December Rains

Santa Has a Tree for Me

Our Tree is Tagged & Legal

Frozen Grouse Creek on Dec. 5, 2015

Swollen Grouse Creek on Dec. 9, 2015

Pooling Flood Water

Nearing the Bridge

Churning & Muddy

Swollen Waves

Road Wash Out

A thin crust of ice clings to shadows as Todd and I shop for a Christmas tree. He likes the firs with their short needles, and I like the thick pines. We measure height with our eyes and try to imagine this one or that in our living room.

Finally, we agree on a tree and he gets the handsaw.

Our lot is the wide open Kiniksu National Forest, and we have a $5 permit with a "Merry Christmas" greeting from the Forest Service. It might lack mugs of cocoa or a red-suited Santa you'd find in town, but I like shopping for a tree in the forest.

Until I look down and see lynx tracks. That's when I notice the deer carcass and head to the truck. No way do I want to get caught between a hungry wild cat and her dinner. We pick another tree, and I say I like it better. It's better because it's not located in the lynx dining room.

Turns out it's a hemlock. Not a bad choice, but we are both surprised as we load it in the truck. We have to carry it because where there's not snow in shadows, there's mud. Two winters ago we had to trek through waist deep snow to find our Christmas tree. Now we are driving along Grouse Creek, tires slipping on mud.

We cut the tree on Saturday because we had a lull in the drizzling rain. On Sunday it returned. Though I wait for it to turn to snow, the rain continues to patter on our metal roof. The moisture is needed, but so is snow. Without the cold, the water saturates the ground. Snow is like a container and it (should) release the moisture as spring thaw comes on gradually.

Last year the thaw came early and quick. By the time the rivers would normally be close to flood stage, we were entering a drought. Yet, if you look at precipitation, we had a "normal" year. Cold plays a dynamic role in our Inland Pacific Northwest climate.

At 2 am last night it was 52 degree F. Crazy warm! And the rain poured relentlessly. The flooding began a few hours later. We went up both the Pack River and Grouse Creek to marvel at the natural disaster. The road we had just slipped down with our tree a few days ago is gone in places. The icy river is now churning pale chocolate milk. Logs look like sticks riding the rapids.

When the road washed out before us, Todd kept driving. Yes, I panicked. He found it funny. The only way I could calm down was to point my camera and film. Watching the screen diverted my eyes from watching the washout road. Not a prize-winning piece of journalism, but you can watch the video here.

There's something unnerving about how quickly water can displace rock. It's as if water plays nicely and goes through proper channels only because it agrees to this arrangement. We build up around it and one day water turns rebellious and destroys all we've built -- bridges, road, houses, pastures.

It's receding and we'll muck out the debris water left in it's wake. At least we got our Christmas Tree before the road washed out.

The photos I'm sharing via Abracabadra's Wordless Wednesday Link up. The photos are mine, as well as the words.

I'm not really word-less.

Clear Blue Day

Full Blue Over Elmira

Snow on Grouse Creek

Romping

Sniffing

Weasel Tracks

Clear blue illuminates the skies over Elmira like high-beams on a dark country road at night. It's as if a light-bulb was changed and this time the wattage is brighter. The absence of clouds--high, low or fog--allows the day to be brilliant. No matter how bright though, the sun is chilly enough to reflect off the thin skin of ice fringing Elmira Pond without melting it.

As if the presence of a full-sun-blue-sky awakens the wanderer within, both Todd and I hanker for a drive. To scan for elk, we tell each other. We get coffeed-up at our favorite drive-thru shack in Sagle and we meander the back-roads like tourists, gawking and sipping joe. We see a legal muley, meaning it's a buck that Todd can shoot and tag, but we drive by instead.

Maybe we follow old summer patterns, but our road trip leads us to the base of Grouse Creek. Should we? We have the red car, not the Blue Goose and we suppose that if the road gets mucky or icy we can always back out and turn around. The dogs recognize where we are driving and back seat whining ensues until we go as far as we can and let them run on crunchy snow.

