ENTS,
This installment brings Monica and I to Pocatello. I'll present events and
side trips while at Pocatello. No need for a daily accounting of our breakfast
menu.
Bob
June 30th
The morning of June 30th blessed us with a continuation of
spectacular weather. Our travel through each geographical province had been
accompanied by a daily bath of sunshine. Moderate temperatures prevailed. These
meteorological gifts had not gone unappreciated. I had remembered past
crossings of the country when torrential downpours, threats of tornados, hail,
high winds, and other forms of inclement weather had made driving hazardous. I
had also remembered a July trip across the Mid-west in a non-air-conditioned
car with two young children: the kind of experience that parents usually like
to forget. Although in the case of my two children, they endured the heat and
long ride magnificently. I faired less well.
Monica and I were able to have breakfast on the small, intimate
porch outside the restaurant in the cool of the morning. From our table, I
could look east across the valley to the Snake River Range and southward into
its extension, the lonely, underappreciated Salt River Range. Other patrons
seemed equally pacified by the early morning stillness, the surrounding
mountains, and the slow pace.
Our breakfast was prepared by the capable chef, or his apprentice.
The menu was maybe a little shee-shee, but the food was good. The motel caters
to a somewhat upscale clientele. It is not a motorcycle and pickup truck
stopover, nor is there the slightest hint of improprieties such as sometimes
accompany the lesser expensive accommodations one may have to settle for on the
outskirts of a town. Monica and I would recommend the alpine motel to anyone
with a little cash to spare. The management genuinely cares.
We left the town of Alpine with full stomachs, and to my best
recall, happy dispositions. We were headed for Idaho and new adventures. The
Wyoming-Idaho border was only a few miles distant. Although the landforms were
of the same type on either side of the border, our passage from the Cowboy
State to the Gem State had significance. It marked a transition from the
Rockies into part of the vast basin and range province that Idaho shares
principally with Oregon, Utah, Nevada, and Montana in the northern end. First,
let us look at Idaho as a whole.
Idaho is a large state. Its physical area is 83,482 square miles,
virtually all land, but how large is that? What is in a number without some
meaningful comparisons? Idaho is about ten times the size of my little state of
Massachusetts, yet the population of Idaho is a modest 1,500,000 souls,
compared to Massachusetts’s squeezed-in 6,500,000 folks. In addition, Idaho has
no truly overwhelmingly congested metropolitan areas. Boise is the state’s
largest city. Its internal population is now around 200,000 and its
metropolitan area is estimated at about 640,000 people. That is plenty large
enough, but small compared to Boston’s estimated 4,500,000 people in the
greater metro area. Idaho’s two prominent Indian tribes are the Nez Perce and
northern-western Shoshone.
Idaho is usually regarded as a Rocky Mountain state and with good
reason. The Rockies cover a large part of the state and achieve impressive
elevations. The highest point in Idaho is impressive Borah Peak at 12,662 feet,
but Borah is one of those summits that rises boldly above basal lowlands. Borah
juts up almost 6,000 feet above the surrounding plains. The state only has a
sprinkling of peaks over 12,000 feet, but many over 10,000. Idaho’s average
elevation is an impressive 5,000 feet, which is even more impressive when it is
remembered that the lowest point in Idaho is only 710 feet. This minimum
starkly contrasts with the low points of other Rocky Mountain states.
As a brief digression, in the state average altitude department,
Idaho ranks 6th behind Colorado’s ostentatious 6,800 feet. Wyoming weighs in
second at an equally ostentatious 6,700 feet. Utah rounds out the 6,000 club at
6,100 feet. New Mexico follows at 5,700 feet and Nevada registers 5,500. The
foregoing are the states with average altitudes over a mile. However, that is
only part of the elevation range story. Colorado and Wyoming have low
elevations of 3,350 feet and 3,099 feet respectively. In the high level of
their low points, Colorado and Wyoming stand conspicuously alone. However, a
couple of other states are not far behind. New Mexico’s highest elevation is
Wheeler Peak at 13,160 feet in the Sangre De Cristo Range, and its lowest
elevation is 2,842 feet. Consequently, I typically think of Colorado, Wyoming,
and New Mexico as the quintessentially high Rocky Mountain States, but Utah,
Nevada, Idaho, Arizona, and Montana are close behind, all boasting the combina
tion of individual high peaks and high overall average elevations. It is their
minimum elevations that separate the latter states, as a group, from the
previously mentioned big three.
One can slice and dice elevation-associated data along many lines
of interest, but in terms of high averages, the Rockies and the basin and range
province are at the top of the food chain. It is the Rocky Mountain-Basin and
Range states that feature town after town lying at near or above a mile in
altitude.
