IDAHOPE Anthology
By Angela Meuser and Martin Shepard
Published by Borderline Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Angela Meuser and Martin Shepard
Introduction
The mountains and valleys that represent our great state of Idaho are also symbolic of the stories in our lives. We all have highs and lows. But when in a valley, it’s easy to forget the fact that we’ve made it over the first mountain. We feel defeated.
Each story that follows is compiled from men and women who did not give up. They refused to let life keep them from reaching the next summit.
Let their journeys inspire you to do the same. Take hold of this tow-rope of hope, and rise to new heights. And may the story of significance in your life do the same for the mountains and valleys of those around you.
Contents
Winter Adventure, Mountain Style
Thomas Lowther
Kären Swanson
John Cline and Randall Coryell
Phyllis Vavold
Grandpa’s Minnie: A Ride into Another Time
Kimberli Reynolds
Rebecca Evans
Sandy Sawyer
Caitlin Meuser
Kay Brown
Dan Clark
Karla Nef
Kay Painter
Ben Walters
Janet Watson
Cynthia Johnson
Trisha Wirdzek
Winter Adventure,
Mountain Style
Thomas Lowther
Leaton Gulch, near Challis, Idaho
January 28, 1999
I adjusted my ski goggles then pushed the throttle with my right thumb. The engine revved and the machine lurched forward. I let up for a moment and resettled myself on the seat, taking a deep breath and pressing the throttle slower this time. Riding a snowmobile was certainly different from riding or driving any other vehicle, and I was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. It was too late to really question that now though, as Mike was already more than two hundred yards ahead of me. I needed to catch up.
Gradually I increased my speed. Here at the base of the mountain the land was relatively flat. I would soon traverse steeper terrain and my trip would be slower.
The snow-covered ground flew by at a very high rate. I stole a glance at the speedometer and saw that I was only doing thirty-five miles per hour. It felt much faster. I smiled to myself and concentrated on the path ahead. The lightly falling snow stung exposed skin on my face as the machine propelled me through the frozen January air.
We now made headway up the lower part of the gulch, and I settled into the seat. I purposely relaxed my leg and arm muscles that had been tense and slowly took in and released a very deep breath. I glanced up at the rising landscape of the gulch on both sides, and couldn’t help but smile to myself. I had the best job on earth.
The entire purpose of this trip was to return the public radio station, which had been down for days, to the air. BSU Radio had a transmitter site on top of Grouse Peak, and our goal today was to reach it, fix the problem, and return to town by nightfall. Our listeners in Challis, although patient, were anxious to have their service restored.
And I got to be the one to go up the rugged mountain to fix the problem!
Mike slowed as the powder grew deeper, but we continued to make excellent progress. The numerous drifts made for a bumpy ride and caused his speed—and path—to become somewhat erratic. I concentrated on staying in the track, while also maintaining momentum.
He reached the first switchback—a hard curve to the left—and made the turn, but suddenly stopped as the front of his machine plowed into a very deep snowdrift. I applied my brake in an attempt to stop in his track, but the momentum carried me off the trail, the sleek front of my machine buried deep in the powder.
Mike motioned for me to join him, so I stepped onto the snow, sinking to my thighs. With minor difficulty I made it to him. After a short discussion about how best to proceed, I assisted him with digging his machine out. Since he had been buried in a snowdrift, we packed a short trail of six feet or so in front to help him get moving. Otherwise, he would have been stuck again in just a matter of feet.
Before taking off on his, Mike helped me free my sled from the deep snow. We dug around it for a while and then maneuvered it back onto the trail.
He settled back onto his, ready to try again. He had me push to help him get going. As he revved the engine, thick fumes from the exhaust surrounded me and tickled my nose and throat. I leaned my right shoulder into the push, and shortly found myself lying in the snow on my belly as he took off. I was covered in snow from the snowmobile’s “rooster tail” (so-named because of the similarity in shape), which is the spray of snow the machine’s track throws to its rear. My exposed face was especially chilled by this. I spat a large chunk from my mouth while wiping the offending moisture from my eyelids. I looked up in time to see him ascend the trail to the next switchback and disappear around the corner. Relieved, I walked back to my machine, started it, and—after breathing a quick prayer—gunned the throttle.
It lurched forward as I nervously focused on the trail just ahead. I made the next curve and began to straighten out when I noticed that Mike was stuck again a few yards ahead. I stopped to avoid running into him. I felt my machine sink a little.
I rushed to join Mike in packing snow and lifting the back of his machine out of the hole. Soon we were ready. I repeated my pushing routine, and he was off. I leaned against the snowdrift and listened as the sound of his engine grew faint and stopped.
I knew he was stuck again.
