Driving Highway 95 north into Oregon

Our route takes us to Winnemucca, then straight as an arrow north on U.S. 95 to the Panhandle of Idaho. Snow squalls dance across the sky. An empty highway unravels for hours and hours. The usually somber desert is tinged with green. By mid-afternoon we set our clocks ahead and pull into Jordan Valley, Ore., our destination for the night.

Jordan Valley is on the wane; two gas stations, two motels, a rock hound shop for sale and not much else, except for the Basque Inn. After a delightful dinner we return for breakfast. Charlie, a lanky 6-footer with a winsome smile, wears an apron, takes our order, prepares and serves it. Jobs in Jordan Valley are scarce as hen's teeth but by golly Charlie's got one. "My grandpa gave me this lucky silver dollar," Charlie says. A recent car accident took his grandpa's life and it's clear he's missed. When we leave, Charlie asks "Can I fill those coffee mugs for you?" and doesn't charge and our second day on the road begins.

After leaving the bland farmlands of southern Idaho, a perplexing array of valleys, forests, and pastures unfolds. For three days we drive on U.S. 95 which has whittled itself down to a country road ... most of the time. Wheat fields take shape on dimpled hills in swirling designs. Pastures that know rain by the bucketful offer up knee high grass to rotund cattle. Scampering lambs race to their mommies who completely ignore them. It's spring, streams gush, spill over and flood the land. The withering aridity of Nevada becomes a memory.

At Riggins, we're in a deep "V" shaped canyon with barely enough room for the rampaging Salmon River. Sport fishing and river rafting are the big attraction. Pink, white and lavender dogwood blossoms give a fairy tale look to the rustic town. "This business is supported by Chinook Salmon Fishing" proclaim's the sign. "Don't mess with my bait, friend!" seems to be the implication.

U.S. 95 is as empty as a school yard in the summertime and we opt for a detour to a small lumber town called St. Maries (pronounced St. Marys, don't ask me why). "Look, a "rummage and bake sale," my wife Orllyene says and I pull over. The lilting sound of musical chimes adds whimsy to the town. We enter the basement of a Lutheran Church. Smiles greet us as we peruse the tables of sundries and baked goods. We've struck gold and provision up with brownies, carrot cake muffins, a loaf of bread, and a dozen farm fresh eggs. It's obvious we're "out of towners" and Jeanne, one of the ladies in charge, takes a liking to us and tells us a joke. "Up in Wisconsin, don't you know, Ole and Eleena were married for 60 years and then one day Eleena ups and dies. Well Ole doesn't know what to do so he calls 911. "I's Ole here, Eleena just died....I was wonderin' if you could come pick her up? "Where would you be livin'?" the operator says. "37 Eucalyptus street" says Ole. "Could you spell that for me please, Ole?" the operator asks. Ole pauses for a minute then says "If I drag her over to Elm St. could you pick her up there?"

Our destination, Lake Pend Oreille, is 43 miles long, 1000 feet deep and at times looks like an inland sea. After settling in at our friend Marilyn's time-share apartment, we visit Clark Fork, the nearest town. Clark Fork sits in the hollow of a cluster of steep mountains. Cities are vital places; Clark Fork is nap time. Across from the "beer, cigs and chew" shop is the Country Store. A whiff of baking bread and I know I'm in the right place. Apples simmer on the stove and will soon be apple pies. Michelle, a raven haired somewhat frazzled gal tells me "I bought the store in April; sometimes I bake bread twice a day and am still here at 1a.m." When I go to the register she says "Diane has to read your lips....she's deaf and they wouldn't let her work up front, but hey, I figured, why not?" Diane reads my lips and with a huge smile on her beautiful face gives me my receipt. You can tell when a business is run on compassion and not bottom line-ism.

The week slips by and one day we drift eastward into Montana and north on Highway 56 into the Cabinet Mountains Wilderness. I spot wild turkeys along the road. The day before we saw elk. The scenery is overwhelming. The road is bracketed by soaring mountains with razor sharp peaks. Snow lingers in the shadows of tall stiff cedars. We get out of the car for a breather beside a soggy marshland identified as a "flyway" for migratory birds and later on pass fishing & hunting lodges languishing for a summer that doesn't seem to want to come.

The sun is at its zenith and we are famished but the right spot for a picnic alludes us. On a whim I turn north onto a farm road. We are now in the foothills of mountains that have their feet in Canada. A wedge of ground in front of a gate looks appealing and I pull over. A mare and foal graze contentedly just beyond the fence as clusters of horses linger on the emerald hills. Our picnic is in full bloom, red cooler and all, when a vintage pick up truck pulls up and stops. "Oh, oh--- we're in someone's driveway" I mutter and mosey over. "I thought you folks had put up a fruit stand when I drove up," say Gib.

Gib is a man from another time. His hat slouches over his face, he has a drooping mustache and is ruggedly handsome. He invites us in for coffee. "We'll sit outside," mostly because his house is quite small. His voice is clear and soft as quicksilver. As the conversations weaves on, he tells us, it was a long hard winter and he had to turn his horses out early because he ran out of hay. Gib has 44 horses which he sells and trades. His card says "Horse Guy."

Gib's solitary life is a testament to self reliance. "Everybody today is in only interested in instant gratification," he says. Then as the conversation warms Marilyn asks, "Is there a lady in your life?" "Alcohol & church activities are meeting places up here & 'm not close to either." "Did you go to college?" I ask because his words are so straight forward and erudite. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that" he says smiling. Oh, oh, I stepped on his toes. "Long ago I decided to have an open mind" he says and that's when it hits me; "are you a writer?" His smile tells me I've tapped the mother lode. "Sorta, I write songs" and when we ask to hear one, he goes and gets his guitar.

With the sun streaming down, nestled in the embrace of mountains that are almost sitting on top of us, Gib sings and we listen. He's lost in the words of his own composition. "You've made my day," he says. Imagine him saying that. He welcomed us in and openly told us about his life. Gib lives life on his own terms. He is beholden to no one, a Remington cowboy, a "gol-darn, shor-enough" American. They still exist. You just have to get our of the malls to find."

- Ron Walker lives in Smith.