Where are Moose und Svirrel?

For the first time in my life, and practically in my own back yard, I saw a flying squirrel.

We were camping with our Venture crew at Little Lemhi when we spotted it perched on one of our ropes.

I had no idea they lived in East Idaho, but apparently they do.

Michelle gets credit for the photo.

Seeing a critter in the wild is a neat thing. It was clear the squirrel wasn't bothered by us looking at it, which we did for about five minutes before it figured there was nothing to eat nearby. I imagine it came by later and found some of the potato bits we dropped on the ground as we were cooking dinner.

And I had no idea flying squirrels were native to Idaho, but apparently they are, giving us one of the largest ranges of the northern flying squirrel in the lower 48 states, per Wikipedia.

We have also seen moose in this area, which can mean only one thing:

SWANS! (Update: SANDHILL CRANES!)

So I was outside the afternoon, and heard a weird noise. I thought for a moment it was Triffids, from that movie.

But the more I listened, the more I began to recognize the noise. It was something I remember hearing at scout camp. Swans.

Then there they were in the sky. They don't show up very well in this video, or in the subsequent photos. But you could sure hear them. And there were fleets of them in the sky, passing over on their way south.

It was a touching moment, to be sure.

I have since confirmed these are sandhill cranes, as a swan's call is more "swan-like," whatever that means. Still glad to I got to see and hear them.

Monster Update

Here's an important example of why it's important to take photos when you've got the opportunity. The irony of it all will be revealed in a moment.

On Friday, we took our scout troop on a hike through the lava fields west of Idaho Falls, and included 17-Mile Cave as part of the trip. The cave is the home of the Monster, which features so prominently on the banner of this blog.

He has been altered somewhat in the few years since I took this photo. Unfortunately, not for the better, in my opinion. Also unfortunately, I forgot to bring a camera to document the trip so I have no proof to post here. Someone, however, has taken orange paint and tried to make him look more dinosaurish, but in an amateurish way taht detracts from the overall effect, rather than adding to it.

He has been joined by other monsters, however, which add to the overall spooky effect of the entire spooky package. It's likely I've got to drive to work one day next week, so I'll be sure to smuggle a camera with me so I can get some photos of the guy to post here later.

Mesa Falls Hiking Bliss

Had a ball a few weeks ago hiking the canyon around Mesa Falls up in Fremont County, listening to the marmots whistle at us as we walked past and listening to the kids complain about all the hiking. Finally got to writing about it for Uncharted. Go read it.

Mesa Falls Teaser

Another teaser while we wait, patiently, for the story module at Uncharted to be repaired. Goofy geotagging feature is giving us fits and the moment and just won't let us go past that point.

I did upload some photos to Uncharted last night and met with success, so the site does have some functionality at the moment. Just wish I could bring it all together, you know?

Fools Following the Marmots and Deer

COMING SOON TO AN UNCHARTED NEAR YOU:

The thing about following game trails is this:

Deer will go anywhere and climb up pretty much anything without giving a hoot or holler for who might follow them.

It might not be deer. The trails we follow as we walk our way to and around Upper and Lower Mesa Falls on the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River may very well have been carved by generations of marmots, which are even more mobile and more loco than the deer.

Then there’s the wife factor. Not that she minds following the trails at random, wandering through the scrub under the canopy of pines and quaken aspen. It’s just that she jogs. She’s in better shape than I am. So when I get to the top of a rather steep slope, wheezing and looking for a place to park my sorry carcass, she’s pacing to and fro, fretting in her own kind way: “Come on, I’ve got to keep my heart rate up. That’s the deal!”

Here’s the other deal: If you travel along Idaho’s Mesa Falls Scenic Byway and only stop long enough to see the Upper Mesa Falls, you’re missing a lot of awesome stuff that you can only see when you park your car and follow one of the many trails that lead to and from the two waterfalls in the area and then in random directions, depending on where the deer or marmot wanted to head that day.

We start with a fairly basic trail from our camping spot at Grandview Campground (so called, I suppose, for the fact that from anywhere in the campsite you can hear Lower Mesa Falls tumbling 85 feet through a tight U-bend in the rock to the river below but you can’t really see it unless you head to the lookout north of camp). The trail winds through forests, meadows filled with bluebells and wild daisies, brief stretches of fragrant sagebrush flats and near and far from the canyon rim for about a mile before it merges with the road that snakes down the canyon to Upper Mesa Falls.

