Post from the road & Borah Peak, Idaho

i’m at Borah Mnt, Idaho tonight. i’ve been through here at least one time before and potentially driven up this side dirt road to see the 1983 historical marker of the 7.2 earthquake splitting the ground, but do not fully recall.

what I do know, is this is a slightly magically place for me. Being BLM\USFS the first things I ran into were cows, but amazingly only a few and even more so no cow pies on every square inch of land! Driving up a two-track to a vantage point overlooking the entire valley, or at least a good 40 miles of its length, the first natural residents I was greeted by were two giant black and burnt orange swift-like birds. They were easily twice the size that of the swifts at Smith Rock, and they were swooping around close to the ground close to me in the manner of Killdeer protecting their hidden eggs on the ground, but I did not come across any future generations and they quickly disappeared.

Once I located a “level” place to camp, I pulled off the two-track, checking the clearance between exhaust system and dry groundcover so as to not ignite a brush fire, and I was immediately hit with the old familar aroma of the Sagebrush. Its pungency nearly enough to burn my nostrils, but I would have it no other way to remind me, I was home.

At Smith Rock, I had gathered upba few sprigs of Sage and breathed deeply with the leaves placed under my nose, but even that proximity to the olfactory, was not sufficient enough to match the aromatic strength of a few tire crushed shrubs emmitting their scent.

Not to be outdone by the swifts or the aroma, thee mosiquitos are the size of hummingbirds here! Where they come from, I haven’t the slightest clue, but they descending upon their newest meal with speed and the unforgettable, genetically recognizable buzz one can never forget. I would not be surprised if these predators of the annoyed were picked up on military radar given their enormity, and I only wish thec swifts would have stayed around longer to devour a few more. A slight breeze did keep them at bay for the most part, not forcing me immediately to drive into my tent sans dinner, but I could easily have been very complascent without their existance.

A grunt from close proximity resulted in my startled jump and an even more instinctual fear of a great bear descending upon my being. But, a scan around the vast perimeter revealed no dark ball of fur, nails and teeth lumbering towards me, and a second guttural sound revealed the source to be a not too distant four chambered stomach bovine, the parahia of western lands. At least they had not left me their prairie paddies as a testament to having been here first.

Setting up home away from home became a two-fold project, as darkening skies from an already set sun, loomed more omenious with black sheets of rain masking the transition between mountain sillouettes and the sky to the south, and heavy drops of liquid began to fall just as I fired up the Coleman.

As water was set to begin boiling at seven thousand foot elevation, I scurried between setting up the tent and trying to locate a jacket. Before there was even time to mount a serious endeavour to locate some protection from the impending deluge, I caught a first glimpse of a waxing quarter moon nearing the western horizon as it broke through a cloud patch, and the clouds and raindrops moved to the south.

This is the Basin and Range west, land of scant moisture, where ominous skies fools the mind’s eye into thinking the worst torrential downpour is nye, but only delivers a smattering of liquid.

As skies continued to darken and faint, solidary white beams tailed by a red speck marked the travel of a motorists locked to the pavement in the valley center a few miles distant from the Sagebrush Explorer, the icons of western evenings greeted the moon, even as it prepared to depart their views. A few coyotes qued up a corus in a slightly distant proximity to the north. Just as the moisture that would never give life sustaining sustenance to t1he Sagebrush evaporated before hitting dirt, so too did the coyotes songs.

In the midst of setting up camp and a single gourmet meal of bowtie noodles, sauce, melted chunks of cheese and slices pepperoni, I noticed flashes of light to the south of my perch over the valley and the way by which the maelstorm retreated. A cumulus bulk of clouds siting over the southern horizon and partially blocked from my viewing pleasure by the flanking mountain to Borah Peak, was a decent display of lightening, although to distant to hear the thunder.

Finished eating, downing the last of a PBR, and the moon descended below the next range of mountains to the west, it was time to dive through the tent door and sealed up the hatches prior to any unwelcome humming vistors making themselves feel right at home.

A few pages in an Astronomy book read, while the stars were out in full force without the light pollution of urban centers, street lights and strip malls, this happy camper was quick to sleep not willing to donate sangre de Hanso to the local blood bank. They’ll have their chances in the morning.

Camping out below Borah Peak, Idaho. The highest point in Idaho at 12,626 ft (roughly). Sagebrush in the middle of the Intermountain West's Basin & Range country.

Awoke early to the rattling and scuffing of the tent. The mind instantly tracks to primal belief of a predator snooping around, but alas it is only the brushing of fly upon tent in the cool morning breeze.

An hour before daylight the local populations announce the looming morning. The coyotes sound off, the swifts are chirping and flying around the tent, apparently to announce my presence as they did with my arrival, and the return of the gutteral sound of last night. I had originally thought it to be the cows in the area, but after hearing the sound of a sprung piano wire low on the keyboard, I realized it was mostly that of a Sagehen or Prairie Chicken instead.

As daylight arrives, the breeze fluttering the short grasses outside the tent, I am greeted by a couple impatient mosquitos desparetly attempting to get through the fly netting and to their mark. There will be none of that, as I unzip the tent fly doors to let in the view. To ward off the chilling breeze, I wrap the sleeping bag around me as a hummingbird, actual not the dreaded bitting kind, performs an S-shaped flight manuever between the truck and tent.

Could the bright orange kayak atop the truck or yellow recycle bin on the ground drawn in this unlikely visitor, who came from afar to scope out this new item of bright color in this overly colorless landscape?

The sun is nearing the breach of the NW to SE running mountain range, a white halo brightens in the pale blue sky. Their shadow has been steadily marching towards the east across the valley, and the sun is only a minute or two from blinding me, while at the same shedding some direct heat upon my chilled body.

As I wait the last few minutes, the visibility of Borah Peak, a bulky mountain of improbablly held up scree, is obscurded and faded by the rays of light.

The sun is upon my face, another day has arrived and only time will tell what it brings. Time to get up, mosquitos be damned!