On the Road

Sunday, July 29, 2007
Wilderness Gateway Campground, Lochsa River, Idaho

Already I’m having a hard time remembering what day and date it is, so quickly have we gone from non-stop packing and cleaning and preparing, to not doing anything in particular. At 4 p.m. yesterday, Saturday, we finished mopping the floors of our empty and shining house (empty except for the brim-full garage and extra room in the basement, both padlocked against the possibility of an unscrupulous renter – although we have high hopes that we’ve leased our home to someone who will eventually become a friend), climbed in the loaded car, got out one more time to check that the door was locked, and drove away. “We’re in the car!” I crowed into the cellphone to our friend Kathy, awaiting our arrival in Kamiah. “See you in two hours!”

We spent a restful night on the futon in the spare room at Pat and Kathy’s. Always ready to pull up stakes themselves, jealous but not unpleasantly so, they were ideal company for our first few hours away from home. We finished off Walt’s birthday cake for dessert (we did manage to have a small party on the 26th, a small gathering to celebrate Walt’s 50th, and how he loves the way people never believe he’s that old…). We also picked up a book there for Walt to read – 1491, by Charles Mann – and left a book there that I finished this morning – Whereabouts, by Alastair Reid. Reid writes much about Spain, so I know Pat and Kathy will appreciate it. The trading was good practice for the journey, where clinging to our possessions and being overly picky about our reading material will not be wise.

After a leisurely breakfast of apple pie with cream and homemade bread with homemade jam, we waved goodbye and headed east on Highway 12, up the Clearwater River, which turned into the Lochsa River, winding up into the forest towards Lolo Pass. We are camped now at a forest service campground called Wilderness Gateway, with a campsite right next to the river, near where Boulder Creek empties into it. The sound of the shallow water on the rocks drowns out the sound of the little bit of summer traffic on Highway 12, and it’s quiet now at the end of the weekend, with no one camped near us, and our secluded site is nestled down in the trees, with a rocky path to our private beach. I did have to chase off some very bold and very fat ground squirrels or pikas, who would’ve stolen our food from right in front of me if I’d kept still.

We all went in the river several times this afternoon to cool off. The creek was chilly but the river in mid-afternoon under the blazing sun was quite comfortable, warmer than any mountain river I’ve felt before. In between I drowsed in the shade on my towel on the little bit of pebbly beach, while Reed rearranged the smooth river rocks into a little pool at the edge of the water that he was gratified to watch fill up with inch-long baby fish, trout I would guess. They seemed to like the restful place, and he created a channel so that it would have a continuous flow of fresh water. Walt sat in the cold rapids of the creek for a while, and he didn’t have to say anything for me to know that doing so made him supremely happy. The Lochsa is the river where Walt and I did our first hiking and hot springing together, these woods are where he took his first “lichen” to me; with Missoula, our first home together, just a short drive over the pass, we feel strangely at home here, even though I can’t walk around identifying the flora and fauna with much authority. Walt having grown up playing in the Cascades feels completely himself in the woods. I dipped again to stave off crankiness before getting the fish and potato salad for supper ready and helping Walt put up the tent. I didn’t pack with much aforethought, throwing everything from the fridge and freezer into the cooler at the last minute. But our supper was good: a piece of halibut from Lisa and Peter, fried in butter, served with more butter and lime juice. And on the side, prebaked potatoes, now cold, cut up with cold hard boiled eggs and some diced red onion, dressed with mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, and lime juice.

Now it is well into evening and perfectly cool. I’m still wearing my swimming suit and intend to do so all day tomorrow as well, although in this campsite I could go naked and no one would notice, or if they did, they wouldn’t care. That’s one of the things I love about the wilderness out West. Apparently the owners of the R.V. parked down the way a little bit and across the river feel that way as well since I saw the man skinny dipping earlier this afternoon. Perhaps we’ll stop in at Jerry Johnson hot springs before we go to Missoula on Tuesday, so Reed can have his first hot springs experience. Why not? We’ve got plenty of time.

That we will not be home for a year, that in just over a month we’ll be in France, doesn’t feel quite real, of course. On the other hand, our year divided between France and Ireland is something so inevitable, something I’ve been preparing for on some level for so long, that it is always a little shock when I recall that very few people who would like to do this are able to, and even more amazing to me, that there are some who wouldn’t even dream of it.

“I wish my parents had thought of it when I was 7,” Pat said last night, reminding me that I don’t need to feel guilty for taking Reed away from his friends, our house, and his violin teacher for this extraordinary year. As with everything in parenting, I console myself that someday, he’ll be grateful. I, on the other hand, don’t have to wait for someday.