– Lewiston, Idaho<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018We find after years of struggle that we do not The landscape northwest of Boise looked like the Texas egg bake served for breakfast. Just past the native food truck, and the gold and silver pawnshops, were signs of Boise capital loss. Pray for the USA… Sign up for Fantasy Football… Who does your hair?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Our wagon rode the great divide between the cookie cutter houses on our port side, and the tracts of trailer trash to starboard. We passed through Eagle and gave thanks that we were two months too late for the World\u2019s Largest Rocky Mountain Oyster Feed. Robyn and I preferred our shellfish without vertebrae.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Beyond Floating Feather Road, the dead deer, the shredded truck tire, and mansions in the middle of nowhere, were Highway 55, and the route up through the wild guts of western Idaho. We crossed over the Payette River at Horseshoe Bend, pop. 770<\/em>, where the prospectors had waited for the snows to thaw, after gold had been discovered in the Boise Basin Mountains, in 1862. The last habitation, before the river turned to follow our road true north, was where God had come down and pulled civilization over for speeding. Behind the red, white, and blue used car lot tinsel banner that spanned the gate was a hideous derelict shingle box, with twenty-eight windows of filthy lace curtains. Three satellite dishes and two air conditioners clung to the walls. A fire had tried to end its misery. In the yard was a matte black mailbox on an old, rusted oil barrel, wooden pallets and paint cans and garbage cans and a large yellow mobile road sign that could have illuminated its message, if the leaning power pole beside it could have delivered enough power. Don\u2019t get lost! Follow Jesus! <\/em>But this was Idaho, Christ had been a crucified Jew, and he was long gone ahead of anywhere we wanted to be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sun lit the conical conifer candles and turned the brown hills gold across the left bank of the river. It was still twilight in the mountains on our right. Further on up part of the road had slipped off into the rapids, reflecting radiant rising rays of white light through the trees. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s something about rivers and rocks.\u201d Said Robyn. The marker after the pretty town of Gardena warned us to watch for falling ones. Just past the sunflowers and the swing bridge were sheep, grateful not to be riding the trucks that rumbled by. Crowded convict cattle stood in painted metal lattice tagliatelle cages, like the ones we had posed in, the day before. A hawk circled fate, high enough overhead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At Smiths Ferry, we drove by the 4D Longhorn Guest Ranch, where Frank from Silver City was planning to achieve his dudeness. At the Post Office in Cascade, we stopped for Robyn to mail a card. It was empty, except for the postmaster, and the sunflowers on the counter. I asked him where the Chief Hotel was. He asked me why. I told him I was looking for the twenty-foot-tall Indian sculpture made by a fellow named Big John, which was supposed to be next to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGone.\u201d He said. \u201cTen years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe sculpture or the hotel?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBoth.\u201d He said. Shame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut Big John also made a ram, out of barbwire, over at the Dodge dealer.\u201d He said. We drove back in, past Dollar Bill\u2019s Casual Fine Redneck Dining<\/em>, to find it. A sophisticated work of art, the mountain sheep had rusted just enough of his fleece, to make you want to take up knitting. Cascade was the other half of Boise Cascade, as faded in my memory, as the tricolor ribbon around the tree, across from the hand-painted sign on the City Hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just north of Cascade Lake was the Boulder Creek Inn, which invited us to \u2018Stay Here, Play Longer.\u2019 We came into Donnelly, the \u2018Crossroads to Recreation.\u2019 Welcome Hunters<\/em>. The biggest sign on the trading post was for liquor, and there were metal bears, in the metal gratings around the trees along Main Street. A buggy was for sale, for $650. We followed an RV dragging an SUV dragging a boat, to the old First State Bank building\u2019s western wooden fa\u00e7ade, and the Silver Tip Hat Company. Inside, the old man with a long white beard and a diamond straw fedora woke to the clanging bell hanging over the entrance, which announced ours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRandy.\u201d He said. \u201cRandy Priest.\u201d I asked if he was a cleric.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ve been God.