My advice: Go visit now. An unusually wet winter coupled with an extremely soggy spring has brought out the green in full force along the trail. I literally have never seen this area so green, and so varied in its greens – the blue-green of sagebrush filling the air with that odd, nostrummy tang of sage and pepper; the bright, eager green of the quaken aspen leaves, the dark, barky green of snake grass and the green of the pine needles, alternating between the spiky green of the old needles to the downy green of spring’s new growth.

Walk slowly through all that green. As you do you’ll see the wild birds the populate the area – Cooper’s hawks, robins, yellow finches and, occasionally, the mountain bluebird. You’ll hear the sharp barky cries of the marmots, calling out to each other as they watch you through the undergrowth. We saw several of them, including a young ‘un, perched on the side of the road watching as we descended to Upper Mesa Falls, watching from a fallen log as we walked the trail back to camp. They probably wanted to know what we were doing on their private highway.

Then there’s the other trail – wilder, steeper, more mysterious. We found it leading from the corner of a tiny parking lot just south of Grandview, where boaters park to prepare their light craft for a strenuous journey down the skid trail to the river. We wanted to find the river so the boys could throw rocks. We never found it. Instead, wandering down that trail that sometimes brought us close to the roar of the falls through the trees and sometimes brought us to spots where the trees swallowed up the roar of the falls completely, we came to a spot where the deer or marmot decided walking along the canyon rim would be a good idea. Mountainous trees to the right, a rocky stumble of volcanic basalt blocks descending fifty or sixty feet to the right.

We opted to turn around. Next time, though, I’m going further.

Next time, too, we’re finding that trail that leads exclusively from the upper falls to the lower falls so we can stand on the butte overlooking that tight U-bend where the water tumbles, living again the axiom science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke put in the mouth of space explorer Robert Kleinman in “Imperial Earth”:

Space is small; only the planets are big.

Our planet is big. We know this as we wander the tiny trails off the Mesa Falls Scenic Byway. We only traveled along those trails for five miles or so and saw not even the tiniest fraction of the entire canyon, where the Henry’s Fork punches through the southern wall of the Island Park caldera to the Snake River Plain below.

Space is small; only the planets are big. And we’re only beginning our explorations.

Getting there: The Lower Mesa Falls overlook off State Highway 47, about ten miles northeast of Ashton, Idaho, is an excellent place to leave your vehicle behind and begin exploring the Mesa Falls area. From the overlook, you can either walk north to the Upper Mesa Falls, about two miles away, or south along the canyon rim past the Lower Mesa Falls lookout, Grandview Campground and on towards Bear Gulch, where other trails, including a rails-to-trails that links Ashton, Idaho, to West Yellowstone, Montana, branch off.

Parking at the Lower Mesa Falls overlook is free. Parking at Upper Mesa Falls isn’t – that costs $10 per carload. Nothing stops you from making the walk to Upper Mesa Falls from the lower falls to avoid paying the fee, however. Potable water and bathrooms are also available at the Grandview campground.

The campground itself costs $13 per night. If you have a second vehicle, the price goes up $6. There aren’t many spots at the campsite, so plan on getting there early – it’s first come, first served.

One of My Favorite Places

Went here over the weekend, just to see the moss. Well, not necessarily to see the moss, but getting to see the moss is a nice bonus of going here. Here is Mesa Falls, of course. Where else would it be? The only thing I forgot to do was to verify that the ubiquitous Nose Hair Man was still there. Actually forgot about it until just now. Feeling dumb about that.

I just love the moss. Whenever I hear anyone say that Idaho isn't green and pretty but brown and ugly, I have to say, well, you don't know Idaho like I know Idaho.

We met a couple from Illinois there. They'd enjoyed -- well, if that's the word for it -- driving through a blizzard while crossing the Continental Divide in Yellowstone National Park the day before. They'd stopped at Mesa Falls on their way to Jackson. "This is God's country," they both said, over and over. Yeah, it is. And you know what, I'll bet if we'd have been able to show them around the "drier" part of Idaho, they'd have seen the beauty as well.

But here, there is the moss. And, even on the 18th of June, a big patch of snow at the foot of the waterfalls.

Wanna Buy A Ghost (Town)?

I don't know what it is with me and ghost towns.

Back in the late 80s, a Dutch exchange student we were hosting wanted to go pan for gold. He'd gone to the local army surplus store and bought an authentic gold-panning pan -- they have everything at our surplus store, except the gold -- and wanted to try it out. I figured, why not go gold-panning where the prospectors had found gold years before?

