|Snake River Crossing at I-84--Idaho on the left, Oregon on the right.|
September 21, 2011
I passed over much higher once on a commercial flight head pressed against the little window watching the river, towns, and my Grandpa's dairy farm like reading a map. Another time I was in a small, government plane flying a little lower heading away from the dawn sensing a flight through the same fluffy clouds I had tried to grab onto with my fingers to slow that first, spiritual arrival to my earthly form.
On this car trip with my wife, I replayed arrivals over my early life from our family time in Idaho Falls arriving from the east or from Seattle in the rainy northwest to my "farm" grandparents on the Oregon side, or the "bowling alley" ones on the Idaho side of the Snake. The Oregon Trail ran along side us when it wasn't hidden behind the hills or covered by the asphalt of the interstate.
My maternal grandparents lie buried on a bluff above the Snake. My parents still live in the area. I go on occasion to deal with family matters, relaxing visits rarer as we arrive for health treatments of my parents, weddings of my nieces, and funerals.
As the sign says, the Valley of the Snake has been a place of historic passages. It will remain so for me.