In terms of climate, Idaho has cold to very cold winters and in the
southern part of the state, hot summers. It has been as cold as 60 degrees
below zero Fahrenheit in Idaho and as hot as 118 degrees. This represents a
minimum to maximum swing of 178 degrees, which can be used to point to levels
of extreme discomfort that one can expect to feel in the Gem State – not a good
way to characterize Idaho from the standpoint of tourism or attracting
retirees.
At this point, I acknowledge that one can have memorized a wealth
of statistics about a state, yet really know nothing about the quality of life
there, and relative to Idaho, that was the case for me. My mental image of
Idaho was an embarrassingly negative one. I imagined Aryan Nation skin-headed
thugs intimidating anyone of a different political persuasion or possessing of
a dark skin tone. I am inclined toward rushes to judgment, but I am educable.
Since my daughter had moved to Pocatello in June 2007, she consistently painted
for me a very different picture of the Gem State and quality of life there that
quelled my fears and counteracted the image of roving militant rednecks and
Nazi sympathizers. I was anxious to adjust my attitude – to get real.
As we crossed the border of Wyoming into Idaho, I felt my curiosity
slide into hyper-drive. Yes, I had crossed the state of Idaho in years past on
my way to an assignment in Taiwan with the U.S. Air Force, but outside of
mental flickers of the stark landforms seen in the Craters of the Moon, I had
forgotten any landscape details that had impressed me at the time. My memory
coffers were empty. Since then, beyond occasional map perusals, searching for
the source of a river, the location of a mountain range, or quickly viewing one
of those generic calendar images, I did not know what to expect in the way of
mountain ambiance. I would likely see only a small part of Idaho, the southern
part, but the level of intimacy would be off the charts.
Southern Idaho is technically part of the basin and range province,
with intrusions of what is more generally agreed to as the Rocky Mountains
proper. Wide valleys and sagebrush plains gradually give way to geographically
aligned uplifts. Often there are no foothills. The summits may not set any
altitude records, but the mountains are, nonetheless, scenic and highly varied
in their geology. Uplifts often have a volcanic origin and are younger than the
bulk of the Rockies.
As we neared the border, crossed into Idaho, and sped along our
way, the visual images were pleasant. The surrounding land still wore a garment
of green, the beneficiary of abundant winter snows and early spring and summer
rains. I felt a shift in the ambience imparted by the surrounding landforms
from those experienced the day before. I was in the earliest stages of making a
new Bob-to-landscape connection. This brings me to another digression, namely
energy imprints of land and life forms as they are impressed onto or into our
subconscious minds.
What I am about to describe is a perceived phenomenon that I cannot
objectively prove, and consequently, I cannot rule out a significant
psychological component. However, long-term experience inclines me to accept
the phenomenon as a part of objective reality. What is the phenomenon? I
believe there is an underlying energy imprint of a place, a kind of energy
signature that represents the totality of the matter present, i.e. all the
constituent elements of the landscape, organic and inorganic, large and small.
This imprint is obscure to left-brain processes. It exists in the psychic
realm. I realize that what I have just said has all the clarity of mud. Let me
try to be even more specific.
Following the line of research conducted by Dr. William Tiller, I
believe that every place and thing exists in multiple energy states or levels.
Each level possesses a signature to which psychically gifted people can attune
themselves. Most of us are blind to the unseen energy world that Dr. Tiller
investigates, but we do have inner tuning mechanisms that can be brought into
play. Native Americans felt the life force of a place and attributed it to the
spirit they saw existing in matter, organic and inorganic. They heard the
voices on the winds.
How do these energy imprints reveal themselves to sensitive people?
Beyond intuitive feelings, I am not sure. I’m sure it varies from person to
person. At this point, I can only describe how the phenomena works for me. If I
am in a sufficiently neutral state of mind, I can find myself suddenly
influenced positively or negatively at specific locations without knowing why.
The sensations being experienced are not upward biased by the size of the
trees, heights of mountains, etc. Other things being equal, big trees and high
mountains exert strong influences, but I can distinguish their effects on me.
The sensations I refer to are come on suddenly and are intuition-based.
I will say more about this idea of energy imprints in chapters to
come, but for now, suffice it to say, that I felt favorably toward the eastern
Idaho landscape through which Monica and I traveled. I sensed its uniqueness
and its separateness from the Wyoming landscape of the previous couple of days,
not based on strictly surface details, but underlying energy imprints.
One area we passed by on our way to Pocatello was Grays Lake
National Wildlife Sanctuary, 27 miles north of Soda Springs on State Route #34.
We would return to the sanctuary, driving completely around it, stopping
frequently, and tabulating an impressive census of birds, but what we were able
to briefly see on the southern bypass impressed us enough.