The afternoon wore on in this fashion. After several hours of the same pattern, we finally made it to the top of the gulch. Mike turned around, and I pumped my left fist in the air excitedly. I stopped my machine next to his and hollered, “Woo-hoo!” He nodded at me and even through the ski mask I could tell he was smiling.
We should have a much easier ride here on the ridge.
The wind drove the snow from this part of the mountain. We crossed the second cattle guard on little more than two feet of snow, as opposed to the four to six feet we’d been riding on in the gulch. Once past this spot, we rode for a quarter mile into ever deepening powder.
In short order, we were stuck in it.
After a couple more rounds of digging out, we came to a meadow. Entering this bowl, Mike took off, but the deep powder and incline proved to be too much. He buried his machine.
I ditched my sled downhill from his. Since his would be the easier of the two to extricate, I made my way to him. He was busy assessing our situation.
I tossed my cap and mask into the snow nearby and put a hand on the sled.
“It’s getting dark,” I said, still breathing hard.
“Well, we won’t be making it to the site today.” He grunted.
“It’s uphill both directions out of this bowl,” I said slowly, considering our options. “How do you propose we proceed?”
“Let’s see if we can get mine turned around first,” he said. “We’ll go from there.”
We set about wrestling his machine around 180 degrees. At points it seemed nearly impossible. The heavy machine combined with the powdery snow and steep terrain were formidable foes. The high elevation also exacted a significant toll on us as we quickly became short of breath. It took a long time, but we finally accomplished our goal of getting the machine turned around and packing a long path for it.
Mike jumped on, started it, and gunned the throttle as I pushed again. He traveled about twenty feet before sinking.
After several short trips forward, we were finally close to where we had entered the bowl. By this point, both of us were utterly exhausted. Every step I took was a conscious labor. My boots felt like they were made of lead and my legs felt like wet spaghetti noodles as I stumbled around in the snow. I looked forward to the ride down, even if it was on the back of Mike’s sled.
Ready to try again, I placed my gloved hands on the bumper and shifted my feet in the snow. I found a good angle of attack and stiffened my muscles in anticipation of the big shove. If this didn’t work, it would mean there would be more digging, which was a very unpleasant thought. Mike glanced back at me and I nodded to indicate I was ready. He opened the throttle fully, and I pushed as hard as I could on the bumper. My thighs, calves, and biceps were burning intensely, begging for me to let up. My feet, wrists, shoulders, and back were now sore from the afternoon’s efforts. I focused all of my energy and thoughts on the one simple task of keeping pressure on the back of that machine.
The sled lurched forward then bogged back down.
“Not this time!” I screamed internally.
I jumped forward in the powder. I pushed and ran. Actually, I felt like I was swimming with boots on my feet. Gaining enough traction—barely—I kept pushing. This effort was just enough to get him over the lip of the bowl. I flopped onto the snow in the prone position and waited to see where he’d stop.
When he reached the packed trail, he didn’t ease the throttle back, so he took off like a rocket. The cloud of snow kicked up by his machine’s track dissipated, and in the dim light of overcast dusk I could clearly see his taillight fading into the distance.
The quiet slowly settled upon me like the lightly falling snow, and I began to feel very cold.
“He’s circling back around,” I told myself semi-confidently. “He must be.”
I nodded to no one, moved to a kneeling position, and pulled my mask down over my face. Some snow had collected on it and the cold moisture made me wince. I zipped up my “bear suit”—brown insulated coveralls—all the way, and did the same with my blue outer coat. I stood and raised my hood, blocking some of the biting wind from cooling my head any further.
I listened intently, but heard no engine sounds at all. Mike must have decided it would be too difficult to return, or perhaps he was stuck again.
I was all alone.
I stood, collected my thoughts, and surveyed my surroundings. Here’s what I knew: I was tired, cold, and hungry. There was no readily available shelter nearby, and with darkness descending upon the mountain, there was no time in which to prepare a temporary shelter such as a snow cave. The site was a good half mile away, which seemed so very far. With no other viable options I decided I would strike out in that direction.
Walking on the freshly packed trail, I made my way back to where we had turned Mike’s sled around. I promptly sunk up to my waist the first step beyond that. I climbed out of the hole and began taking shorter steps to try to avoid this.
My snowmobile—and supplies—lay about fifty feet downhill, which I traversed with little problem by retracing the path I’d made earlier. I heaved the pack onto my shoulders, and wondered how it could feel so heavy now. It felt like I had a small boulder on my back. The weight almost tipped me over backwards, so I quickly leaned forward and steadied myself.
With great care, I headed in the general direction of the top of the mountain.
After many powdery steps forward (and some backward), I sunk again. This time I ended up in a kneeling position. I didn’t know if I had the strength to make it even ten more feet, let alone reach the site. I could see the lip of the bowl and knew I had almost a quarter mile to go.
