7/19/07 - Idaho

Christmas in July has passed again. A fresh load of dried, zip-locked, preserved, canned, and powdered foods stuffed into this tiny wooden cabin, surrounded by hungry ground squirrels. I went a hitch without writing, the mail brought new literature by request, by plane. I never thought I'd be so happy to hear a plane overhead, our only link to outside civilization. Even in July my feet are cracked and cold, calloused like winters in Chicago. The wind's whipping around my face. It's a good day to stay inside and read, weighed down by a mixture of Dostoevsky and Poe, reading similarities between them, inspirations and connections whether dreamt, invented, or legitimate. While my beard grows steadily my head drifts to thoughts of axes, dirt, and guilt, and the line between the words in a book and real actions becomes undefined. The trail brings everything out of you, sweats it out, opens wounds and traps your mind into thinking, dwelling, with the same idea all day. Looking at the blade of a Pulaski I wonder if I could actually bury it in someone's skull, or at least carve out the part of the brain that thinks about it all day. Carve it out, hold it in my hand, and throw it on the side of the trail, in the dirt, next to the songs, fantasies, sticks, and pine needles. Memorize! Of course. It keeps the minds focused on something, a defense against myself. But now I just want to rhyme everything, get back to practicing, a slave to it, like I quit cigarettes by starting up coke. dozing off and waking up to thoughts of Lenore, the bust of Pallas. My cold feet like the bleak December, and each separate burning ember wrought its ghost upon my floor. Warm up. See what the guys are up to, think like a beard, slow and steady.

Idaho - 7/6/07

The wind's rolling in from the south carrying the pungent smell of freshly cleaned fish along with it. I packed up when the dark clouds rolled in while Sam and Dave cleaned the eight brook trout between them, running a line of cord through their gills and out their mouths for transport. It's a warm day at flossy lake, seven miles from Chamberlain. I'm still barefooted, feeling the soft pineneedles underneath callous, blistered feet. Rain's coming, mumblings about a shorter route behind me. Close to gutted? I holler back to them. I'm don't want to rush a fresh trout dinner, though. Boots on now, unlaced, sunburnt shoulders, leaning against a rough boulder, hearing every sound sharply, tasting the change in the air, feeling the rising and falling of my chest against my shirt, stiff with layers of sweat and salt. Using all five senses at one time, getting tuned in. Think we'll make it? Not sure. The exchange behind me is brief, hurried. No more time for scribbles, shit or get off the pot as Sam would say. Lace up, let's beat this storm, get the fish, and get the hell off the ridgeline.

Idaho - 6/30/07

Full moon tonight. We're on a surprise day off at Campbell's Ferry right on the Salmon River. I'm sitting naked on a warm rock in the mid morning sun, cool water lapping and playing around my ankles, setting an easy pace. Naked. Feeling great and more inspired to write, to swim, to laugh without a care. Soft bright sand, light rapids, and evergreen trees line the bank across from my warm rock. This feels right. Yesterday I saw a glistening black raven, two rattlesnakes (one six feet away rattling, poised to strike) and two elk. We hiked down Highline ridge into the Salmon River valley, through deep forest and exposed views from the highest point around. Through meadows with scattered Ponderosa pines, bold and towering, with a sweet smell like saltwater taffy. Lazy switchbacks down 3000 vertical feet, winding closer to the Salmon. My knees are worn and red from sawing all day, pants wearing thin. The heat reminds me of summer footbal, and sitting by the pool after a long day of practice, every muscle sore, throbbing. Our lack of food reminds me of living poor in Chicago, of staying in, hungry, during bitter January days. Cheap, free, deals, peanut butter and stale bread. We've got that in our food sack along with a bag of rice and a few packs of noodles with a hunk of slimy cheese. Catching the glint of the sun off my glasses I peer out over them, out at the river, the trees, the sun speckled river, as they all mesh together out of focus, colors running, bleeding, my eyes relaxing, resetting after each blink. This can't be recreated. My eyes are growing old and stubborn, they're not used to seeing without the help of a lens. Resting this notebook on my bare thigh, taking a deep breath, and feeling connected to something, completely connected. My legs and bottoms grip to every grain of sand atop the warm rock, sitting cross-legged, as exposed to my surroundings as they are to me.

A boat just passed and with it the connection. A big shiny red and white four man boat ripping through the river, making wake and unnatural rapids, sending waves at me. No embarrassment, no wave or acknowledgement from my exposed form. Just a curious look. The surroundings didn't flow as easily after that, shaken up from the motor boat. Taking one last look I knew it was time to go. As I left I felt an overwhelming happiness that it accepted a naked kid on a rock with bad vision.

Squirrel Hunting

I fell asleep for the bulk of the afternoon after writing the last passage. I woke to Sam's easy voice, excited, "I got one, I got a squirrel cornered!"

I awoke instantly as if I had been waiting, responded automatically with a nod and an "alright, stew," and found myself climbing out of bed, throwing a shirt on, and heading out the door before I realized I was awake. Sam was still talking, but my sluggishness was setting in, and I wasn't listening, his lips were off synch to his voice. I stepped into the sunlight and began to feel excited ad we walked toward Sam's cabin. A squirrel! Good mountain man eating. We had been talking of squirrel stew for some time since our groceries weren't due for another ten days, and we were running low on supplies.

"...walked in, and he ran right into the bathroom, but he was just looking at me like this," Sam's low twang peaked and broke in. It sounded as if he had just begun talking, mid sentence, out of the blue, but as I looked over at him, as he was making a squirrel peeking gesture with both hands, I could tell he was knee deep in the discovery story, and I had just pulled focus. "Fat Sunufabitch," he continued, and I felt a smile sprout and grow on my face, chiming in periodically with nods and affirmations until we reached the cabin.