So we headed to Stanley , Idaho.

Stanley itself is nto a ghost town, though it is almost. Nearby, however, is the ghost town of Bonanza, which sounded as a likely spot.

We camped, made a fire, monkeyed around as high school kids will do, then went panning for gold. Didn't find a single flake. But we had a ball poking through the old buildings at Bonanza, wondering who lived there, why they left, and why in the world they used such splintery wood for the seats in their outhouses.

Then on out, I was hooked.

I've been through ghost towns in extreme southern Idaho , where they built their homes out of stone because trees were scarce. I've been through several in central Idaho , where the roofs have crumbled and trees are growing up through the buildings.

And I've been to Gilmore , Idaho , time and again, hoping against hope that on the next journey, I can convince my wife to buy a lot there. They're for sale, you know. Owning part of a ghost town. How cool would that be? Read more about it here.

Gilmore, Idaho, from the surrounding hills. Photo by Michelle Davidson.

Cows and Other Signs of Fall

The cows are back.

That’s always a sign of fall, when the cows come back. I don’t know who they belong to, but when they come back to the pasture just south of town from wherever they pasture all summer long, I know fall is really here.

They seem excited to be back, if the constant bustle, mooing and occasional odors mean anything. I don’t find it offensive; it’s just what happens around Sugar City when the cold weather starts to come. It’s just like being able to see Orion in the sky above the trees across the street when I go out to get in the truck to go catch the bus.

They help add dimension to this little town, with their lows and smells. They remind us that there is an earth to live on here, not merely a collection of houses surrounded by streets and connected with bits of wire hanging on dead trees. And I’m sure they do that field a lot of good, what with their fertilizing it all winter long.

Seeing them in that pasture reminds me that nature has to live outdoors during the winter. Despite the cozy stories we write about moles and rats and frogs retreating into their holes or boles or mansions replete with carpets, paneling, fireplaces and cozy places to sleep, nature does indeed dwell in mere holes in the ground, in pastures, swimming in ice-cold water, flying in brittle skies. The little birds that stay here all winter to eat the crabapples in our neighbor’s tree, and even the housecats exist on this earth, gilding the lily, being provided for without toiling nor spinning.

And our hollyhocks, gone last year after a weeding cataclysm, are back and have certainly enjoyed the colder weather. We ought to have a pretty stand of them next summer. I wish I could get them to grow somewhere else, but the seeds just seem to blow away.

The cows don’t blow away. Nor do the sheep and chickens that a family on the south side of town keep, gentleman farmer-like. I grew up with chickens. They can be dumb. But still, a lot of fun as they waddle about. They’re not as noisy as cows in a group, but they can be.

I wonder what it is that compels the cows to be so chatty. Maybe they’re commenting on the presence of a new business at what used to be an abandoned factory on the edge of their pasture. The old brick building has new windows, its yard is filled with farm equipment. Maybe that’s what gets them to talking.

Feet

As part of a school project for Liam, we went walking along the Henry's Fork of the Snake River in St. Anthony yesterday, trying to find some trumpeter swans willing to be photographed. No swans. But we did take two pictures of feet.

Here's the first:

Aw, cute little raccoon feet. Isaac found them for us -- he really wanted to follow a little trail down from the main trail to a spot underneath a thick stand of willow trees. I'm glad we listened to the little six-year-old. It's obvious the raccoons like the spot took as there were prints all over in the mud by the river.

Here's the second photo:

Liam learned the lesson that if you have to watch out for cactus on the way down to the river, you have to watch out for cactus on the way back to the path, too. We managed to yank them out of his shoe with a stick.

Want to see more? Check out my "Roadside Wandering" photoset at Uncharted.

Dan and Mary, Thanks for the Memories.

Thanks in part to Dan and Mary Hess, proprietors of Ashton's Hess Heritage Museum, I got the Idaho Press Club Rookie of the Year award in 1997, the first year out of college and the first year of professional newspaper work.

I've since left newspapering behind. And with the passing of Dan in 2006 and Mary in 2007, the Hess Heritage Museum -- an old farmhouse with outbuildings, a collection of odd and old farm machinery, bric-a-brac from the Boy Scouts of America, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, frontier schoolrooms and an inexplicably odd Polynesian Room -- is being shuttered and its collection auctioned off.

