Idaho Wilderness Adventure

Iron Bog Trail

It was in the summer of 1972, and I had the weekend off. The Mom and I loaded up the car and rounded up the kids, all of us excited about another journey into the mountains northwest of Blackfoot.

We hooked the little khaki “Camel” camp trailer to the bumper of the ’68 Ranch Wagon and headed for the wilderness.

Not too far north of Mackay Reservoir, but well south of Challis, we pulled off U.S. Highway 93 and headed west into the hills.

We were bound for Iron Bog Lake, a high-mountain body of water that had formed in a natural pocket eons before.

There was a Forest Service campground at the base of a trail to the lake. We set up the tent trailer there, had a campfire, prepared our evening meal and slept for the night.

Because the kids were so small then, the little tent worked fine. It featured two double beds on foldout shelves. The Mom and I used one double bed and the four kids slept crosswise on the other.

We were inside out of the mosquitoes and with so many of us in there, we were a lot warmer than in sleeping bags on the ground. (I see all this like it was yesterday, or at least no longer ago than last weekend.)

In the morning we had our breakfast and determined to head off up the trail right away to find the lake. It was something like a one-mile walk – and it got steeper and more difficult the further we went.

The girls were old enough and physically fit enough for the task. They were always active in dancing and swimming and gymnastics, so their little muscles and their little brains were coordinated and ready.

Ben, the youngest, was not quite four, and with short legs and some baby fat, the hike was more difficult for him. But he was ever the good sport, so we all went along slowly and rested frequently.

By and by, the trail narrowed and angled sharply upward. Soon we were walking on a narrow path, with a cliff steeply rising to our right and a “long way down” to the stream below.

Suddenly the ugly sound of a dirt bike intruded itself into our peaceful walk.

The Mom and I looked at each other. We could tell the bike was coming rapidly up the trail on which we were confined. We were immediately fearful of being helplessly in someone’s way.

As fate would have it, the trail widened a little bit a few yards ahead of us. We scurried to the wide spot and pressed the four children and ourselves against a shallow depression in the cliff.

The noisy motorcycle came closer and closer – we could see a young man with a duck-bill helmet winding his mechanized way toward us, rattling the quiet Idaho wilderness with his offensive conveyance.

There was barely enough room, but this bozo went by us at speed, no nod of the head, no “excuse me,” no notice of us at all. Dirt bikers are like that. All of them.

No one was hurt, and we decided to proceed rather than to let one thoughtless bozo ruin our otherwise idyllic hike to Iron Bog Lake.

The evil whine of the Honda got further away and was less audible as the minutes passed.

Suddenly the noise stopped. Quiet, like we seldom experience these days, took over. We wondered what could have happened – would the guy have stopped for lunch? Did he find some reason to pause for a photo of the beauty surrounding us?

Onward we slogged for quite a way. Then we saw him. The bike had somehow slipped off the cliff-hanging trail and into the deep gully below.

The rider was making vain attempts to extricate his machine from a tangle of stream-side willow brush. The machine was upside-down and leaking gasoline.

When we got to the place where the bike had left the trail, we stopped and looked down. The rider interrupted his frantic work and took off his helmet.

He looked up at us through sweat-filled eyes and said, “Hey. Will you help me get this bike back on the trail?”

For some reason we all looked at Ben. Our little four-year-old had his hands on his hips in a posture of resolution.

The guy asked again, “Will you help me?” Once again, we looked at Ben. He said nothing, but shook his head slowly back and forth.

Since Ben’s answer was “No,” the Mom grabbed his little hand and our climb resumed.

We found the lake to be one of the most beautiful sights any of us had ever seen. It was absolutely still, not a breeze, reflecting the mountain peaks photo-perfectly. Flies buzzed and birds sang, the only sounds breaking the silence.

I used the photos I took that day for years after for examples of “Idaho Scenery”.

With a blanket spread on the narrow “beach,” we started a small fire to smoke away some of the mosquitoes. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We took a nap.

What a fine day at Iron Bog Lake. The sun sets early in the mountains, so all too soon we headed back down the trail.

Yes, our unfortunate biker was still down in the canyon, working to get his bike back on the trail. But we shushed the kids and apparently he didn’t notice us as we retreated quietly past the scene of his predicament.

Never found out what became of him. Perhaps the Christian thing would have been to help him out.

On the other hand, it wasn’t like he couldn’t walk out like the rest of us. He wasn’t trapped or hurt. He was just a rude boy experiencing a long afternoon of “instant karma.”

To this day, we look to Ben for decisions. If Ben has his hands on his hips and he is standing there shaking his head “no,” we had better not do it. Right, Ben?

The Egg and I

Grammatically it should really be “The Egg and Me.” Then the play on “The King and I” wouldn’t work, though.

Several years have gone by since I would condescend to take a meal at The Egg and I – whichever store, it doesn’t matter.

I didn’t like the “nose in the air” social attitude of the franchise on west Tenth in Greeley. I didn’t like the sickening sweet smell of some kind of flavored coffee at the 23rd Avenue outlet.

However, by and by, even I will come off dead center when hungry. And I do tire of the endless rotation between Randy’s and The Country Inn.

We visited The Egg twice in recent days, finding no discernible “attitude” in the staff on west Tenth.

Our first meal was all right. Laura was served a very nice airy and light omelet. My ham and eggs was, well, acceptable.

But the floor looked like it hadn’t been swept in a week, and the restroom was littered with waste paper by some truant who had also splashed it all around with water. Same restaurant grunge on the floor in there too – hashed brown leftovers and toast crumbs.

So a few days go by.

I’m a good sport, so we’ll give ‘em another try, right? Bum idea.

Although you’d think I would have learned better by now, I ordered corned beef hash and eggs. The corned beef was skanky, as if it had been grilled in beef tallow. I couldn’t eat it.

And there was the same littered restroom and the ever-mounting layer of food fallout on the floor along serving pathways and in the dining room.

The cashier was busy talking with some other customers and short-changed me $30 from a $50 bill. We soon got the change thing straightened out, but as I looked back over my shoulder going out, there still wasn’t anyone sweeping the floor.

-0-

Word of the Week: Megalomania. This one is from modern Greek and then Latin, “megalo,” or large, great, powerful, and “mania,” insanity. Hence “megalomania,” a mental disorder characterized by delusions of grandeur, wealth or power. Hey. If the shoe fits.

Next week’s word: Katabasis. (I promised the word “oxymoron” a week ago. It would have been a repeat. Sorry.)

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