Grays Lake is a vast marshland of cattail and bulrush that teams
with bird life and boasts the largest breeding ground for Greater Sandhill
Cranes on the planet. The statistics quoted for breeding pairs cites over 200
for the refuge. The peak population occurs in September when over 3,000 birds
pass through. Gray’s Lake is highly significant for the Sandhill alone, but
there are many other bird species there, and this isolated wildlife refuge is
incredibly scenic. On the east, the Caribou Range rises abruptly without
foothills. The high point is Caribou Peak at 9,803 feet. The vertical rise from
Grays Lake is approximately one mile. Steep mountains absent of intervening
foothills always hold my attention.
Passing Grays Lake we headed for Soda Springs. Neither of us knew
what to expect, but as we neared that well-known mining town, our impulse was
to quickly pass through and beyond. Monsanto’s giant facility and long piles of
mining debris make Soda Springs not a place to vacation. The underlying energy
imprint was in a bit of turmoil as gauged by my internal sensing apparatus.
Safely out of Monsanto-Land, the countryside again became pleasant
with mountain ranges rising prominently in all directions, but maintaining
their distances, never threatening the openness of the land, compromising its
airiness, its spaciousness. The mountain range names of the region were
unfamiliar to me, but I expected to gain an appreciation for all topographical
features in due course. With intent, I would investigate the extent of each
mountain range, its high points, its named canyons, its streams. Once ensconced
at my daughter’s home, I would have the time, but at the moment, I was content
to visually survey the new ranges from a distance.
Near midday, we rolled into the small tourist community of Lava Hot
Springs. This small, picturesque town is set scenically in a narrow mountain
valley cut by the Portneuf River. The town lies at 5,020 feet altitude and is
literally walled in by the steep sides of the Portneuf Range, mountains that
now figure prominently into my appreciation of southern Idaho. This and the
Bannock Range helped to shape my thinking about the true nature of the basin
and range topography while visiting my daughter.
The climate of Lava Hot Springs is not overly severe, considering
its altitude and latitude, but severe enough. The January temperature averages
23 degrees Fahrenheit, and July is a manageable 68. In Lava Hot Springs, it has
been as hot as 103 degrees and as cold as 31 degrees below zero. Three months
have seen temperatures of over 100 degrees recorded and the annual temperature
averages 45.4 degrees. Just for comparison purposes, Lava Hot Springs is on
virtually the same latitude as Florence, MA, which has an average annual
temperature of 47.3 degrees with a minimum of 30 degrees below zero having been
recorded and a high of exactly 100 degrees. Lava Hot Springs has a hotter
summer, colder winter, and is a lot drier. For most folks, it is located in the
middle of nowhere, but it is blessed with hot springs that are the envy of
larger places, and so far, seems to be managing them tastefully. I hope it
continues to thrive without developing sprawl.
Once beyond Lava Hot Springs, we headed west, then turned north
toward Pocatello. We were on the last leg of a journey to reach Pocatello and
the landforms continued to be pleasing to me. There were mountains all around
us, but nowhere did they engulf or imprison us. They presented gentler contours
than what we had experienced the day before. They were not high enough for
timberlines, but because of the semi-desert character of the surrounding
landscape, their summits were often grass covered. Trees populated the ravines
and gorges where more water is available. For me, they represented a class of
mountains that most people from other parts had not learned to assemble well in
their thinking. I have long observed that signs and advertisements are
necessary to grab the attention of many people. An isolated range with just a
name and no signs can be as beautiful as can be imagined, but be routinely
bypassed. All in all that is a good thing.
Off I15, we climbed into a short section of uplands that lead to
the neighborhood where my daughter and son-in-law live. The day had turned hot
and I was thankful for the thought of the very spacious and comfortable
quarters that awaited us. I had seen pictures of my daughter’s home and I knew
Monica and I would be blessed with creature comforts.
As we pulled into the multi-car driveway, my daughter and grandson
were waiting outdoors, broadly smiling. It was wonderful to see Celeste. I had
not seen her for two years and the intervening illness had left me at time
wondering if I would see her again in a sufficient state of health to allow for
the kind of mutual enjoyment of the great outdoors we had shared before.
Celeste and Stephen had been enthusiastically awaiting our arrival that was
projected to be around 1:00PM – and there we were. We had made it. Celeste’s
and Dale’s home was to be Monica’s and my home for the following 17 days. I
could sit on the deck and look toward naked summits rising 2,000 feet above us
immediately to the east and north. I could look to the west across the valley
of the Portneuf to mountains reaching to almost 7,000 feet, a rise from the
river of nearly 2,500 feet. I could also see a layer of jet-black basalt lower,
near the river, a reminder of a geological violent past that now ble
ssed the valley with deep, rich soils. In the distance, higher mountains rose,
with peaks surpassing 9,000 feet and one photogenic summit named Scout Peak
topping out at a little over 8,700 feet. It was only 35 minutes away. There was
much to take in and plenty of time to do it. So, we settled in ready for a
long, comfortable stay.
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