The Polynesian Room always fascinated me. It wasn't much -- a few dresses, leis and other sundry items mostly from Hawaii. But to see it in the context of a restored 1890s farmhouse smack in the middle of nowhere (actually, about two miles southwest of Ashton) was a bit mind-boggling. Yes, there is that certain Mormon fascination with Hawaii, so in that case it makes sense, but it's just an odd bit of exotic culture to see plopped in among the frontier butter churns, old-fashioned wood cooking stoves and other such stuff.

I got my rookie of the year in part because of a story I did on the museum shortly after I began writing for the Fremont County Herald Chronicle in nearby St. Anthony, Idaho. That was back when journalism was actually fun and engaging. Dan and Mary showed me around the place, I dutifully took notes and snapped a few pictures -- I could easily have been writing for a frontier newspaper at the time, the only difference being I had a little point-and-shoot, not one of those massive betripoded cameras with the big tray of exploding powder for added light.

I've got a scan of the article somewhere -- the paper copy long ago went up the chimney -- but I can't find it in my labyrinthine filing system. No matter.

Did the Hesses really have a first edition of Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland?" They said they did. I never bothered to check. And it's not showing up at the PrimeTime Auctions preview website, either, so either they didn't have it or it's not being sold. The Apollo mission-era space suit (from 1976) is being sold. How much fun would it be to own that?

The Hess' personal 1950 Studebaker, with less than 10,000 miles on it, is being sold. I'd love to buy it. But I have no money. No money for the 1924 Model T Ford either.

I'm sure the Hesses hoped that once they passed on their family, or someone else, would be able to keep the museum open. That's obviously not happening. And it sounds like some people are bitter that they're not getting back the stuff that they donated to the museum -- an unfortunate situation; I'm sure Dan and Mary would be appalled. But apparently scant or poor records were kept, so the lawyers working with the family have only the word of people to go on. Maybe fifty years ago, a hundred years ago, that might have meant something. In this day and age, however, it means less.

Dan and Mary were wonderful people -- out of another era, really, full of grace, openness and humility you don't see much of any more. I won't say their collection of stuff was spectacular -- it's the detritus of a life well lived, for certain. Maybe when I kick off I'll have such a legacy of, let's face it, junk. Mostly books, by the looks of things right now.

Auctions of the stuff start on Friday. I think I'm going to go. Probably not to buy anything; I'm broke. But to look. And maybe sit in that Studebaker.

Palisades Creek, Brought to You By Uncharted

Gushing water. Spring water with newts in it. Dick deMott inside a collapsed tent, wandering around the campground. Those are my memories of Palisades Creek as a lucky new boy scout. This summer, we re-discovered the trail and its natural wonders. Read about it at Uncharted. Go now.

Meadow Lake in Video. No Dramamine Provided.

This is what happens when you hand a video camera over to a ten-year-old:

I apologize, of course, if you get ill while watching this. He was really, really excited to be in charge of the camera, but not really sure how to make it focus and, at times it appears, not really sure what he should be pointing at. But at least he was having fun.

And this is what happens when you give a video camera to a six-year-old:

And to show I'm equal opportunity in exposing everyone's weaknesses here, this is what happens when you hand a video camera over to a 38-year-old.

Thanks for the riveting commentary. About dirt, no less.

Meadow Lake

Aside from the idiot who set off his car alarm at 7:43 Saturday morning, we found our time at central Idaho's Meadow Lake to be pretty pleasant this weekend.

The lake is a beautiful sight, a glacial puddle squeezed between a rocky slope dotted with pines and the bare bones of the Limhi Mountains. We found the lake several years ago when our camping gear consisted of a battered canoe, an even more battered Toyota pickup and a tent. This time, we came up with a Honda Pilot, a 14" camper and forgot the canoe. We had a wonderful time.

The ground there is rocky, peppered with the quartzite the glacier sheared from the mountain and what other rock frost action could heave down. The lake is in a cirque, or a hollow left behind by the retreating glacier, and is icy cold. The kids went wading -- figuring they could do so without hurt, since they do the same at Wyoming's Jenny Lake. But at just over 9,100 feet in elevation, you know the water in the lake is going to be not too far above freezing. Indeed, on the other side of the 31-acre lake, snow still lies in the mountains' shadows.

The mountains. Topographical mountains tell me that Mount Portland is the tallest in the area, coming in at just over 10,800 feet. That's nice. But much more picturesque is the folded, tilted peak at the lake's southern shore. I can't find a name for it. Unofficially, I hear it's called Meadow Mountain, though it doesn't look like a meadow to me.

