Portland 2019: Idaho to Utah

On June 29th, a couple hours after we had said goodbye to our hosts in Boise who let us crash at their bachelor pad, I wrote this in my journal:

On the road to Utah! Last time we drove through this part of Idaho, I thought it was a barren wasteland. But because of our time spent at Willow Creek farm near Fairfield two years ago, now I look on the landscape with a sense of familiarity and fondness. White-tipped navy-gray mountains, swaths of green farmland or green-gold grassland, the occasional pond or canal: but mostly miles upon miles of sagebrush plains. Hazy stratus clouds float above. I've seen hawks dogfighting and pelicans soaring over a reservoir. I hope I get to see an antelope soon.

Okay, maybe it was a little barren. Still pretty, though.

Our show tonight would be in Logan, Utah, a smallish town about an hour north of Salt Lake City. The landscape grew increasingly dramatic as we approached, and we soon learned that the town rested in a valley filled with a sprawling marshland, full of wild birds and paddle-boarders. 

Since it was a relatively short drive, we had some time to kill before loading into the music venue, so we walked around the downtown, poking into antique stores, marveling at the poster that advertised decorative dental fillings, catching glimpses of the Mormon temple on a nearby hill, and eating hummus wraps and cheap ice cream cones at a local grocery store.

The venue, a black-box-theater-style setting with twinkle lights and local artwork adorning the walls, was beautiful, but the show was dismally attended (although those who did show up were enthusiastic). I felt grumpy because my cello kept slipping out of tune, making it impossible for me to play well (I was often transposing a quarter-step to half-step up, depending on which string!). We played a fairly short set, and then I retreated into the green room, huffing as I sat down on the couch and wondering if my cello would ever be in tune again. 

My costume that night

This graffiti in the bathroom made me smile.

The night improved when we learned that 1) we were allowed to sleep at the venue that night, and 2) instead of the normal drink tickets that bars give bands, this venue handed out tickets for slices of pizza from a nearby parlor. Pizza makes everything better!

Indeed, I felt downright happy once we returned to the venue with pizza in hand, along with a bag of cherries we'd bought earlier that day. Nolan plugged his phone into the sound system and began playing some Scandinavian and Celtic-inspired bands that he likes, and the five of us sat around and spat cherry pits into napkins and talked about the music and about Utah and about the bands we like. I ended up giving everyone back rubs (everyone's muscles were completely knotted from so much time in the car), and Adrienne gave me a back rub, and then I curled up on a couch, listening to my band mates' sleepy conversation as everyone settled onto various couches and the floor (and a row of hard chairs, in Nolan's case), brushed their teeth, brushed their hair, did all those little things you do when you're traveling together and you're in each others' space.

