Idaho, October 2022: a land whose beauty and intrigue swelled as I ventured north. I remember back to my disappointment in the summer of 1998, when my Greyhound bus crossed both Montana and Idaho at night, leaving me in western Washington state at dawn. Those were the two places I was most excited to see.
And now I'm in Stanley, a mountain outpost 6253' above sealevel, nestled at the foot of the fierce-looking Sawtooths. To get here I've topped the ridge at Mount Galena (now riven in streaks of burnt trees and charcoal). The road is easy and driveable, but the snow-stakes that mark the edge are a towering 8' high, a silent reminder this is the land of winter. I drive under a grey band of strata clouds that forces the morning light in at angles, like a cat under the duvet. The mountains glow with morning and are extinguished as I move northward. This valley is glacial for sure, plunked at the bottom of the rounded bathtub basin drained by the Wood River.
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Serendipity brought me to India, filled me with delicious foods, then sent me home with a woolen Nehru vest and a lifetime of memories. In between, I visited the Taj Mahal.
I struggle with the famous landmarks, the UNESCO Heritage sites, the places on earth that receive – as does the Taj – six million visitors per year (that's over 16k per day including the day I was there). The world is full of authorities greater than I on subjects like the architecture of Mughal India, the rise of Islamic powers from the Fergana Valley, and the endless struggle between Islam and Hindu nationalism that persists to this day. So, just a few thoughts:
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A first memory: we're leaving the big city under a heat warning and three-digit, mid-summer temperatures. We cross into North Carolina just as a thunderstorm sweeps down across the forests and drenches everything in relief. The forests: they're everywhere, green and dark and lovely, thick with shadows and a thousand shades of green, rich with the smell of summer rain.
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Winter tiptoes silently on icy, sharpclawed toes
through the steep-walled mountain valley, over peaks now rimmed with snows
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I first discovered that lovely little patch of loblollies only a month or two after arrival. Growing at a forgotten intersection between two
busy roads, it was a dense, green wall seen at high speed between other destinations.
I first walked it one cloudy afternoon in early winter, footsteps silent on the mdense, matted needles. I returned several times, and found it different each time. But last January was the most memorable: the morning after a decent snowfall, the forest was another world, white and green overhead, the morning sun bright against a cerulean sky. But not silent: the strong winds were moving the treetops and the forest was a tapestry of whispers.
A year later, the city very cavalierly mowed down the pines over the course of a week, leaving ruptured, red earth. The land will be a redesigned highway entrance. As an engineer, I understand this. But the rest of me misses that quiet, magical green corner. All that remains of it are these two videos. Enjoy the whisper: this memory is all that remains.
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