(I think I'll call this photo "Where's the Mountain." I kinda like the sound of that.) This is the mystery mountain, by the way. More photos here. Again, these are fairly low-res photos coming from our video camera. Michelle used the Canon, as you can see in this picture, and will have better photos up later. I'm the impatient one. More of my low-res photos here.

I realize now that I made only one mistake in getting that Canon Rebel for Michelle for Christmas two years ago. I should have gotten two, because we both like to drive.

Hiking Toward Sith Lord Rock

I've been on this trail before -- it's the trail to the Palisades Lakes in eastern Bonneville County, Idaho, but I had never noticed on the cliff face, about a half mile in from the trailhead, this little rock formation on the north canyon wall. If you squint your eyes just right and look at the little rock poking up between the two big rocks, it kinda looks like Darth Vader standing there, leaning into the wind a bit, contemplating his ultimate badness as he stares out over the canyon. So from now on, this place will be known as Sith Lord Rock.

I've been to the Upper Palisades lake a few times, and it's a beautiful place. I took my wife hiking up there shortly after we got married in 1997, and we got drenched. The lake was high, so the campground I picked out beforehand was waterlogged. We also got rained on all night. The tent leaked, and we ended up sleeping in a puddle. It rained all the way out as well. As we were hiking out, after a cold breakfast because there was no dry wood for the fire, a few other hikers passed us. "Were you camped out at the Upper Lake," one of them asked. We answered yes. "Rough night, wasn't it?" We had to agree. There were so many drips from the clouds and trees it sounded like we had a herd of horses outside the tent all night. And we were none too happy about all the wet.

This last time we went up, we only hiked a few miles because we had the kids with us, and they're not too hep on hiking yet. Well, our daughter would probably make it, but the boys, it's questionable. We need to toughen them up.

The Milligan-Wiser Method

There is something to be said for planning.

Pick a destination. Go to Google Maps. Plan a route, taking in the scenes along the way. But keep that final destination in mind. In the eye. And on schedule.

There are, of course, other schools of thought. Take John Milligan and Mike Wiser’s approach to climbing a central Idaho mountain peak, which started with Google Maps but ended up with he and a friend using their climbing gear to build a raft so they could paddle around on an icy Idaho alpine lake with the unclimbed mountain pouting in the distance.

Both methods make for fun vacations. Both make for spontaneous vacations. But the latter method, hereafter known at Uncharted as the Milligan-Wiser Method, is the one that holds the most appeal to me as a guy.

So go read about John and Mike and their adventures in Idaho’s central mountains. Then go and don’t plan a vacation just like it.

Fossil Hunting

I'm going to take my kids fossil-hunting. I'm not exactly sure what we'll find, or, indeed, if there's anything left to be found at the place I intend to go. I went there as a little kid and we did find a few fossils, but I can't imagine having more than 25 years pass, even with erosion being what it is, that we'll find much of anything, given that this particular place is scoured quite a bit by amateur fossil-seekers. It is pretty cool, though, to find a little sea creature preserved in the rock, though "preserved sea creature" and "relatively fresh bird droppings" kind of resemble each other on the rocks out there. So we may bring some rubber gloves.

Updates will be posted here, of course.

Wet Spring

It's one of those springs again, when spring just keeps on springing and springing and springing into what's supposed to be summer. I know May and June are Idaho's monsoon season, but these last few years have been a bit more monsoon-y than ever. Take this into consideration: Last year we took a trip at this time to the Oregon coast and met less rain than what we had at home that week.

There are some good things about a wet spring, however. Among them, this:

And this:

Yeah, spring flowers. First, cherry blossoms from the two tiny trees we have in our front yard. I wish they'd last a lot longer than they do, but given that the rain we get is also accompanied by copious amounts of wind, their survival is not guaranteed past the first week.

Then there are the pansies. I've loved these flowers since I was a kid, so to have them volunteer in the bed below the cherry trees is wonderful. I eventually hope I can encourage them to take over the entire bed so it becomes beautiful and maintenance-free.

Our beautification project for the summer is going to be to replace the weed-ridden strip between our house and the fence -- a width of about five feet, length of about twenty -- with currant bushes or some other kind of flowering shrub.

Do Mountain Men Tweet? And Do They Carry Pink Umbrellas?