\u201d He said. Robyn saw me roll my eyes. But Randy had been divine. In his son-in-law\u2019s film, Ibid<\/em>, he had played Don the Almighty, a cosmic cowboy creator, a duplicitous trickster talking head threshold guardian, a grizzled old man with a simple gruff message for the main characters. Inscribe some new commandments before I kill everyone. <\/em>He gave the protagonists a week to find The Book and add four more divine directives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt was an experimental low budget road journey of discovery.\u201d He said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLike our own.\u201d I said, trying on a big Boss of the Plains hat, with a marshal\u2019s star in the middle. I looked like Hoss Cartwright, from Bonanza<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo, what was the first new commandment?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTruly see oneself.\u201d He said. \u201cPeople don\u2019t see themselves, but rather the false realities they\u2019ve created for and surrounded themselves in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOrwell and Rockwell.\u201d I said. He nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe journey becomes about finding the meaning that holds everything together, for them and the rest of humanity.\u201d I asked Randy how it was all working out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t make a killin\u2019 but I make a livin\u2019.\u201d He said. He asked me what I did. I told him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s a new commandment.\u201d He said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHeal thyself.\u201d He said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s the journey.\u201d Said Robyn. I took off the hat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGotta go.\u201d I said. \u201cBull-riding in Lewiston tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t hurt yourself.\u201d He said, and settled back into his snooze, after the bell rang, for the second time that day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A few miles north of Don the Almighty\u2019s siesta, we turned onto the shoreline town of McCall. The lake, like the river, had been named for Fran\u00e7ois Payette, a French Canadian who fur-trapped the area with Jim Bridger, Peter Skene Ogden, Jedediah Smith, and other mountain men, before there were so many sailboats. The first of these had belonged to Jews Harp Jack, who gave \u2018pleasure rides\u2019 to visiting tourists staying at the Lardo Inn. Bright orange pedestrian flags were mandatory. You can’t trust water. Even a straight stick turns crooked in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We passed an old log cabin, near the Heart of Idaho<\/em> town of New Meadows, built by John Welch in 1862, after the deep snow wouldn\u2019t let him further down along the Boise Trail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Close beside the bubbling Goose Creek – Bessie Baker, Packer John\u2019s Cabin <\/p>\n\n\n\n The backcountry went through Smokey Boulder Road, to a picnic spot on the Little Salmon River. Above us, on the right bank, was our own Montmartre, looking more like the original Roman mountain of Mars, than what became a martyr\u2019s talking head, in Paris. We ate leftover Bardenay rib eye from the night before, in bread rolls from the Inn. There was white noise from the white water, for dessert. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Where the Little Salmon met the Salmon, nestled deep in Hells Canyon, Robyn and I drove into Idaho\u2019s Whitewater Capital<\/em> of Riggins. We were far enough away from Boise, that the cops drove white cars, and the commerce was country-fried. We buy antlers<\/em>. Just after Bert and Kate\u2019s Cattleman Dining, the Seven Devils Saloon, the Big Iron Motel, with complimentary beer, iced tea, and homemade cookies, was a cinderblock and plywood villa, under a column of halogen security bulbs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOut here?\u201d Robyn said. \u201cWho would need a mini storage out here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAmericans live in bigger houses than ever before,\u201d I said. \u201cBut their competitiveness has programmed them so powerfully to hoard, that they\u2019re literally getting pushed out of their living spaces by stuff. In their own heads they\u2019re not storing junk, they’re storing the American dream- the Rockwell time when there will be a better house to move into, where they\u2019ll be able to read all those magazines and make all those recipes, where they\u2019ll find a place for grandma\u2019s bric-a-brac.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut they never go back for it.\u201d She said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTrue.\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s the first law of Newton, and the second of thermodynamics. Inertia and entropy. It takes more energy to rent a truck and sell the stuff, than to have an automatic monthly payment come out of a bank account. Maybe even in Riggins.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The hills got bigger and browner, and turned into crenellated gravelly mountains; the river got wider and calmer, and the incident sunlight hit the sand beach at the bottom of the canyon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A logging truck passed us, loaded with truncated trunks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou see any trees?