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.

Fishing Grouse Creek

Grendel on Grouse Creek

Todd Casting, Grendel Sniffing

Fishing with GSPs

Picking Flies

Cool, Clear Water

An Itty Bitty Fishy

Bobo Sniffing out the Good Rocks

Waiting for Trout

Drooling on Grouse Creek

Our GSP Water Sprite

Seriously, When Did This Dog Start Liking Water?

But What's Not to Like About This Water?

My Feet Are Submerged in a Mountain Spa

That's a Dog Smile

Driftwood the Size of a Small Car

Bobo and Her Best Buddy

Casting Over Dog

Trout are Biting

Beautiful Afternoon Skies

Blue Goose

We pile the dogs into the backseat of the Blue Goose, and head to Samuels Corners for breakfast at the Blue Heron. We even see a great blue heron fly over as we eat omlettes out on the patio, overlooking Walsh Lake. It's exactly three miles south of Elmira Pond and both waters are deep blue in the blowing wind this morning.

Instead of driving into the maw of the Pack River canyon with its massive peaks of weathered granite, gneiss and swift-tumbling waters, we go the opposite direction, heading east into the Cabinet Mountains that span across northern Idaho and western Montana.

We get lost.

If it's not battery cables, it's a wrong turn, but such is the stuff of great adventures. It's not like there's a lot of roads in Kanisku National Forest, so we explore the ranch-lands and make a mental map to make up for our lack of one on paper. Before long we cross the forest service road and travel along a meandering creek, smaller and not as turbulent as the upper Pack River.

Todd can't stand it. He's seen too many fishing holes, so we cut short our drive to go to Big R in Sandpoint. A fishing license turns into an elk and deer tag, too.

Somewhere between the canning supplies and the gun counter, I take a wrong turn and come face-to-face with a retail wall of "bear deterrent." For cross-promotional purposes, Big R should sell "Depends" on this aisle. Seriously, if I come close enough to a grizzly to annoy it with a spritz of cayenne, I'm also going to need an adult diaper.

The attendant at the gun counter is helpful. He even suggests that I shoot the buck eating my strawberries, as it is a known fact in Bonner County that the circuit judge refuses to try locals for poaching deer. He doesn't even try to sell me a license. It seems I have quirky rights as a local gardener; the local deer have none.

Yet, leaving Big R, I realize that I've spent more on pectin and jars than Todd has on his multiple licenses to pack our freezer with protein.

Thus we return to Grouse Creek armed with fly-rod, elk-hair catis flies and dogs to point the way. I have packed my essential gear, too--book, camera, picnic food, kibble for "good dogs" and a walking stick that also serves as my imaginary bear-nose-buster.

If a creek were ever perfect, Grouse Creek would take top honors. Gurgling clear water, melon-sized rocks of metamorphic minerals and biting trout.

Grendel, our male GSP, used to loathe water. Somewhere between Lake Superior and northern Idaho he morphed into a water sprite. The dogs splash every potential hole and riffle for Todd. Nonetheless he catches (and releases) a dozen trout and only loses one fly to a willow.

We walk back to the Blue Goose happy for our day. The dogs are blissfully exhausted, my pockets are full of rocks and my feet still tingle from soaking in a cool mountain spa. We eat tuna fish sandwiches and peas from the farmers market, watching the sun set behind the mountains.

Life is good even 10 miles from the pond.