I think that's the moment where I really began to feel like the band— even Jessie and Nolan, whom I still didn't know very well— were family. I still missed Zach, but I was anything but lonely. No matter what the next few days of tour would bring, I was with my family, and because of that, it was going to be good.

~~~

The Grand Gallivant: Goodbye to Willow Creek

Us on our last day in the garden we helped build

Our last week at Willow Creek was much the same as the first— weed-whacking, mowing, playing darts, eating good food— but with a comfortable familiarity. One of the last projects we worked on were getting the garden up and running— due to their greenhouses flooding, they hadn’t been able to start any seeds until we arrived, but on our last day, some of the seeds I’d planted had grown enough to be placed in the garden! 

We worked one day on fencing the garden to keep the chickens out, nailing down weed cloth with holes cut in it for the plants, and bending cattle panels into two trellises that form a tunnel through the middle of the garden. The next few days were a flurry of planting: lemon thyme, sage, rosemary, four kinds of tomatoes, seven kinds of peppers, scarlet runner beans (to grow on the trellis), cucumbers, pattypan squash, zucchini. I scooped out the holes, situated the plants, and tucked them in with new potting soil, patting down the warm black earth around their stems. It’s immensely satisfying work.

Zach turned 27 on the 20th, and we celebrated by road-tripping through some dicy dirt roads up to Ketchum, where we hiked in the sweltering heat up the side of Bald Mountain until we got confused in the tangle of service roads and just hiked down again. It was still fun, though!

The cows wish Zach a happy birthday.

View from Bald Mountain

In the evenings we played darts or watched movies or walked down the dirt roads. Once we took the four-wheeler up the canyon, winding our way along Beaver Creek (aptly named for the series of beaver dams along it) until we were surrounded by a pack of Great Pyrenees who were snarling at us like wolves out of a Disney movie. They were guarding a flock of sheep that grazed on the hillside nearby, looking like a pile of boulders among the sagebrush. When the number of dogs grew to about ten circling the ATV, Zach decided to turn around, and Kate told us later that it was a good call— “Those dogs will tear your face off.”

On our last day there, we spent a good chunk of the day steam-juicing cherries that Kate had gotten from a local orchard, picked that morning. They had a triple-boiler set up on a gas stove in their barn, and we dumped cherries into the top container, allowing the steam to cook them down and give up their nectar, which would be bottled and later turned into homemade wine. The water perked and boiled, bluegrass music played on Pandora, and Zach and I stood side by side at a table de-stemming the cherries, occasionally taste-testing them and spitting the pits into the grass outside. In that moment, I felt perfectly content. I felt like I could do this the rest of my life. 

That night, we had a “picnic” (teriyaki wings, bacon-wrapped jalapenos, veggies with buffalo dip, and tres leches cake) in the barn along with a couple neighbors, and we stuffed ourselves and played darts until the stars came out. 

Saying goodbye was difficult— we had grown so close to Billy and Kate in such a short time. Their affection for and gratitude toward each other and us, their generosity, and their good life out in Idaho will stay with me for the rest of my life. 

They sent us on our way with a quart of honey and a card, and Zach and I pulled out of the driveway and trundled down the dirt road toward the highway that would lead us to Portland. I cried.

~~~

The Grand Gallivant: A Weekend in Idaho

Last weekend, we had two days off to explore the area, and we wanted to try our hand at some proper four-wheeling. Since the canyon road is often busy on weekends, Billy and Kate suggested that we drive on a private road that a friend of theirs owns. Armed with a map, we both hopped onto a four-wheeler and took off down the dusty road under an unbroken blue sky (Zach driving, me clinging to him and trying not to fall off).

We rode up the side of a mountain (Zach would call it a hill) about two miles, glancing at the landscape behind us— we could see the Magic Reservoir twenty miles away as a skim of blue beneath a line of mountains. We drove till we came to a fence, then hopped off, crawled through the barbed wire, and took off onto a wild landscape of sagebrush hills.

We followed dirt roads and cow trails (and ran into quite a few cows as well) for almost an hour, trekking up and down the undulating hills, until we reached a hot spring that bubbled out of a white mineral deposit. (There was nowhere to bathe, but that was okay because the sun was glaring by this point and we were soaked in sweat.) Here we ate the chicken-pesto sandwiches I’d packed for us, then made the long trek back, admiring wildflowers along the way. Then we sped down the mountain on the four-wheeler, the wind howling by as if we were weightless.

Hot springs!

On Sunday, we got into our nicest clothes and headed to the Fairfield Community Church (Kate said the pastor bought honey from her and was super nice). After the service, we chit-chatted a bit with the congregation, then headed out for lunch at The Wrangler, a homestyle diner with excellent low-cost food, especially the blackberry milkshake, which was as thick as a St. Louis “concrete.” (Incidentally, Fairfield has another awesome restaurant that Kate took us to: The Cliff, a pub with amazing fish and chips.)

We tried to call our dads for Fathers Day, but the SIM card in our phone is acting up so we weren’t able to. Instead, we drove down the highway a bit and wound on a dirt road until we reached the Centennial Marsh, a huge wetlands preserve. Armed with binoculars that Billy had loaned us, we spent a good while bird-watching. We saw coots (with babies!), cinnamon teals, dozens of yellow-headed blackbirds (which I had never seen before), a ruddy duck (it had a blue bill, which is cool), and a couple of sandhill cranes (which look unreasonably huge when they’re flying). We also spotted an antelope with twin fawns!

With still most of the afternoon left to spend, we headed to the Solider Mountain ski area, where Kate had said there was good hiking. Sure enough, we found a trail with a fairly straightforward-looking map, and began hiking up the mountain, sweating profusely in the hot sun.