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMaybe that\u2019s why.\u201d Robyn said. A mining claim was on offer in Lucile, but no one was home. Dream lots were for sale on the Salmon River in Maynard Hole. Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. <\/em>We continued over Skookumchuck Creek, past the White Bird Battlefield site and Camas Prairie, until the mountains and the greenery and our gas ran out in Grangeville. I asked the young bubble gum cashier where we might see the ten-foot-tall Idaho Country Farmer scrap metal sculpture the local icon, with his arm raised in a \u2018cheery hello.\u2019 She continued chewing through her answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNever heard of it.\u201d She said. But the old fat farmer, in line behind us, had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe used to call him Ironman.\u201d He said. \u201cSomeone stole it years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt weighed over five hundred pounds.\u201d I said. \u201cAnd so did the base.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat\u2019s why they call \u2018em half ton trucks.\u201d He said. On the billboard across the road were God\u2019s 10 Commandments<\/em>, four less than Don the Almighty had back in Donnelly, and at least one more than was apparently applicable in Grangeville. Clues to the statue\u2019s disappearance were hinted at, over at Groaner\u2019s Fitness, and the Blown Away Hair Salon. The Visitors Information Center was unavailable for comment. Closed for Awhile<\/em>. We didn\u2019t have time to wait.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wheat fields waved us past the second disappointment of the day. We had come this way, in part, because of the roadside attractions. So far, we missed a big Indian chief and a big farmer. Americans love to erect monuments to their local excessive exceptionality, with the expectation that it will put them on the map. Proportion and aesthetic beauty are the antithesis of authenticity. The only important things are that these symbols must be big and inflame the senses. In Northern Ontario, we built like the Yanks. There was Max the Moose, a twenty-eight-foot Canada goose and, in my hometown, a forty-foot-tall fibreglass fish. The name of the effigy, and his slogan, had been chosen from hundreds of entries. Huskie the Muskie says Prevent Water Pollution<\/em>. But here in this part of Idaho, there wasn\u2019t enough water to pollute, and all the allegory seemed to have been abducted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Our one last hope was further up the flatland road and amber waves of grain. Originally a way station for prospectors and mining suppliers on their way south, Cottonwood was home to the chapel of the Benedictine Monastery of St. Gertrude, said to be \u2018the most ornate in the state.\u2019 But although it may have been another roadside attraction, it wasn\u2019t the authentic one. The real shrine to shrewdness was \u2018Sweet Willie,\u2019 the World\u2019s Largest Beagle, a wooden Bed and Breakfast in the shape of a thirty-five-foot dog, with a stairway to the en-suite bedroom in the Beagle\u2019s belly, and a ladder to the loft in his nose. Robyn and I parked in the Parking Lot. I made use of the adjacent giant red fire hydrant portable outhouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre we staying here?\u201d Robyn asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, Honey.\u201d I said. \u201cTonight isn\u2019t the Voyage of the Beagle. It\u2019s Gold Buckle Dreams.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You see, in this world there\u2019s two kinds of people, my friend: – The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly<\/em>, (1966)<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mushroom clouds rose hundreds of feet into the air, from the farpoint field fires burning all over the Nez Perc\u00e9s Reservation. It may have had some simple agricultural purpose, but I suspected that an occasional subliminal smoke signal may have been delivered, although to whom and for what purpose at this late stage in the game, was just as hazy. The two names on the first Indian mailbox offered no clue. Larry and Patty.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Robyn and I encountered no other vehicles on Big Butte Road, which took us past the Big Butte Community Hall, a copse of blue spruce, erosion barriers of rolled grass, and a warning sign. Watch for Ice. <\/em>The only two vehicles on Fort Misery Road were two trucks traveling towards us, on both sides of the highway. They were talking in parallel on their mobile phones. The smoke signal strength was no longer up to the task.