It might just be how the Mountain Goats sound like driving in winter on the back roads in my hometown, but I'm feeling particularly Idahoan today. I want to take a pickup loaded with firewood for weight up to the backside of the lake. Past the ranger station under The New Bridge. Past the site where there used to be a bar shaped like a giant aluminum fish. My grandparents used to go dancing there, and my parents drove past it on their entirely lame honeymoon. (My parents went to my DADS PARENTS HOUSE for their honeymoon. My dad was so, so clueless.)
I want to drive past the place on the front tip of the mountain where I suspect my father buried our dogs when they died. It's about 2 miles from the Idaho/Montana border, which is generally unmarked, except for where the trees are interrupted by giant power lines that annoy the birds. When i was 6 or 7, I told my dad I wanted him to bury me on this mountain, "but not by the power lines".
Dad said he had no intention of burying me anywhere. "Cremate me, then!"
He said I wasn't getting the point.
I want to drive lazy one handed on gravel roads with branches whipping against one side of the truck and a 150 yard drop on the other. Overalls, tennis shoes, a t-shirt. A spare gallon of gas, a bald tire, a box of home made tapes. A gun rack, a mesh-back hat, a blister from splitting wood.
Posted by Sonya at February 26, 2004 10:00 AMaaaayyyyyyup!! That thar sounds GREAT!
Posted by: Gin at February 26, 2004 12:39 PMSounds like you're feeling West Virginian too, without even knowin' it.
At least that's how it's got me feelin'.
Posted by: flamingbanjo at February 26, 2004 07:43 PMAdd a sixer of PBR and I'll ride shotgun!!
Posted by: Billy at February 27, 2004 05:05 AMyou must be part vermonter too. i have noticed that most mountian areas invoke the same sort of feeling. you really just made me miss home, thank you.
p.s. i sure do enjoy reading your blog ma'am. thank you.
Yeah, I associate those feelings with Wyoming too.. homesick.
Light hearted bouncing around the mountain with the smell of the dusty road tickling your senses. The shape of the sun piercing the trees cast on the dashboard, illuminating the dusty air.
How about hiking through the trees until you're to the point where you'd swear no one has ever been. Then you stop and listed... the creaking trees, the swelling breeze.. pulsing. Ahh.. alive! The beauty of it all is that death plays such an integral part.. when a tree dies it lays to rot in the same soil that nurtured it.. humans cart their carcasses off to be piled up on the west side of town... in a fence.
I think I'd like my remains to be disposed of somewhere they'll make an impact; somewhere they'll continue to serve a purpose. That is of course if the race doesn't need to pick my bones (cuz I am a donor).