On a late summer morning in southern Idaho, our campground neighbors hang a “Happy Birthday” banner from the awning of their trailer. They are the kind of empty nesters I aspire to be; tanned and fit, they began the day kayaking in the lake and...
Madison bluebirds and other miracles Listen to the river sing sweet songs, To rock my soul. — Grateful Dead The ranger at the northeast entrance to Yellowstone National Park had been adamant: “Do NOT engage in any recreational activities.” Thus advised, my friend Jerry and I set off toward...
Some might say that if you want to experience all the river recreation that Idaho has to offer, there’s one waterway that rules them all: Henry’s Fork. The official headwaters begin at Big Springs, which produces 120 million gallons of water each day for the...
Each time I’ve looked at this tree from the road, I’ve thought there might be an elk standing next to it. It’s an illusion of course. A smaller tree that was once bent by snow looks like an elk standing there. I walked up to...
I live in a land of sacred spaces. The Triple Rock sits on the bank of the historic Blackfoot River in northwest Montana, in an area known as the Crown of the Continent, one of the last contiguous untamed landscapes in the U.S. There, nature’s...
The summer trail season is here in Big Sky Country, and, whether you’re venturing out for your first time to walk on an unpaved surface or emerging from your winter hibernation cohabitating with some Yellowstone grizzlies you’ve managed to befriend, you could probably use a...
To say that we need to re-make our relationship with fire is both accurate and dangerous. Accurate because, well, not so many folks cook or heat with wood anymore. I suspect a lot of people’s only experience with it comes once or twice a year,...
It’s 4:30 on a chilly morning in mid-February. The first floorboard in my bedroom is the loudest, and I carefully step over it, knowing that each creak and groan threatens to wake my dad and stepmom. At my mom’s house, I don’t have to worry...
My mother was all of 5 feet tall, 120 pounds, and tough as a bag of hammers. Helen Francis Berigan was her maiden name; she had brilliant red hair, fair skin, and was as Irish as Paddy’s pig and proud of it. She married my...
I came to the river to write: not a fishing story exaggerating about a trout the size of a fat dachshund, but to capture the very soul of the river. But I couldn’t. It was strange to acknowledge that realization, considering that I grew up around...