Parking Lot Politics

Me, Recording Parking Lot Politics

Taking Politics on the Road with 4WD

Tailgate Political Portfolios

Some Slogans Fades But Never Die

No Bumper Sticker? Paint Your Own

Hubby Just Needs a Stick Horse and a Horn

Just Being Silly

By one definition, politics are the "art and science of government organizations." By another, they are "factional scheming for power and status within a group (as in, office politics)." To be political is to "take sides" and this is where politics loses any appeal to me.

While I get frustrated with the politics of this nation, I love this nation with its amber waves of grain and its diverse swatches of people. I'll serve as a citizen, but I won't get political in the partisan sense. But I'm not here to discuss, debate or digress on politics.

Today is "Silly on Sunday" so I'm going to poke fun at parking lot politics in northern Idaho. It's that grand arena where trucks become mobile campaign slogans and politics rebuke from rusted tailgates.

Yesterday, my husband had me drop him off at the Bonner County Gun and Horn Show. I snort-giggled when I read "gun and horn." What came to mind were a bunch of boys riding stick-horses with pop guns and toy bugles. My husband scowled at my giggling and informed me that "horns" referred to antlers, as in hunters. I still held my vision, but was wise enough to also hold my tongue.

While I shopped at Super One and Winter Ridge to replenish the kitchen pantry, he talked ballistics, barrels and bears with the other gun-toting, horn-tooting boys. After a few hours, I called to say that I was on my way to pick him up. My husband had that octave-higher voice of excitement and I realized he was probably let loose in the candy-store too long. He sounded wired on sugar. "Not, yet," he told me before clamping his cell phone shut.

What was I to do in the parking lot with blowing snow and nothing but tailgates to read? So I drove around, in my car noting that there were few cars parked in the full lot. Northern Idahoans drive trucks; 4WD trucks with tires as big as my car and political rhetoric as bold as red paint.

Some tailgates still held to faded concepts involving Clinton, but most favored repealing Obama. The plights of rural western places spoke out in anger with catchy slogans and colorful witticisms. No one was denied speaking out against anyone or anything, and if someone couldn't afford a bumper sticker, they just painted one like drawing a Sharpie tattoo.

Feeling bold among such strong statements I grabbed my camera and recorded (note: to protect the privacy of others I cropped or blocked plate numbers and hid one gun-toting smiling face of a man I did not know). Finally, my husband emerged.

When I told him about recording parking lot politics he read a few and did what every political person does--he debated this slogan, disregarded that one and debunked the myths behind others. Sides. Even in parking lots.

Want to read other silly stories or look at silly photos? Join blog host, Everything Susan at Silly on Sundays.

O Tannenbaum

Girl Power

Samuel, Drew, Allison, Brianna, Stephanie

Growly Hugs

Dragging the Tree

Trophy Tree

The Cramer-Mills Tree

Romping Joy

Playing With Ilya

Wait for Me!

Skidding sideways, Todd decides we should put the Blue Goose in 4-wheel drive. That means I clamber out of the tall 1991 Ford F-150 in my hiking boots to twist the hubs in place. He teases me that I'm not a "real cowgirl" because I'm in the seat designated for opening fences and turning hubs. I don't mind.

We are halfway up the road to Roman Nose and several inches of packed ice slicks the gravel road. The snow is not so deep, though. It's the day after Thanksgiving and we have a $5 Forest Service permit to cut a Christmas tree. What a better way to expend some energy in the fresh mountain air after a day of feasting.

Allison, Drew and Brianna follow us in their Rav. We have their friends, Samuel and Stephanie, a hand-saw, ax, tree permit and various guns. Drew is hauling all four of our dogs, two huskies and two German Short-haired Pointers. This is something we haven't done since our last Christmas in Montana back in 1997.

Pulling off the road, Todd gets the Blue Goose stuck. Not that he meant to. Our daughters relish the opportunity to turn the tables on him. "Dad says he lives to embarrass," Brianna teases. Another tree seeker stops and we attach our tow-rope and soon our truck is unstuck with a little "girl power" pushing.

The dogs romp up and down the road. Grendel is running too fast and he face-plants, skinning his chin. He shakes it off and continues to run just as fast. The huskies live for snow and they are in frozen heaven. Ilya catches snowballs that Alli tosses to him. Jaspers runs just as reckless as Grendel. Bobo keeps up with the boys and smiles as much as a dog can smile.

Selecting the "right tree" is a lot like arranging new furniture in the living room. Only the drifts are deep. We split up which is a mistake as we call out to each other, "What about this one?" We all converge, discuss pine versus fir, long branches versus short. Drew is looking for one that is "greener." I think we each have a different tree in mind. Being the one who will deck the tree, I call trump on my preference.

Finally we find one up a steep slope. It's Drew's discovery. Allison goes up to inspect. The rest of us stand below and tell him to shake it so we know exactly which one he's eying for the ax. Alli agrees it's a good one. Brianna and Stephanie go up the slope to make sure. Confirmed. We claim the tree.

