It droned, spewing noxious gas from a heaving tail pipe, the engine making the noises of a labored obese man, as we fought our way up the long asphalt hill. Idaho loomed in the distance, still light from the ever weakening sunlight. The Chevy and I had become one. The monstrous six wheeled foaming beast of steel, dragging a twenty four foot trailer raft perched on top, lugged and swayed behind, threatening to loose control on hills, hating the confines of the dividing lines. I had grown to manage it. We crashed through Oregon, cresting long sloping hills, dropping down into fertile, John Deer green fields, and languid sleepy rivers. Small houses lining the banks, well kept, old Fords parked like trophies out front, what lives they must lead... The simple closed life of the Oregon onion famer.
We crossed state lines, the Chevy and I.
My sanity was becoming eroded by the journey, hours on end without stopping, my left leg hanging from the window, my right pushing the gas. We swung into the town of Wieser, searching for a Gas station. Sinclair gas. I stepped outside and inserted the nozzle with one hand, the other, whipping out a cell phone. Conversations while traveling are always an odd procedure. The standard questions about whereabouts, the bidding of safe travels, and the seeming unheard, but felt, wish for the person a the other end of the line to disconnect, always increased my loneliness. We continued onward, one of us fed and re energized, the other weary and lost in the scenery.
I needed to take council, instead I just passed through.
The setting sun cast its orange incursion upon a small football field to my left. A circle of kneeling football player receiving the last vitamin D of the day. Council High, the sign read. Small towns have always caught my attention, the seeming peaceful simple nature of the towns, baiting me to stop and explore. The destination, and approaching darkness were calling me onward. I tried to fight to urge to continue if only for a moment, but the picturesque scene before me, was not the reality of life. Gossip, ignorance, and confinement are the hash realities. Then again, maybe its just my close mindedness that pervades this notion. Better than the big city however, the birthplace of poverty and the comfort of the lonely. I have always been most lonely when others keep me company. Either way I left, cruising into the Payette wilderness, headed for an even smaller town, my home for the summer.
Darkness fell as I came rolling down a narrow mountain road, hugging the Little Salmon River. The familiar road brought back memories of the last summer. The virgin summer, when it all seemed overwhelming, terrifying, yet exhilarating in a unknown way. When being a River guide was just an Idea, instead of an identity. How different I was, how much I have changed. The only change the Chevy seemed to have was a new light begging for the engine to be serviced. Have I changed? Probably not, but we can all live in delusion.
I finally arrived. Riggins, ID, Pop. 433.
The left turn to the Salmon River Challenge shop, was almost instinctual, old habits rearing their long hidden heads. I pulled off the driveway, tires partway into a well kept manicured lawn. The Chevy breath a sigh of relief, her toil over. I opened the door, and heard a familiar welcoming voice, "Welcome back! you made it."
