—gold and silver mines, although lead and other trace minerals were present—can be found in all parts of the county. No major strikes were made, but some wealth was taken out of the earth. Many “prove-up” shacks were built as farming homesteads, and even in the highest mountains, every mine had some kind of shelter. A hard rock mining claim I own at 9,400 feet has a typical shack that housed miners early last century. Decades ago, the weight of ten or more feet of snow caused its collapse. Continue reading