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Way too far south of Lawyer Creek, we curved through the heavy equipment junkyard of Kamiah, pop 1160<\/em>. Demolition and recycling were less than a prosperous industry, by what was parked in the lot of the Branding Iron saloon. The town was named after the ropes the Nez Perc\u00e9s made here to fish steelhead, when there were more, when they bred Appaloosas, and before the appellation was appropriated by Mar\u00eda Elena Marqu\u00e9s who played a Sacagawea clone leading Clark Gable\u2019s Lewis or Clark clone back over the Bitterroots to Three Forks in Across the Wide Missouri<\/em>, a 1951 \u2018mountain men\u2019 Hollywood history. A quarter of a century earlier that when the film was set, the Nez Perc\u00e9 leader Hohots Ilppilp had played host to the Corps of Discovery, for several weeks during the spring of 1806. Fields of huge sunflowers, and our gas needle stuck in time were the only commemoratives. In 1895, President Cleveland, showed his gratitude by \u2018opening up\u2019 the reservation to white settlement. Larry and Patty.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Kooksia had been cracked open to invasion the same year. A remote highway work camp of the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930\u2019s, it was appropriated by the Federal Bureau of Prisons, and converted to house Japanese resident aliens in 1943, so far into the wilderness that fences, and guard towers were deemed unnecessary. When an American General was sent to arrest Chief Looking Glass eighty years earlier, just before the Nez Perc\u00e9 War, several trigger-happy militiamen opened fire into the settlement, killing several natives, and destroying the village. Chief Lawyer, son of Twisted Hair, and Eagle from the Light and Bird Alighting and White Pelican and Yellow Wolf and Yellow Bull and Wrapped in the Wind and Rainbow and Red Paw and Poker Joe and Five Wounds were killed in the Battles of Bear Paw and Big Hole, and their hometown replaced with guns and ammo and tackle and cheap tobacco, and a different kind of Indian. I asked the station attendant, when the gas needle finally fell, where he was from.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cChandigarh.\u201d Raj said. \u201cThe northern capital of divided Indians.\u201d He directed me to the Purple Feather Smoke Shop. Inside were shelves of cigarettes and plastic eagles and T-shirts and dreamcatchers and beadwork and irrelevant Americana knickknacks. Having Kids is like being pecked to death<\/em>. I bought two Outlaw <\/em>Honduran cigars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Robyn and I had come to Kooksia to see what we thought would be the last roadside attraction. Past the Old Opera House Theater and the Western Bar Caf\u00e9 Banquet Room and the painted wall mural of a Sasquatch, on the roof of the Western Motor Inn on Main Street, was a giant ghost white leaning Elk sculpture, pushing its antlers against the inevitable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But we hadn\u2019t anticipated the last house on the edge of town. All of Grandma\u2019s possessions were on the lawn, instead of the mini storage. We drove by a midget tractor and tin robot driver, hundreds of American flags around the portico, an American eagle over the doorway, a helmeted scarecrow football player with lipstick on one side of the sidewalk, a basket-toting woman gardener manikin on the other, and bowling balls down both. There were pinwheels, wall-mounted flying ducks and giant butterflies, wooden tulips, window boxes and hanging baskets, a wishing well, brightly painted chairs, plastic roses and sunflowers, a stuffed cow reclining on a porch swing, a totem pole, a cement dog, spiral mobiles, open umbrellas, topiary, flamingos, rabbits, gnomes, and a welcome sign. North Korea can kiss my proud ass.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Moving north on the Northwest Passage Scenic Byway, beyond the Tribal Gaming Casino, was a bare rock mound, the mythical site of the Nez Perc\u00e9\u2019s mythical creation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A monster was eating all the animals. Coyote fooled the monster into swallowing him. Using a<\/p>\n\n\n\n set of stone knives that he had brought with him, Coyote cut apart the monster from the inside to release all the animals that were trapped in the monster. Upon emerging from the remains of the monster, Coyote cut it up and threw the pieces all over the land, creating the Indian people who inhabit the land. Fox asked Coyote about the land around the monster, it had no people, what was he to do? As Coyote washed the blood of the monster off his hands, the drops became the Nez Perc\u00e9.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They called it the Heart of the Monster. But the monster was ahead of us. Overloaded logging trucks overtook our wagon, along the white sand beaches of the Clearwater River, the Coyote\u2019s Fishnet, and an eagle\u2019s nest perched high on a telephone pole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the confluence of the Snake and Clearwater Rivers, the clearwater darkened into the effluent from the ugly malodorous pulp and paper mill. \u201cIt\u2019s the smell of money.\u201d My father used to say. To me, it reeked of noxious decay.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n A Harley Davidson dealership and the strip mall signs announced our arrival in Lewiston. Born again Resale and Consignment. Lord Jesus, I belong to you.