If it's chilly in the valley, it's downright cold in the shadows of the Cabinet Mountains. We don't make it far, lacking 4WD and higher clearance than the snow burm building up down the middle of the road like an exaggerated white line. The dogs delight in running until Grendel realizes that his paws are frosty. Dog booties would be great, and I'll add that to my growing list of stuff I can probably live without. For now, the dogs romp on bare pads.

Todd snaps a photo of his favorite fishing hole, crusted with snow. All the rocks I like to pick through rest beneath a blanket of white. No fishing, no rock-hunting today. We find tracks in the snow, each as small as a thumb-print and agree that it might be a weasel.

It's good to have a clear blue day.

My Peace of Idaho

Climbing Up the Pack River

View of Harrison Peak From Peace

Looking South

Peace at Night

Teasing Trout

Bat Dog

Pools at Peace

Moonrise at Peace

The Peach Man of Wanatchee, WA packed up his canvas tents yesterday, announcing an end to the season. Enough squash bugs to declare war on every surviving summer zucchini plant have instead invaded my south and west-facing windows.  No more do we see shiny new trucks pulling summer-homes on wheels or packs of families crowding the white sands of City Beach in Sandpoint.

We can officially pronounce, “Summer over.”

Yet, paperwork clogged in the process or the Internet went down because the weather didn’t receive the memo. The sun rose high and hot. It caught me by surprise, and I must have had that trout-out-of-water look on my face as I sat at my computer sweating, working on projects.

As if desk-sweating wasn’t sticky enough, I tackle my daily goal of 30 minutes perspiring on the treadmill of my dreams. Somehow, I imagined it would be more romantic than this, like the commercials you see of ecstatic athletes running on the foaming beaches of triumph. The only thing foaming is my mind that keeps asking my legs, “Are we there, yet?”

My 30 minute endurance trot is over and I hop off the machine to stretch and yell to Todd, “I’m throwing dinner in the crockpot and we’re going up the Pack River in 15 minutes.”

I need my Peace.

There are directions to Peace. Go south past Elmira Pond three miles to Samuel’s Corners. Put $20 worth of gas in the tank, pick up a 6-pack Mike’s Hard Lemonade (Black Cherry) and turn right out of the station to follow the winding road through the forest. Another three miles north you’ll cross the Pack River in Edna, a remnant of some old fishing town with ancient one-room cabins clustered on the river bank. Follow the river another three miles and when you see Harrison Peak, look for a short turn-around above a flat stretch of river. Back in and park. You have arrived.

My Peace of Idaho gurgles cool water over white rocks. Late in the summer when the Pack River loses her ferocity, the rocks and sand lay bare for 20 feet, bordering pools still deep enough to grow trout. Todd fishes the same three holes on this stretch while the dogs gallop back and forth like horses feeling their oats. I plant myself upon a flat boulder of Peace and watch the water flow by.

To think that this is what lies on the other side of Elmira boggles my senses, as if Narnia is real and Samuel’s Corner the wardrobe. Aslan, are you out there?

Catis flies are hatching and trout are pressing skyward to catch them. A few small fries somersault with silver bellies reflecting like tossed coins. A bigger trout leaps four inches above the water before slicing back into the pool. As darkness thickens, black monarchs seem to be fluttering above the fish circus. Not butterflies, but bats. At least six or seven dart up and down the river, some mere inches from me as I watch.

The dogs come over, breathless from running, eager for head-pats. Grendel cocks his head in that funny way that says instinct is kicking in and he gets “birdie.” Only he’s birdie for bats. With one giant leap he’s in the river, zigzag splashing after a bat. Bobo joins in and they hunt as the half-moon rises through the pine boughs. I can no longer see Todd, but hear him crossing over the rocks. We call in the dogs and leave Peace in darkness.

Driving home we are all silent in the truck. Peace does that to us. Then Todd breaks the silence, reaching for my hand as he drives, as he has done so many times over the years. He asks, “Fix me pancakes in the morning?”

