We sailed away from the port of Boulder, our hull slung low in the sea of construction, bikers and tail pipes. We cruised at an easy gait into Wyoming and then veered into uncharted waters. “A sick little ride,” it was in deed Margot, the 130 through a section of the Medicine Bow National Forest. Back up at 12,000 ft we suffered for our freedom in the now infamous Wyoming winds; the doggie ran free, mushrooms and wild flowers were popping, cold mountain streams tricking through every hill-valley. Osha was thriving in the open conifer forest, some in flower, some in seed. Neil found our first Bolete, that we positively identified and then tentatively sampled, well, Neil sampled it and I watched jealously hoping we had done our homework right, but knowing we had and looking forward to later that night when I too could savor the meaty and tender cap and stem. These mushrooms are a cross between a polypore and a gilled mushroom, having the shape of a gilled mushroom with the classic tube surface of a polypore. We have been playing with polypores for the last year being a class a mushroom where the mantra rings, “ all polypores are edible if you can eat them…” and well, we are adept at making a lot of things edible. We think we’re headed into Bolete country at the peak of season and couldn’t be happier about our luck.
What we aren’t so happy about is Idaho. We are traversing the southwest corner of the State and I have to say this place sucks. I am sure there are some very redeeming qualities to this state, but on interstate 84 cutting through factory farms, feed lots and the worst stench to ever fill my nostrils, I am not too impressed.
We snuggled up with out fellow travelers last night in the Jerome, Idaho Wal-Mart parking lot. I saw an old man in his overalls sitting on the stoop of his small RV taking in the evening air. Later as I walked creasy around the parking lot I smelled Campbell’s minestrone soup (an unmistakable childhood smell), I saw him inside with his indigent wife and I saw the plaque on their door: Gene and Muriel Childs. I pictured them living there in the Wal-Mart parking lot, their children and grandchildren pulling into empty parking spaces and knocking on their tin door. I cant say it was overly depressing, the more I see things like this the more I realize they are not isolated cases of life gone askew, its just reality, a reality I hope I never am forced to live. There’s freedom and then there’s desperation and that’s what I feel here in Idaho.
We’re headed toward Oregon, with our eyes on the prize: a nice place to camp where we can unload, reorganize and relax outside of the hubbub. Creasy doggie aka corndog foot has been really good. She hopped right up the first day into her little spot, curled up and slept the whole first day. This exhaustion is owed mostly to a little doggie named Charlie who is like Creasy’s long lost sister. Charlie is a blue healer/terrier mix and they are the same size, have the same tail and confirm my suspicions that Creasy seems part healer as they played for 36 hours and she fell asleep in her little cave in the van.
Life’s Tough On the Trail: Oregon Trail Interpretive Center.
Day 1: Traded tinctures for gasoline, side of bacon, gluten-free flour and buffalo meat. Ready to roll.
Day 2: Timmy got cholera and is sick; lose 2 days.
Day 3: Traded Indians for salmon, supplies low.
Day 4: At Snake River, hire a guide or caulk the wagon and float across?
Day 5: Creasy got bit by a rattlesnake, mom and dad ate corndog foot with salmon jerky to survive.
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