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n We stopped to ask directions to the best place to stay in town. The landmarks provided were all fast-food outlets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGo straight up the hill past the Denny\u2019s and turn left at the Red Lobster.\u201d He said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow does a lobster get to Lewiston?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLewiston is a seaport.\u201d He said. \u201cWe\u2019re the farthest inland harbor east of the West Coast of the United States.\u201d But that still wasn\u2019t the right answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The radio was on, and all the stations were playing country music. There’s no money above the fifth fret. Three chords and the truth<\/em> carried us all the way up to the Holiday Inn Express.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018On a highway bound for nowhere – Sara Evans, Three Chords and The Truth<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018May your stomach never grumble. May your heart never ache. – Old Blessing<\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s the bulls and blood, dust and mud, and the roar of a Sunday crowd.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cY\u2019all here for the Roundup?\u201d The desk clerk asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust today.\u201d Said Robyn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, Honey.\u201d She said. \u201cYou picked it right. Tonight’s the bull riding.\u201d Our room card opened on the yellow grey down to the Clearwater River. I pointed way over to the left side of the horizon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWashington State.\u201d I said. \u201cTomorrow, we cross over.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The desk clerk waved as we left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEnjoy the bull-riding.\u201d She said. We promised to try.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The arena was further up the hill, at the end of Tammany Creek Road. Parking was anywhere you could find space in an endless pasture. A battalion of Dodge Ram pickups immediately surrounded our Toyota RAV. My truck is made by wrenches not chopsticks.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWelcome to the 78th<\/sup> Annual Lewiston Roundup!\u201d Blared the speaker over the Gold Buckle Club at the top of the airport tower trailer stairs above the Mobile Command Center. \u201cRam Rodeo. Eat. Sleep. Ride!\u201d Eat. Pray. Love.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Eat always comes first. Robyn came away from trying on pink cowboy hats, to a burger and a pulled pork sandwich and two Coors at one of the concession stands. Once we had our \u2018over 21\u2019 wristbands, the local ticket currency rolled off a spool, like beads at a Club Med. Three would get you a slab of Indian bread as big as a pizza, or five pounds of curly fries, a serving the size of your head. This was Idaho.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Two fat boys with fat arms, in Stetsons and blue jeans and big brass belt buckles, strummed guitar and sang bad country on a trailer with huge black amplifiers. Another big boy drove by on an ATV with a message on his T-shirt. Ohrtman for Council. <\/em>The women wore short jeans shorts and tattoos.One bleached bottle blond with long toes supplicated herself to the signal in front of the One Smooth Ride She\u2019s Wild Vodka<\/em> banner, next to the plastic M-16s for sale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWelcome, rodeo fans!\u201d Announced the MC. \u201cFind your seats!\u201d Robyn and I climbed into the bleachers, behind a short fat kid plowing through a platter of curly fries, and an old, tattooed lady playing poker on her cell phone. It was right on dusk. A big Dodge Ram truck, lights blinking off and on, drove slowly into the arena under a moody sunset sky, the last streaks of light coming through the clouds like drone projectiles. A gigantic HDTV screen on the other side of the fairground came alive with a projection of waving American flags. High banks of carbon-arc lights on towering poles thwacked on and into your solar plexus. The truck just sat there, blinking on and off. It was a Nuremberg rally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018And on the 8th day, God looked down on his planned paradise and said, “I need a caretaker.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n So God made a farmer. God said, \u201cI need somebody willing to get up before dawn, milk cows, work all day in the fields, milk cows again, eat supper and then go to town and stay past\u00a0midnight at a meeting of the school board.\u201d So God made a farmer. I need somebody with arms strong enough to wrestle a calf and yet gentle enough to deliver his own grandchild. Somebody to call hogs, tame cantankerous machinery, come home hungry, have to wait for lunch until his wife’s done feeding visiting ladies and tell the ladies to be sure and come back real soon — and mean it.\u201d So God made a farmer. God said, \u201cI need somebody willing to sit up all night with a newborn colt. And watch it die. Then dry his eyes and say, \u2018Maybe next year.