If I had a smart phone rather than a mere iPod Touch tethered to my home network, I might have tweeted the beginning of our trip like this:

Off-road for the first time in the Pilot. This road is really rutted. Don't tell Grampa.

Mud puddle. Right through it. DON'T TELL GRAMPA.

This used to be Grampa's Pilot. No more.

Ouch. Big bumps. Where does that road go?

Ah. Concrete bunker. Everybody out. We walk from here. Ha. Nice Indy reference.

Bones. Probably elk or deer leg. Is it a good omen that the voyage begins with bones?

We're walking down a canyon wall. In mud. These kids are going to get filthy.

Huh. More bones. Part of a jawbone. Much older than the leg. Not sure if that's a good sign.

But that would have been annoying – and we don't need yet another annoying Twitter feed, do we? Besides, if you tweet through life, sometimes you're going to miss the life you're tweeting. So I'll do this the old-fashioned way: via words pounded out on a standard QWERTY keyboard (no namby-pamby Dvorak board for me) and with digital photos. I resisted using the digital video camera because it was windy enough that's all you would have heard.

Besides, who really needs technology to do what we did today: Climb to the top of a broken-down dam.

Yes, I've visited the dam before. I've told you that the dam is really one of the 1,272 residents of Sugar City, Idaho, the small town I live in, even though it's miles outside the city limits. I've told you all about the old folks here who mark history not by BC or AD, but by whether you lived in town prior to June 5, 1976 – the day the dam broke and wiped the town off the map – or after.

We're afters. But that's okay.

We're also among the few who've actually climbed to the top of the thing. Or at least what's left of it. All that's left of the 305-foot-tall, 1,300-foot-long dam is the bit in the middle. The part to the north blew out when the dam failed, while the part on the south got dug out my investigators trying to figure out what went wrong. That means what's left is a roughly pyramid-shaped pile of dirt, clay, rock and sagebrush.

There are as many ways to get to the bottom of the canyon as there are people who make this voyage. We chose to descend the canyon wall on the south side, taking a trail that parallels an abandoned chain-link fence that used to surround an irrigation pump structure – the bunker from my imaginary tweet. There are also two roads that wind down either east or west of the dam. They make for easier walking, but they do take longer.

At the bottom of the canyon, there are plenty of places to explore. Other abandoned irrigation structures lie around, mostly on the south side of the river. But the dam remnant itself is what beckons. On the dam's east side, a rough road zigzags up the face, but to really see the maw where all the water gushed through, you have to get off the trail and wander around on the pyramid's northern side. Stay away from the edges – the slope is steep enough bits of the dam are still crumbling into the Teton River below. It's worth going to the edge, though, to see the giant's staircase-like outcroppings of rock that make up the canyon's northern wall where the dam used to connect, and for checking out the graffiti intrepid souls have painted on the canyon walls. In fact, there's one graffiti – a painting of a palm tree with the sun rising nearby – that I've seen at 17-Mile Cave, another of my favorite local wandering-spots.

It's an eerie, lonely place. Standing atop the dam, gazing to the east where the 250-foot-deep reservoir was supposed to be, you see the wild beauty of the river, nestled in its narrow, winding canyon between field after field of potatoes and grain. Pine trees and quakies hug the southern slopes, protected from the winter winds. The river is muddy, confined between cliffs of rolling basalt and rhyolite topped with agriculture.

To the west, more canyon, but different. It's scored by the floodwaters, still showing where the water stripped soil off the walls and carried it downstream.

I like it lonely. There's talk of rebuilding a dam on the river, but I'm not sure I'd support that. Not out of fear it'd break again, but because I like the idea that, if I wanted to, I could descend from the top of the dam and walk along the riverbanks, getting lost in the canyon somewhere up there before the walls flattened out and the river brought me into the Teton Valley, without likely seeing another human being, a habitation – aside from a manse or two perched on the canyon above – and seeing only the hawks flying above, being pestered by crows or sparrows.

Only 300 or so feet above my head, I as I walked in my imagination, is civilization – or at least as much civilization as agriculture offers. But where I am, it's wilderness. A corridor for the mountain man in me.

Who really, really, wants to tweet as he walks along. OK, how much is a smartphone?

Happy Wanderer

I'll soon have a story up at Uncharted about another happy wandering. Until then, enjoy this wonderful Muppets Clip. You can see photos of my wandering here now if you wish.

Update: The story is now published in all its glory.