Back Where I Began

After several years of living and exploring other landscapes, I am back where I began, in
the high desert of southeast Idaho. This is a land of agriculture, the fields furrowed and plowed,
where grain is piled high in corrugated steel silos and mountains of potatoes stand and wait in
the cool shade of sod-covered cellars. The potato is our heritage, the spud so ubiquitous that we
stamp its image on our license plates, a movable feast reminding us of that tuber that fills our
bellies and our billfolds.
I grew up in a house surrounded on three sides by potato fields, high on a hilly bench
below the Big Hole mountains, where a century before my birth, Hinmatuyalatkekt, or, since it
slips easier from white mens tongues, Chief Joseph, and his band of Nez Perce, evaded federal
troops in what still remains as our nations longest ever high speed chase. The position of these
fields affords a contemplative view of the Great Snake River plain whose head originates at the
Yellowstone Caldera:, theat truest sleeping giant. If the restive energy of this terror had been
known in the forties, Yamamoto would have used a different metaphor.
This is my land.
As a boy, I spent much of my free time exploring along the farm roads that parceled the

Comment [BI1]: Present tense for land

descriptions, as they are still true today.

fields. The Blue Ridge and Smoky Mmountains of Kentucky and Tennessee are famous for their
hollers. The hills here have the like, but in miniature. In the folding and unfolding of faulted
ground rises up intermittent, unplowable stands of juniper, sage, and aspen. In the larger of
these stands lives families of mule deer. In the largest of these stands lives, a few tawny elk the
color of grain. A moose, or two, annually wanders into our backyards and grazes from our
bushes, drinkings from our kiddie pools. Mostly these little copses are tenanted by rabbits and
foxes.

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consider changing this sentence to Families of mule
deer live in the larger stands

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When the air cools and the farmings done, the potato fields are left with withering
vines;, the grain fields with stubbly beards. Each awaits winter, which comes early. Winter is
the best time to be in these hills when, and snowmobiling is the mode of travel. Acres upon
thousands of acres of unbroken land make for great riding. I mean, Wwe could walk out our

Comment [AT3]: We as in whom?

backdoor, hop onf the snowmobile, and ride as far as three towns away without crossing so
much as a single navigable road.
I loved the look of the fields on sunny days:. tThe endless expanse of sheeny snow, the
undulating hills like sea swells, the dark pine-spiked mountains above, and the quiet quilted
plain below. Here we rode.
While a shabby relative to the machines available today, our snowmobile was a hot item
in the middle- 1980s. It could manage sixty miles per hour before having to push. I enjoyed
driving it:. iIt was one of the first models to feature heated handlebars. Oh, I can still smell the
almost-sweetalmost sweet stink of hot gloves and hand sweat, the sensuous exhaust of a twostroke engine finely tuned.
More than that, I liked to ride while sitting behind my older brother, Joe. Id sit on the
back of the slick maroon seat and wrap my arms around his waist. When it was cold, I could
bury my face in the middle of his back, shielded from the wind. I didnt care where we went. We
would just cruised . Wed and fly over the hills, looking for drifts and windblown cornices.
Once, at nearly eighty miles per hour and snow blind, we hit a large drift, which rocketed us
into the sky., Tthe machine executing a barrel roll before landing neatly on its track; we were
not so fortunate.. Not so fortunate, Joe and I cartwheeled into a frightened heap, but were
happy to stand up unhurt. Another time, school was cancelled because of cold, and we ventured
out on a morning fifty degrees below zero without a breath of wind. I wasnt wearing a hat and

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here. Consider removing in entirely or rephrasing it
so that it fits with either the previous paragraph or
the next paragraph.

Comment [BI5]: Having to push as in it would

eventually run out of gas, or something would
happen at sixty miles an hour that would result in it
needing to be pushed?

was wild with pain within minutes. Despite lying for hours in a tub of lukewarm water,
frostbite swelled my ears into purple balloons.

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with the rest of the paragraph and can probably be
removed.

Sometimes we looked for rabbits or foxes. Seen from above, their tracks delineated on
the fields a tracework like a map of the territories. You couldnt really follow the tracks to good
effect because they led everywhere. TNo, to find them you had to simply to cover ground, to
ride enough miles and keep your eyes peeled.
One afternoon, we spotted a fox in the distancee, some ways above an escarpment of
broken basalt. Joe thumbed the throttle, and we headed for it. The fox just stood there,
watching us as we approached, its features clarifying, like waking up from a dream. It didnt
move until we were within a few hundred yards.
I remember hearing as we rode, the high, iridescent whine of the engine splitting the air
like paper torn. I remember the foxs black eyes and silver tail, the flame of its back and belly. It
seemed to shrink into a dense center and then explode like a red bullet.z Zero to everything
in an instant.
What came over us, I cannot say. We didnt talk. Not a word was spoken, but we both
knew. We were after it.
Going in a straight line, we caught up rather quickly. Even with a light body and
splayed feet, the fox had to work to keep ahead of us. Still, it was a wonder. Just as we would
catch up, it would change direction with abruptness unimaginable:, expert as a dragonfly. Wed
catch up, and it would dart left or right. Joe cranked the handlebars, and the machine by
comparison banked a turn as slow and blunt as a ship.

Comment [AT7]: Combine this paragraph with

the previous paragraph since youre still on the
same topic.

No sound from the fox;. iIt merely ran. It ran through belly- deep snow with heroic
effort. It ran and ran and kept going, churning the snow under foot. Eventually, it tired.
After narrowly missing it on one pass, close enough I could have, like some rodeo trick,
reached down and grabbed it, we turned around and saw the fox had stopped. It sat in the
middle of our track and collapsed on its haunches. It wasnt terribly cold that day. The sun was
out. Joe straightened the machine and opened the throttle.
I have a picture indelibly printed of the fox in that moment:. cCrimson fur on its hackles,
standing straight up;. iIts wet black eyes and wet black nose and puff of black on the tip of its

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tail. Its chest heaved from a heart pounding as hot and fast as a hummingbirds. Its pink tongue

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hung limp out of its mouth like a bit of licked taffy.

The fox never even tried to get out of the way, only dropped its head, as if we would
float right over it.
It wasnt much, running over that small fox. The sensation was like swallowing some
too large thing, a momentary catch, a pressing against the soft flesh of the throat. We turned
around and saw the fox meekly raise its head. Even the weight of the machine and us was not
enough to kill it.
We had broken its bones. Its slender front legs zigzagged at severe angles. Some of its
insides were outside. We had smudged it.
It took several more passes before the fox was dead, and dead we left it there;, the fox
spreading in the snow,. sSoft and quiet under the distant winter sun, spreading like an ink pen
lying on linen.

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Comment [AT8]: Vary sentence structure here.
All of the sentences are about the same length and
they start with its

As we cruised back home, my ears and nose stung from the cold, and the wind
wateredteared my eyes. In my belly, there was a small, tight knot. Of what consequence was,
this mere fox? The passing of this bit of fur, noticed by no one, save only Him, perhaps, who
notices the fall of every sparrow. Good God in heaven, who among us had not where to lay his
head, forgive me. I was a boy then, and I took unto myself a lump I couldnt swallow. I cannot
swallow still.