Gone is the big, swiveling oval mirror. Gone is the dressmaker’s form hung with leghorn hats and feather boas…. Gone are the memories and dreams. We are people without baggage or attics.
…the insatiable mechanical troll chewed its gold-hungry way upriver from above Polecamp Creek to Jordan Creek where it collapsed and died, abandoned in its own self-made dredgepond, surrounded by the regurgitated piles of its rocky diet.
There was a voice crying in the wilderness and it was mine. The wilderness was the vast writing landscape where writers journey; yet for a long, long, long time the portion of this place I frequented was devoid of human response. My writing was not audible. Then, one day I went hunting with my son, […]
It was one of those early November days when winter is a certainty yet the memory of summer still clings in warm fall golds to the Aspens and willows bunched in bright clumps on the hillsides and in the hollows. The first snows had whitened Idaho’s majestic mountains, driving the big bucks down from their […]