I did not fall off the face of the earth….wait, yes I did. I enjoyed early fall in the Inland Northwest, away from phone, Internet, and political news. I saw an entire river valley in the Idaho Panhandle take on a golden hue this past week. I heard a male elk bugle daily for the lassies, but I doubt he had much luck. Based on his tentative tone he seemed unsure how it all worked. Based on the location of his sound, I think he was living on a steep slope in the heavy brush. If I were an elk-ess, I would have told him to get a better piece of real estate. Those slopes are slippery!

Painting, bull elk in St.Joe River Valley

I stayed at a primitive campground (no utilities) along the St. Joe River. My only company: bow hunters, just like in the Crazies. They seem to be friendly folks, different from the rifle hunters. Otherwise, the campground was empty, just how I like it, especially in the fall. I absorb the quietude that settles in just before winter, and it feeds my soul. Rifle hunting season, which starts mid-October in Idaho and Washington, will break the spell, but I won’t be there to hear the shots.

I forgot to mention the wildfires and smoke. I got used to living under a layer of smoke. I was surrounded by wildfires during a season firefighters are calling the worst ever. The rain did come, however, and should end the season. In fact, the rain started on Monday and is forecast to continue all week. As I type, the fat drops fall on my sweet camper.

I have arrived in Spokane and will check in tomorrow at a little RV park 15 miles north of town, in apple country. I hope I am not too late to drive through the hills and score some delicious local fruit! Baked apples, apple crisp. Apples, apples, apples.

Mom is supposed to be in hospice care, at her request. Yet, she takes the senior bus to a doctor appointment, frets about getting her nails done, and is planning family Thanksgiving at the nursing home. She refuses to get out of her wheelchair and into bed like most hospice patients but did agree to naps in the recliner. She has an endless list of visitors, one who reads aloud to whoever is assembled after dinner. Another watches Jeopardy with her. She tells everyone rather nonchalantly, “You know I am in hospice now.”  Really? I shouldn’t be amazed; I will probably be the same. I will be digging around in the sewing bin, looking for a nice bed jacket fabric to sew up and wear for my hospice journey.

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night  (Dylan Thomas)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

 

I loved my solitude, but now I am rested and ready for family time and the birth of Silas, who is expected now around Oct 1, 2017.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
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