Such a simple requests fulfilled so many times. My Peace of Idaho is complete.

Beyond Hope

Cabinet Mountains Rise From Lake Pend Oreille

This is What Hope Looks Like

Crossing the Clark Fork Beyond Hope

Joy!

Not on Solid Ground

Cattle Guard That Fooled the Dogs

One Way to Cross a Cattle Guard

Consoling our German Engineering

Mystified By Cable

Mystified by Trout

The Cabinet Gorge

A Great Blue Heron

Osprey!

Moon, Where Are we Going?

Osprey at Sunset

What a Nest!

Better Shot Next Time

Today I was driven beyond hope.

What I mean is, Todd drove the Blue Goose with me riding shotgun and the dogs twittering in the backseat, and we drove a few miles beyond Hope, ID. Our favorite water to fish, the Pack River which runs behind our house beyond our pond and ridge, empties into a delta at the most northern point of Lake Pend Oreille. It's a huge lake with mountains that seem to rise out of it like stone monarchs resting on the water. The Priest River empties into its western edge and all that the Clark For River brings from Montana dumps into a driftwood delta at its eastern edge. Just beyond Hope.

We rumble through Hope, a cluster of houses clinging to a hillside, and summer condos and marinas hugging the lake-shore. There's a floating restaurant surrounded by sailboat masts and docks. On the edge of town is a historical sign that describes the first trading post built in the area back in 1809 when this beautiful bowl of water and peaks was claimed by the Canadian fur companies. Maybe the early traders felt hopeful that this was a place of bounty. Today, we're hopeful for new creeks to fish, armed with our $10 Kanisku Forest Service Map.

Beyond Hope is another tiny town named for the river--Clark Fork. At Clark Fork we cross an iron bridge that spans the massive river, looking west at the blue waters, sky and mountains. You can truly see Hope from here, in the distance and feel it in your soul. It's one of those breathless vistas that you want to share with the world. Imagine being the first explorer to discover the Grand Canyon. You'd want everyone to come see it as it defies word description and visual depiction. This is my Grand Canyon in hues of blue.

Todd turns opposite the way I direct him to go. He's set on finding the fishing holes the guys at Big R told him about. I'm set on climbing those mountains to look over the like. The dogs are panting and just want to run. Finally we wind through enough gravel road with divots missing as if some crazy giant golfer passed this way swinging at pale rocks. Grenny and Bobo clamber out of the Blue Goose and run with joyous expressions.

Normally fine examples of German engineering, our two GSPs prove that their paws are faster than their brains today. Ahead is a narrow bridge with caution signs marking each edge.  It turns out that the bridge is actually a cattle guard made up of narrow slats to dissuade animals—namely range cattle—from crossing. There is a perfectly dry stream  and easy access down and up for animals. But our big brown German engineered dog evidently thinks he can walk on steel slats. He can’t.

Bobo gets stuck, too, but we manage to free the dogs, who are confused but unharmed, and I get stuck in the role of playing guard to the cattle guard while Todd explores the creeks we can hear rushing through willows and over rocks. Grendel goes around, well actually he takes off up the dry rocky stream bed, but Bobo is determined to go across. Finally Todd arrives to carry his speckled GSP princess in his arms.

But the obstacles do not end there. Todd decides to walk down an overgrown trail with a cable strung across to prevent any off-road adventures. It’s meant to block vehicles, but it seems to work on Grendel, too. As Todd strings his fly pole on the other side of the cable, Grenny hops from front paw to front paw in a dance to figure out the cable. Finally, he plunges into the ferns and brush to the right to get around the on founding rope of steel. But he drowns in the ferns that are taller than he and for several minutes he runs panicked circles within the water of underbrush as if unable to get out of a pool.