\u2019 I need somebody who can shape an ax handle from a persimmon sprout, shoe a horse with a hunk of car tire, who can make harness out of haywire, feed sacks and shoe scraps. And who, planting time and harvest season, will finish his forty-hour week by Tuesday noon, then, pain\u2019n from \u2018tractor back,\u2019 put in another seventy-two hours.” So God made a farmer. God had to have somebody willing to ride the ruts at double speed to get the hay in ahead of the rain clouds and yet stop in mid-field and race to help when he sees the first smoke from a neighbor\u2019s place. So God made a farmer. God said, \u201cI need somebody strong enough to clear trees and heave bales, yet gentle enough to tame lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink-combed pullets, who will stop his mower for an hour to splint the broken leg of a meadow lark. It had to be somebody who\u2019d plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, breed and brake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk and replenish the self-feeder and finish a hard week’s work with a five-mile drive to church. Somebody who’d bale a family together with the soft strong bonds of sharing, who would laugh and then sigh, and then reply, with smiling eyes, when his son says he wants to spend his life \u2018doing what dad does.\u2019 So God made a farmer.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n So God made a farmer. He didn\u2019t make him smart enough to realize that the Rockwell family farm had been industrialized into an Orwellian agricultural factory nightmare. He didn\u2019t make him eloquent enough to take his narrative outside the religious imagery of a Dodge Ram commercial. From the Fourth Quarter of the Super Bowl to the Empty Quarter of the Lewiston roundup arena, God made a farmer into a cynical anachronism and an angry martyr.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The night riders in the cavalcades that streamed into the arena stood on their saddles, gigantic hoisted American flags fluttering large behind them, synchronized swimmers with white cowboy hats and white shirts and black bolo ties and brown horses. They were followed by a red stagecoach with yellow wheels, the fat sheriff in the open chuck wagon, waving with his wife, more stars and bars, and Toby Keith\u2019s Angry American<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Oh, justice will be served and the battle will rage: A young cowgirl raced into the center of the arena, saluting with a fringed deerskin glove.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGive it all up for Queen Darryl Kirby!\u201d Announced the announcer. Everyone gave it all up. A posse of lesser rodeo queens followed in Queen Darryl at a distance. Some of them were so thin, I thought of taking up a curly fries collection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLadies and Gentlemen!\u201d The announcer announced. \u201cBehind every good man is an even better woman!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah!\u201d Said Robyn. All the other women in the bleachers gave it all up too. A group of mounted Indians dressed like cowboys rode in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLadies and Gentlemen!\u201d The announcer announced. \u201cThe Nez Perc\u00e9s County Mounted Sheriff\u2019s Posse!\u201d The applause wasn\u2019t quite as spirited, as it had been for the rodeo queens, and they looked a little uncomfortable, like Warsaw Ghetto kapos. But they were just decoration for what was coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLadies and Gentlemen!\u201d The announcer announced. \u201cWe live in the greatest country on God\u2019s Green Earth!\u201d Robyn and I looked at each other in agreement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe United States of America!\u201d He said. \u201cPlease rise for the National Anthem!\u201d And we all rose, as the big voice in the little girl on the podium below roared into patriotic purpose. I knew the words, having lived so long so close to the Americans and so far from their God, but Robyn had to lip sync her compliance. Everyone was too busy giving it all up to notice. A big Ram truck rode around the arena, throwing free Ram Rodeo T-shirts into the bleachers. It really was the greatest country in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLadies and Gentlemen!\u201d The announcer announced. \u201cThe cowboy is a patriot, but the only two things you\u2019ll see on the back of a bull are a fly and a fool.\u201d The fools were ready to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In between all the love and anger, Robyn and I had met the couple in front of us. Bill and Lexie had ‘never missed a roundup,’ and were camped in the canyon. Bill had been a bull rider for thirteen years and related how insecure his life in the rodeo had been. A good rider could make up to a quarter million dollars a year, or nothing. He had no insurance, all his own costs, and just one bad ride could put him out of business for good. Or worse. I asked him what it was like.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt’s like a hurricane dancing with a kite.