I had seen a black bear in these trees the previous autumn. I thought about that, the elements, and my own weakness. I was vulnerable. It struck me at that moment that there was no guarantee that I’d actually make it off the mountain alive. I thought of my wife, Tammy, and three-year-old daughter, Kaitlyn, waiting for me at home.
I began to weep.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed aloud. “I’m in some real trouble here. I’m all alone and don’t feel like I have the ability to move forward. Lord, I pray for Your guidance and grace in granting me the strength I need to reach the site before nightfall. May Your will be done. In Jesus’ name…”
I dropped my head and sunk my hands into the snow before me.
“Amen…” I whispered.
Every step forward after that was accompanied by prayer. In my weakened state, I stumbled frequently. Everything around me began to lose contrast in the ever dimming light. I wondered if I was heading in the right direction. However, I knew that God was helping me, comforting me, and strengthening me, so I was relying completely on Him to pull me through this. I had no other choice.
I reached the opposite end of the bowl from where we entered on our snowmobiles. I climbed up onto the final ridge near the site and found the driveway. I began the three hundred foot climb to the top. Since this part was much steeper and more uneven, I fell and ended up crawling several times.
I saw the transmitter building through the dim light and haze of falling snow. The dark brown structure appeared black in the low light. I continued gazing at it as I moved forward. I stumbled over the next step and decided I should concentrate more on walking than looking.
I arrived at the building and rested my hand on the metal door frame. With this reassuring action, I closed my eyes and offered a prayer of thanks. I shed my pack and fumbled around in an upper pocket of my coveralls for the keys. I yanked them a little too eagerly and they fell into the snow by my feet. I dug around with a naked right hand until I found them. The icy snow burned at first then my hand felt numb as the wind moved across it.
I could barely see the keyhole by the time I unlocked the door. I opened it and stepped into the dark building, hoping to feel warmth in the small room. There was none. I turned on the light and blinked. The running equipment provided the only heat in the building. The thermometer mounted on the wall read 28° F. I felt disheartened.
I retrieved my pack and gloves from the snow outside, closed the door, and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
I was safe, for now…
I was still wet and very cold in a building that was below freezing. A shiver shook its way up from my thighs all the way to the top of my head. I removed my outer coat and began to unzip my insulated coveralls. At that point I realized just how wet I was. I traded my ski mask for a dry hat, and immediately felt a little better.
I checked the transmitter. It was dead, and there would be no reviving it tonight. I needed the parts that were on Mike’s snowmobile.
I turned on the radio. KSRA was airing a High School basketball game: Challis vs. Firth at Challis.
I lay down on the concrete floor and used my rolled up coat as a pillow. I drifted in and out of sleep. A radio announcement startled me from sleep.
“I just got a message from the studio,” the announcer said in a cheerful tone. In fact, I recognized the voice as that of Todd Nelson, KSRA General Manager.
“This message is for Tom Lowther,” he continued, “Tom is a good guy who’s helped us at the station in the past. Tom is currently stuck on Grouse Peak where he was attempting to reach the site to work on the transmitter. Tom, if you can hear me, help is coming. Search and Rescue is on the way. Hang in there.”
I couldn’t believe it. Mike had made it off the hill and had not only notified the Sheriff, but also KSRA. I felt my spirits lift a bit. I lay back on my “pillow,” imagining the contended look on my face. I glanced at my watch to see it was just past 8 PM.
I dozed on and off but the cold interfered with real sleep. At 9:30 PM, Todd interrupted the game to air the message once more.
After this, I finally went to sleep. I crashed hard and would have slept through the night, but pounding at the door awakened me. Startled and disoriented, I picked myself up from the floor. My cold, stiff limbs could barely move.
I opened the door, and saw two men standing outside with flashlights.
“I’m Sheriff Mickey Roskelley,” said the one who’d been pounding on the door. “And this is Dave Corbridge. We’re here to rescue you. Gather your things and come with us.”
He said this in a commanding tone. This was an order, but my mind—dulled from the physical effects of the previous twenty-four hours—could not wrap itself around the reality in front of me. It was like a vivid dream. I just didn’t believe it was real. Yet.
“I can’t,” I replied. “I’m exhausted and wet, plus my snowmobile is stuck in the bowl down below.”
“You’ll be coming with me if I have to pick you up and carry you out of here on my shoulders!” he said sternly.
I complied, gathering up my equipment and locking the door behind me.
The cold air hit me like a brick, snapping me out of my stupor. Mickey led the way while Dave followed me. At the bottom of the driveway, two snowmobiles awaited side by side. Dave jumped onto the far one and Mickey motioned for me to sit on the back of the near one as he prepared to start it. Dave led the way and stopped when he came to mine.