The trail followed the edge of a rushing creek, and we were shaded by pines and aspens with trembling leaves. I panted and struggled up the slope, blaming it on elevation as usual, but the air grew cooler and soon we saw patches of snow along the trail. To our right, the hill turned into a rocky ridge with dramatically-jutting rocks. Bright yellow flowers resembling daisies surrounded the trail. Zach said it reminded him of the northern California part of the Pacific Crest Trail.

Finally we broke out into the open, along a ridge that turned into huge glaciated peaks next to us. From this vantage point, we could look out across the Camas Prairie and see snow-capped mountains that were probably in Nevada. Talk about a view! 

Unfortunately, here the trail split into four different paths, and we spent a lot of time wandering around and looking at our not-detailed-at-all map before we finally decided that we weren’t adequately prepared to get lost in the backcountry (we didn’t even have our water filter, and were running low), so we just headed back down the way we came. The whole hike was probably eight or nine miles, maybe longer— it felt good to walk a long distance.

We drove home, cooked up some pasta and tuna, picnicked on the patio, then played darts until the first stars began to come out. It was a good weekend.

~~~

The Grand Gallivant: Life at Willow Creek Nursery

Our house is just to the left of this photo

Once again I find myself caught up in the moment and not writing. This is the point of such immersive travel experiences, of course, but it’s not very good for the blog. So today I’ve determined to sit down and actually write about what we’ve been doing the past week!

Our journey to Willow Creek Nursery took us down dirt roads, around buttes, and into the beginnings of a canyon surrounded by hills (with their bluish sagebrush, yellowish new growth, and pinkish clay soil beneath the creamy blue sky, the hills are quite a rainbow of color). Billy and Kate live on five acres in a little “subdivision” of houses clustered around the road, and their acreage is covered in blue spruce, curly willow, and a host of other trees that they’ve grown to sell, sometimes in neat grid rows, sometimes scattered around the open lawn. A row of beehives are tucked away in the back, and if you hop the barbed wire fence and walk through a muddy field that was recently flooded, you’ll find Willow Creek rushing along.

Buttercup Mountain, as seen from the field behind their house

From the moment we met Billy and Kate, we loved them, and they seem the kind to love pretty much anyone they meet. They recently celebrated 11 years of marriage and have the kind of friendly familiarity that comes with the years, but they’re also as madly in love as newlyweds, which is adorable. Our first night they offered us beer, showed us around the property, and got us set up in the modular home adjacent to their house (it used to belong to Billy’s brother before he moved back east). We have a bedroom, a living room, a fully-stocked kitchen and a patio all to ourselves! They left some eggs from their chickens on the counter, along with some fresh oregano and two items that they sell: local honey and bee pollen.

Billy and Kate sat with us and drank beer the first night and we chatted about this n’ that. Billy gave us a piece of advice that’s stuck with me: “Remember to look up,” he said. “You never know what you’re gonna see around here, so don’t get too focused on your work— look up.”

Me with a weedwhacker. Power tools are cool.

That was the beginning of our first lovely week (we’re here for another week, then heading back to Portland). Within a couple days we settled into a routine: we wake up around 8:30 or 9, which allows us plenty of time to make breakfast for the day. We cook it, but Kate and Billy supply all the ingredients. For instance, last Friday I grabbed some bacon that they had cured and smoked themselves, eggs from their chickens, and Idaho potatoes, then fried all three in bacon grease! We washed it down with coffee (for Zach) and a glass of orange juice sprinkled with bee pollen (me). Talk about delicious!

Work begins at 10, and so far we’ve done a variety of jobs, from seed-planting and weed-whacking to hauling logs and rototilling the garden to washing out bottles so they could bottle up a batch of homemade wine. I’ve learned to drive both a riding lawn mower and a four-wheeler, and have so far managed to only run into a tree once. 

Whereas the last farm involved a lot of reading and thinking, here I find myself living in the moment a lot more: mowing and weed-whacking are fairly right-brained activities because of the constant spacial thinking, so I have a hard time holding a coherent thought when I’m focused on trying not to cut down anything that’s not supposed to be cut down. The work here is so meditative that time seems to cease; I’m always shocked when 4:00 hits and I realize that I’ve been pruning or weeding for three hours without feeling that time had passed. Through it all, I try to remember to look up, and have been rewarded with the sight of western tanagers flitting through the trees, swallows wheeling overhead, or clouds drifting over the peak of the snow-streaked Buttercup Mountain in the distance.

In the evenings, we cool off in myriad ways: taking walks, exploring the creek, surfing the web as usual, watching movies, playing an instrument they’re loaning us called a hangpan, or challenging each other to games of darts (which we’re slowly improving on). 

A short walk down the road takes us to this view.

Then it’s time for the highlight of the day: dinner. Kate was a professional chef for many years, and it shows— every single thing she makes is exquisite: grilled salmon with rice and Mediterranean salad; roast chicken with stuffing, cranberry sauce and butternut squash; venison-stuffed peppers with seasoned pinto beans; pizza topped with ham, onions, red peppers, fennel, and banana slices... We eat huge portions slowly, always accompanied by homemade wine, and talk for an hour or more, enjoying excellent food and excellent company.

On the weekend we had two days off, and we got to do some exploring in the area, but that’s another post unto itself. In short, we’re having a fantastic time here: learning, working, being inspired. I can’t wait to see what this week will bring!