Echoes from the ax rebound down the canyon. We have a saw but Drew had his heart set on chopping down the tree. And he succeeds. The three girls drag it down the slope, falling into knee-deep drifts and sliding the final embankment.

Like trophy hunters we gather around our tannenbaum for photos. It's a lovely tree, we all coo. It smells so good, so fresh. Part of the reason that I wanted a fir was because they are stronger scented. We take our tree down the slick road, strap it into the back of the Blue Goose and take more photos.

Back at the ranch we realize that the tree is too tall. No matter, we can trim the stump a foot or two. Rekindling an old tradition was just the transition we needed to go from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Despite my family all claiming it's too early, they also know how much I love my tree. And Christmas music.

But I'll wait until they Missoulans leave Sunday to blast "O Tannenbaum."

Road-Dancing Up to Roman Nose

Right Direction; Wrong Distance (Read)

Hubs, Like Serious Dance Shoes

Rocks and Brush on an Easy Part of the Road

Where Did the Dance Floor Go?

Dancing a Trail of Dust

Brown Blur to the Right is a Moose...Really

High Elevation Trees

And Everywhere Granite

Trail to Other Roman Nose Lakes

Crags

Fall Colors Turning

He Told Me I Made His Trout Look Small

Pretty

Lots of Rocks

Eager to Run

Mirror, Mirror on the Lake...

Rock Pile

Sky Mirrored in the Water

Clear, Clear Water

Water, Trees, Rocks and Sky

Where I'd Like to Read

Mountains in the Water

90% of Fishing is Tying Knots

Want to Climb?

Huckleberries!

Left, Right, Huckleberry Bushes Galore!

It takes three to tango on the road up Roman Nose Mountain--me, Todd and a truck.

Road-dancing changes tempo according to the size of rocks. We pick up speed, sliding across packed gravel until that first switch-back comes into view and the tires turn but scud in the direction of the drop. Hearts pounding as if we nearly missed tumbling off the dance floor by mere inches, we gradually pick up speed until the fork in the road. The handwritten sign clearly identifies each fork, but the numbers are not so clear, or maybe its the windshield or my glasses.

Imagine seeing that sign and reading it as "Roman Nose 1.8 Miles." Yep, that was us. We read 1.8 not 18. Quarter tank of gas? Sure we can drive a couple of miles. It's like signing up for a dance contest thinking you have to be on stage for one dance, only to find out there are 17 more songs and you're already breathless and tenderfoot. And low on gas.

Road-dancing becomes all uphill; no more switchbacks and gentle inclines. At a flat spot carved out of the side of a 7,000 foot mountain, Todd tells me to hop out and lock the hubs. It's like putting on the serious dance shoes, the ones with the solid heals and arch supports. It means the dancing has turned dirty--time to slip into 4WD.

As if the road washed away years ago, only a jumble of cannon-ball rocks remain to mark the trail between mountain slope (down) and mountain slope (up). We bounce over the rocks to more rocks and upward we climb. If you think riding in a truck is just riding, then you've never danced in 4WD before. My core is aching and Todd complains that his arms are beginning to hurt. I tell him, "Don't drop me."

Leafy brush beats against my door as if the crowd has gone crazy, grabbing for the dancers. We have no choice as narrow as the dance-floor has become. Suddenly the rocks are gone, but this is not good news. Nothing but a wall of sand greets us, but we dip, turn into the mountain, slide and go over the swale of sand pale as a tombstone. We live to see the other side. More brush, more rocks.

Dust eddies behind us, the 16th song is nearly over and the road spits us out on a smoother gravel track where a meadow carves a green trench downward toward the valley. Two massive moose stand right there at the edge of the meadow. I've been so busy dancing, that I'm not ready with my camera. Nor is it set up for this close of a shot. With telephoto and hasty aim I shoot best I can and get a remarkable photo of a pine tree. The blurred mass of brackish-brown like old mud is the biggest of the two moose. I swear, on my dance shoes, it's a moose.

The dance is easy now and Todd pulls over again so I can unlock the hubs. He grins from the permanently open driver's side window and says, "Who's the real cowboy?"

I answer, repeating the wisdom found in a Michael Martin Murphy song and declare that Grendel is the real cowboy "because he sits in the middle, and doesn't have to drive, and doesn't have to mess with the gate" or hubs.

Two miles later we pull into one of three lakes that nestle in the bowl beneath the Roman Nose. It's craggy and clear with high-elevation pines and loaded huckleberry bushes. Todd fishes and I try to pick berries with leashed dogs but it's not working out. We enjoy the serenity until its time to dance back down the mountain in hopes of reaching a gas station before we end the night stuck on the dance-floor, passed out.

We did make it off the mountain with fumes to spare. Enjoy the beauty of the Roman Nose (note to self: when in the mountains a wide angle is needed, not a close-up).

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.