Todd and I both laugh. We had no idea our brilliant GSP could be so un-brilliant. At last Grenny bursts out of the ferns, but still on the wrong side of the cable. Bobo slips under it, I step over and finally, Grenny jumps it. I once thought my dogs might like agility; now I’m not so sure they could hack it. After we watch the trout frustrate Todd with nibbles and near-bites, the dogs and I head back to the truck where I simply lift the cable so both dogs can easily go under it. Maybe I don’t need a dog fence back at the ranch; I could simply ring my yard with a single cable and install a few cattle guards.

Fishing and dogs may seem beyond hope, but the view of the Cabinet Gorge as we drive out of the canyon is restorative. The Clark Fork River has carved the Cabinet Mountains in half, tumbling over rock and pushing tons of sand towards Lake Pend Oreille. Like the Californians who build mini-estates along its remote banks and otherwise simple towns, migratory birds snatch up prime real estate. Elmira Pond is quaint compared to what this gorge, river, delta and lake has to offer.

Like a pterodactyl circling another age, the silhouette of a blue heron bobs above the valley as we drive out of the canyon. Another joins it in bobbing silent flight. With wing spans up to seven feet, these birds are huge. We pause long enough to watch the pair dip into aspen trees to roost for the night.

Todd has one more creek to investigate, so down the gorge we go on a paved county road. We must be near one of the electric damns as suddenly huge power lines emerge from the river direction to follow the road we are on. Coal on train tracks, damns on rivers, and yet the sun and wind roam free in northern Idaho.

It’s amazing to see how adaptable ospreys are to power towers. We’ve seen at least six of their nests and now one even sports an osprey. We stop in the middle of the road like a couple of Grand Canyon tourists snapping shots. The osprey watches us and I’m so grateful to get to see one up close before they head south. Back into the truck and we search for the creek we cannot find. The quarter moon hangs over the mountains and isn’t telling us where to look.

Coming back we catch the osprey against the mountain sunset and resume our role as tourists stopped in the road. We eat salmon sandwiches and Washington grown honey-crisp apples, as the sun colors the sky and blackens the mountains to soot. Heading past Hope once again, I see a perfect shot with the sky like sherbet over water like polished steel. But it’s too dark, Todd is driving too fast. I shoot anyhow.

Having hope is not about getting the perfect shot, but trying until the next time, believing there will always be a next time.

Pinkest Flower in the Field

Bridge Over Grouse Creek

Elk Herd

A Cool, Pink Morning

A Dino Fly-by

Flapping Away

Zippy King-fisher

Mama Merganser?

Young Hooded Mergansers

Merganser Family

New Arrivals

Cedar Wax-wings, For Now

Red-Tailed Hawk

Soaring, Hunting

Dragonfly #1

Dragonfly #2

Dragonfly #3

Red Tail

July 25 Omission:

Hot...in need of cool...mountain...stream...

Yesterday's pond report was omitted in favor of seeking cooler climes along Grouse Creek. We nearly made it to the falls, but were beat to the spot by a family with nine children. And a dog. Our dogs barked at their dog, and leashing ensued. I fell in a mud-hole, had to wash off in the creek, lost my husband and had to wait for him at the truck. Not my ideal situation, but he reminded me that he had hero-status for at least another week. And even a bad day along Grouse Creek is a good day.

On the way home we ate tuna-fish sandwiches on sourdough rolls and slices of orange-flesh melon that dripped down our chins. Just a few miles from home we saw a herd of elk grazing on ranch pasture. A beautiful excuse not to write...filling the well.

Morning Pond Report:

Mist rises off the pond like steam from hot summer sidewalks. Ah, but this is no urban setting along Elmira Pond. A crisp night promises a cooler day than those of this past week. The sky is pinking later; no more 4 a.m. dawns.

Elmira Pond has touched my pink side. Pink mist, pink skies, pink flowers, why not. Not normally a woman of that shade, I bought my very first pink t-shirt in what feels like a million years. And today I am wearing it, my hot-pink t-shirt with a white silhouette of a German Short-haired Pointer (GSP), and the back that proclaims, "Keep calm; point on." This comes into play later.