“It’s stuck hard, Sheriff,” I shouted above the engine noise, “I’ll have to come back for it later.”
“He’ll get it out,” Mickey replied confidently. “We’re not leaving it up here.”
To my amazement, Dave started it, rocked his weight back and forth, and rode it right out of the hole. He parked it on the trail and motioned for me to get on. I climbed off of the sheriff’s sled and reluctantly crossed the distance to mine.
A thousand anxious thoughts crowded my mind. In my tired state I utterly lacked focus. My arms hung lifelessly like short rubber elephant trunks and my legs felt like they were made of rock. I thought about telling the sheriff I was in no shape to ride, but then decided I’d have to at least try. I was certain he’d make me regardless of the argument I put forth.
The trip off the mountain consisted of following Mickey and hoping not to drive off the edge in the darkness. Once down, the men assisted me in loading the sleds on the trailer.
As I fueled my truck in town later that morning, several people stopped by to chat with me. They had heard the radio announcements. In fact, it would seem everyone in Challis had. One man told me that I was lucky to be alive. I readily agreed.
The adventure even ended up making the front page of The Challis Messenger, the town’s paper. And on occasion someone in that area will still remind me of “all the trouble” I’d faced on that mountain.
Living, working, and playing in the mountains of Idaho have a way of making one feel insignificant. Winter travel here can be especially unforgiving. It’s a really good thing that we don’t all have to learn the lesson the way I learned this one. Though everyone—snowmobiling partners included—may leave us, God never will. He will see you through the darkest night to the light of the dawning day.
Umlaut Identity
Having the Norwegian pronunciation of the name Karen, I have two dots over my “a.” This diacritical mark called an umlaut over a vowel modifies the sound by making the “a” sound like the “a” in arm. I find myself continually telling people, that I pronounce my name the Norwegian way and I have an umlaut over my “a.”
Some years ago, my husband gave me a vanity license plate with the word UMLAUT on it. It sparks much conversation, as to the meaning. There are a few people, especially those that have studied German, who know what it means. Others think it is an island in Alaska.
While filling my car with gas in Boise some 10–15 years ago, the fellow pumping next to me said he knew what an umlaut was, and told me that he actually spoke Norwegian, having served on his mission in Norway. Since I am a talker, and Boise is filled with warm and friendly people, I went on to tell him that I was putting together a book about my father, and I had an article written about my Norwegian grandfather from the February 3, 1937 edition of an Oslo newspaper. Since this was written in Norwegian, I asked him if I sent it to him would he translate it for me. He gladly obliged, and in no time at all, I learned that my grandfather was working in the early motion picture business in Hollywood, supplying sailing ships to Douglas Fairbanks for use in his Pirate movies. I also learned that my grandmother was a Hollywood correspondent for a Norwegian newspaper, and also had helped write the script for Charlie Chaplin’s first movie Gold Rush, released in 1925. She was given no credit for this, so she sued Chaplin for plagiarism. I have been unable to determine the outcome of the lawsuit.
So, the book I wanted to compile about my father became a little more necessary to write, when my uncle presented me with a box full of old letters from 1943 until 1945. These letters were written by my Dad to his Mother, while he was serving in New Guinea during WWII. The insight I received about times during WWII, and about my Dad and his wonderful sense of humor, I knew I had to include them in the book, making them the main focus of the book. With our World War II Veterans dying at the rate of 1,000 per day, it is so important that they leave a legacy. The book, Love, Your G.I. Son will be coming out October 2010.
Some of the inspiration for compiling these letters into a book came from the Warhawk Air Museum in Nampa, Idaho, and the wonderful work of John and Sue Paul. After visiting their Kilroy Coffee Klatch, and meeting with many WWII Veterans, I was inspired by their stories and humbleness. Through the Veterans History Project some 500 veterans have been video- taped discussing their war experience, which will be sent to the Library of Congress. It is so important that these stories be documented and these men at long last are able to share their stories.
So having an unusual vanity plate and a box full of old letters, spurred me on to put together a book about my father. It is a legacy that I can leave my three sons.
Song of Idaho
Words and Music
by
John Cline and Randall Coryell
Beautiful Idaho, wild and free,
We have mountainous wilderness, rivers, and streams.
Coeur d’ Alene, Lewiston, City of Trees,
Living with nature in close harmony.
Beautiful Idaho, wild and free.
Mountain tops, valleys deep, prairies and glens,
Summertime camping with families and friends.
Whitewater rafting and trails to admire,
Snowboarding, skiing, and warmth by a fire.
Hard working, God fearing people are we;
Sharing His bounty and our reverie.
Nurturing nature and thankful to be,
Living in Idaho free.
Farming and dairy land, grand wineries,
Pastel blue skies and a soft gentle breeze.
High Tech Industry plying the world,