~~~

The Grand Gallivant: On the Road to Idaho

After three solid days in Glacier, it was time to head out for our next destination. We decided to split the drive into two days for Zach’s sake, and to give us a little more down time before getting to our next farm. So on Saturday, we only had a four-hour drive, allowing us to bum around Agpar Village in the rain all morning. Off we drove, retracing our steps to Kalispell through a maze of tiny tourist traps (advertising huckleberry pie, preserves, ice cream, soda, pastries, sauces, wine, and anything else you could possibly put huckleberries in), then heading south.

We wound along the edge of Flathead Lake, which is the largest-area freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. Clouds hung low over it, giving the water a glassy gray shine. We soared along the deserted stretches of highway and crawled through the little towns, listening to The Who’s Live at Leeds. (“A young man ain’t got nothin’ in the world these days,” Roger Daltrey howled, and Zach remarked, “See, young people have always complained about everything.”) 

After rejoining Interstate 90 (and its awesome 80 MPH speed limit), we soon left the trees behind and took the open plains, bordered by mountains and patched over with farmland. 

Cute doggie!

Our stop for the night was Anaconda, where a couchsurfing host had offered us a place to crash— except we found out last minute that she wasn’t going to be there. She seemed perfectly comfortable with the notion of us staying there, though, and just left the door open. Maybe it’s my big-city ways, but I was paranoid that she was some sort of creative ax-murderer trying to lure us into her house. Inside, we found a friendly note on the kitchen counter and a blue heeler (Australian shepherd) who was terrified of us at first, but soon warmed up and nearly loved us to death. We spent a relaxed evening cooking dinner, and slept like rocks that night. But it was definitely the strangest couchsurfing experience I’ve had yet!

Sunday’s drive took us into even more open plains, where hawks perched on the barbed wire fences, antelope roamed through the sagebrush, and magpies and ravens scavenged for roadkill. We listened to Frank Zappa’s song “Montana” in honor of our last day there, then passed the rest of the state listening to Ziggy Stardust. The unchanging miles— sagebrush, farmland, distant mountains— rolled by as we passed into Idaho.

Zappa's song discusses his plans to move to Montana to become a dental floss tycoon.
Therefore, here is a picture of me in Montana with dental floss.

We had noticed the day before that our route to the farm took us past Craters of the Moon National Monument, so we made plans to stop. I’m so glad we did! The park covers several acres of weird volcanic landscape, and thanks to our national parks pass, we got in for free.

Looking down into a crater

We hiked a 3.5 there-and-back trail over mounds of lava in different stages of crumbling, from smooth bubbles of gray rock to dust-like particles that looked like asphalt. Cones and columns of lava jutted out at odd angles. 

The wildflowers were in peak bloom as well— rarely more than two inches high, they had tiny flowers in muted pastel colors, evenly spaced so their root systems could gather precious water. The winters here are arctic, and the summer ground temperatures can reach 150ºF, so I greatly admire these hardy little plants.

After Craters of the Moon, it was time to reach our next farm! We got a bit lost wandering the dirt roads, but at last found the right house and were greeted by Kate and Billy, who gave us a tour of their property, including the two-bedroom house that we get all to ourselves. That was two days ago, and our time here so far has been fantastic... but that’s another blog post. Welcome to Idaho!

~~~