We met Dave outside the cabin and filed in slowly. Dave was all smiles too. Sam opened the bathroom door to a startled rustling, but we saw nothing. I looked around the cabin for a weapon, something hard and blunt. Sam and Dave followed suit. I was in mid-grasp for an old broom in the corner, Sam had grabbed a piece of wood from the box next to the cast-iron stove, and Dave, who had his eyes fixed on the hole where the squirrel had shown itself, was reaching blindly for another broom in the corner nearby. We moved slowly, in unison, toward the bathroom when I caught sight of him. "You're right he is a fat pig," I said, laughing silently, looking at Sam, who's eyes were fixed on the rodent.

It was fat for a ground squirrel, with an unusually large humped back, offsetting its small head, and scared beady eyes set deeply in its skull. I was caught up in a thought of what it would be like to be trapped in a completely foreign place by three giants laughing down at you, when the critter made a dash right toward me, darting away from my foot at the last second, and made for the space between the cabin wall and the counter. Caught off guard, I attempted to sweep him, instead of whomping him. Dave, who was furthest away made a noise and pointed, while Sam moved quickly and fluidly toward the crack, hunkering down to striking position right as the squirrel disappeared behind the counter.

When the squirrel was out of sight the laughter exploded. I can't remember who started it, but by the time we were through I was leaning on my broom to keep me up. Sam had sat down cross-legged next to the crack, and drawn his buck knife holding it in one hand and the piece of wood in the other poised to strike. He turned and shot a toothy grin at me which made me double over again laughing uncontrollably, with Sam and Dave joining in.

When we had settled to a chuckle the rodent popped his head out and WHOMP! Sam's log grazed its tail as he turned face and flew back into his hideout with a squeak. After one closer encounter with Sam's log the Squirrel was wary, and we stepped outside for a while to laugh, and give the rodent time to forget the near death experiences. Soon enough we heard its fat body rustling around and looked through the screen door, and saw him planted in the middle of the floor. Luckily, we had shut the bathroom door, because when he saw us coming he made straight for it, saw it was closed, and ran back to the crack only to see Sam's body blocking the entrance. Pinned, he turned toward me, and with a twitch of my broom I sent him running to Dave, who had grabbed a log for himself, and with a dull thud of wood on bone. The squirrel fell without a sound. Its back leg was still twitching, thumping again and again against the floor. A dying muscle reflex, not conscious. The second blow came fast striking its head square. A black pool of blood formed under its body, spreading out, and a glaze fell over its eyes as we laughed a rich maniac laugh.

Dave cleaned up, and Sam and I took the dead body out to the creek to clean and gut it. I watched as Sam slid the blade into the stomach and watched as the insides poured out onto the healthy green grass. Sam broke each of his leg bones and slid the skin off, handing me the still warm carcass. I picked up the guts and carried them over to the edge of the woods, throwing them from camp as not to attract animals. Then I walked back to the creek to wash the feces from my hand that had run from the intestines. Sam washed his knife and we took the skinned carcass to Dave who had a plastic bag handy. We filled the bag with water and stuck it in the freezer. It was facing us, looking out through the murky water.

Idaho - 6/24/07

Sam and I have been taking turns yelling verses from the Beastie Boys’ "Paul Revere," all day. I actually wrote a verse here in my notebook I'm transcribing from.

Reflections on the sunset, and later sunrise, after a night with five hours of the most wonderful, fragmented sleep, tucked away in my sleeping bag with the wind whipping over me, leaving my contacts in to catch a few shooting stars before the night took to me. I didn't want to miss anything. Before I could finish a complete dream it's 5:55 A.M. and the sun is breaking, splitting the night sky, and it looks like an orange blue and green stained glass window through my sleeping bag. And it looks fake. It's too beautiful to be the first thing I open my eyes to. A bit of work that morning, then we met up with the rest of the group at the top of Sheepeater for lunch around noon, but the peak looks different this time. It could never look the same, but it seemed that it was holding back. Last night we caught it off guard, caught it in true form. Two and a half hours and ten miles later we're back, tired, dirty, and barely enough energy to throw down a few greasy cards in a game of Euchre.

Today, writing this, I'm showered, cleaner, and scribbling away on the front porch of the cabin, where I've been getting the majority of my day-off writing done. Maybe I'll write about Jasper tomorrow (short story I've been working on), but Sheepeater deserved a spot here, even though words won't paint the picture. We have today and tomorrow off, then we're headed to Campbell's Ferry, where we'll be out until July 2nd. We'll get groceries on the 4th, and properly celebrate this country's birthday with a bottle of Jim Beam and a middle finger to the British from the middle of nowhere America. We don't have any fireworks, but we have fire, and I'm sure we'll find something to burn. I'm taking the deepest freshest breaths of my life out here. Rice and Lentils in the pot, a warm breeze on my bare shoulders. A cool sun and trees everywhere laying down long shadows. We domesticated a ground squirrel this morning, but we're biding our time until we kill him and a few of his buddies for stew, until we make him fatter.

Blank. Block. Hole in a wooden cabin with an address, writing sideways. Sam said that he thought he'd been born in the wrong time period. I never thought I could find another one, but I seem to have stumbled into it. Won't go back. New York City? Chicago for another few years. Maybe live with my buddies for a while, but not back to that, to Flint. I miss them. A deer outside the window, lentils almost done, dirty legs in my sleeping bag, and itch in the beard, so many trees.