\u201d He said. “You gotta want to get off bad enough to want to get on in the first place.” I asked him if he had ever broken any bones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEvery damn one of them.\u201d He said, and then began teasing me about the Canadian contact sport of curling. “Tried that one time in Kelowna.\u201d He said, wiping his brow, and grinning. \u201cNever again.\u201d I told him that Robyn had ridden the mechanical bull at Gillie\u2019s in Dallas and won. He nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe only good reason to ride a bull is to meet a nurse.\u201d He said. This time it was Lexie who grinned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNever approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear or a fool from any direction.\u201d She said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Out on the sand, the bull riders had been coming off their mounts in quick succession. The announcer announced, and ZZ Top and Alabama provided accompaniment. Boy, you’re going to make yourself dizzy\u2026 That horse didn’t want to play\u2026 He needs to have his hammer cocked tonight\u2026 Now that’s how that’s done\u2026 Live fast. Die young.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Indian bread and paper toweling went by, all mixed up together by the two too young boys with two too big cowboy hats. They stretched themselves tall on the wire fence and watched the last of the men come off the hooves. The announcer announced.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHere’s to the families saying grace tonight with an empty seat at the table.\u201d He said. Cans of Coors and Pepsi rode the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet us never take our freedom for granted.\u201d <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" – Lewiston, Idaho \u2018We find after years of struggle that we do nottake a trip; a trip takes us.\u2019 – John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley The landscape northwest of Boise looked like the Texas egg bake served for breakfast. Just past the native food truck, and the gold and silver pawnshops, were signs of Boise … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1206,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_hide_featured_image":false,"_jetpack_featured_image_duplicate_dismissed":0,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"nfd_image_url":"","nfd_onboarding_generated":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1148","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/11\/rebekah-che-Y_Vs07Uveto-unsplash.jpg?fit=1920%2C1280&ssl=1","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1148","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1148"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1148\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1156,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1148\/revisions\/1156"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1206"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1148"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1148"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/truechili\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1148"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
take a trip; a trip takes us.\u2019
– John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the Meadows Valley fair,
Leans low an ancient cabin,
Crumbling, half-forgotten, there\u2026
There, the trader, Packer John,
Spent the winter days alone,
Trapped for muskrat, mink, and beaver,
Built this tiny cabin home\u2026
Now this ancient cabin dozes
In the golden summer sun,
Living with a host of memories,
Dreams them over, one by one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those with loaded guns and those who dig. You dig.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I ran my fingers through my tangled hair
As I pulled in for another tank of freedom
With a hundred miles behind me
And a million more to go\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
May your horse never stumble. May your cinch never break.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This big dog will fight when you rattle his cage.
An\u2019 you’ll be sorry that you messed with the U.S. of A.
\u2018Cos we’ll put a boot in your ass, it’s the American way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2018The bulls and the clowns The ups and the downs
He\u2019s hooked on this eight-second ride
The spurs and the blood The dust and the mud
This will be his first time to ride
His one chance at stardom His one chance at Fame
She doesn\u2019t want him playin\u2019 this game
She told him no, but he just had to go
On with his rodeo dreams\u2019
Dawn, Rodeo Dreams<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Lawrence Winkler is a retired physician, traveler, and natural philosopher. His m\u00e9tier has morphed from medicine to manuscript. He lives with Robyn on Vancouver Island and in New Zealand, tending their gardens and vineyards, and dreams.
His writings have previously been published in The Montreal Review. Some of his other work can be found online at lawrencewinkler.com.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n