And speaking of a million years or so, that is how old Blue Heron's drivers license would read, if he needed one to fly. He doesn't grace the pond today, but flies by low, a pterodactyl shadow of blue-gray against the dark green pines and trees. Flap. Flap. Silent as he is, he looks like a flapping dinosaur seeking giant pond frogs. Bull-frogs seems to suffice, and I realize it's been a while since I've heard a sonorous croak from that group. I'm not complaining. But the grasshoppers need to learn a new tune or two.

Another blue-gray bird flits fast around the pond, up to the sky, across the trees, back to the pond and over the power lines. All in about 10 seconds. If only coffee would course through me that way. The most hyper bird I know upon this pond is the belted king-fisher. I actually snap a few shots of him so maybe the coffee is working after all. Big head, long dark beak and crisply tailored-white neck. But no fishing for him today. Who knows where king-fisher go.

A single Lady Merganser holds court on the log. It's been several weeks now since I've seen the female ring-necked duck. Maybe she is shrouded in reeds, secluded on the cup of a nest, incubating eggs. Or maybe she has simply flown elsewhere. I don't see the other three mergansers, but splashes on the far south-east side hint at their presence.

Finally I scope the splash-makers. They look sort of like mergansers, but smaller and the coloring is different. Scrutiny is tough at a distance. If they are babies, they are juveniles. Do you mean I missed the cuteness and back-packing of merganser chickhood? These awkward younglings are trying to walk on water, probably practicing for flight. Between two of them I think I see a turtle. If so, it is my first pond turtle sighting.

Two of the three merganser brood hang out with the Lady on the Log. Is she mama or auntie? She doesn't seem real interested in them, perhaps preparing for an empty nest. It's interesting how many trinities of birds I seem to see upon this pond. Migratory wanderers, passing through.

Another bird group is noticeably absent--the metallic-blue tree swallows who used to make ferry-rings upon the pond. Their nestlings fledged and now they are all gone. The barn swallows are still in residence, but are not in great numbers. Yet another bird has appeared, soaring more so than flitting, yet acrobatic all the same. They seem to be after insects but their shape and whistle is different from swallows and their color different from sparrows and siskins. Nor are they as big as robins, but close.

Are they brown? Gray? Their tails seem lined in yellow. Is it really yellow? The kingbird has a stripe like that, but boldly white. A few pause in a tree and there is something about the eyes...the head. I am so engrossed in the binoculars that I am ignoring bees. They bounce from clover head to tree tops, yet I am unafraid. I'm birding. If you know of my recent woes with a bee, it's an amazing feat--to ignore the humming of bees.

This bee is now so close to my ear, it is the loudest thrumming I've ever heard from an insect. Cautiously, I set down the binos, prepare to swat with my right hand until I turn and actually glimpse the bee. It is no bee. A hummingbird has taken tremendous interest in my pink t-shirt, zoning in to my shoulder as if I am full of nectar; the pinkest flower in the field. Now it is my turn to surprise him as I leap from my chair, squealing like no flower has ever squealed. I never did wear pink well.

But as my shirt reads, I stay calm, twittering just a bit, and bird on. I'm fairly, mostly, pretty certain that the newest pond arrivals are cedar wax-wings. In fact, one photo shows the brown and gray coloring and the distinctly yellow tail stripe. Until I prove myself wrong, I'm going with cedar wax-wing. While they are known to devour berries, they seem more interested in insects. Go for the protein wax-wings.

Ah, and here comes the red-tailed hawk, soaring high on the thermals. In total, the hawk sweeps over  the pond valley north to south and then south again at least five times. He's hunting the fields and meadows. Any time he nears the pond, birds harass him and he dives, trying to escape their nagging advance. I waffle between thinking maybe he's an immature bald eagle or red-tailed hawk. But several photos clearly show the stripes and red tail of the latter although the head and chest pattern could be young eagle-like.

If it is that difficult to identify such a big beast of the blue skies, I don't even try to tag the dragonflies flitting by and clinging to dead limbs and fence line. But I can assure you, that none of them are as pink as the pinkest flower in the field.