Grand Coulee Dam (God Moments)



Every so often a storm boils up out over the Pacific and as it moves towards the mainland it gathers steam as the winds are funneled down the Strait of Juan De Fuca.  Eventually, with the power and din of a thousand freight trains, the pressure is unleashed upon the windward flank of Whidbey Island.  Waves thunder.  The rain slashes.  Trees of girth bow - some snap.  Any place else they’d call it a hurricane.  A spectacle both humbling and riveting.  Captivating.  Intimidating.  And invariably beautiful.  All part of the mystique of living in a small corner of creation that I would simply call “Hog Heaven”.  As if any of it were mine to lay label on.

Then, the predictable enters as if unannounced.  The lights dim and then flicker….before they die.  Which is it?  The absolute blackness or the cacophony of sound that touches the soul?  No matter.  At this point, a certain survival instinct has kicked in and something primal suggests that this is simply no night for man nor beast.  Regardless, as candles are being summoned, the moment demands that I pause and ponder.

Grand Coulee Dam’s first electrical generator hummed to life in the chill of January, 1941.  But it was the promise of unlimited water flowing to the rich soil in the arid Columbia River Basin that had emboldened our nation to undertake a project that many had viewed as outlandishly impossible some nine years earlier.  Yes, irrigation was the driving force.  Although employment for countless workers mired in the thralls of the Great Depression was most certainly an alluring prospect for many.  And flood control along the untamed waters of the Columbia was a benefit as well.  Electricity at that time was but a distant afterthought.

But then December 7, 1941, stormed into history and a “date that will live in infamy” established itself.  Suddenly, the cornerstones of our democracy such as freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and the right to bear arms could no longer be taken for granted.  Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness were in jeopardy.  The security of the Free State was imperiled.  Indeed, the American way of life was under attack.  And America went to war.

Overnight, the electricity of Grand Coulee was propelled from luxurious byproduct to wartime necessity.  Power lines carried vast amounts to aluminum plants in Spokane, shipyards in Portland, and a somewhat obscure aircraft company in Seattle by the name of Boeing.  But perhaps the biggest allotments were earmarked for a top secret facility in southeastern Washington where the government was racing to produce plutonium in a life-or-death bid to create the first atomic bomb.

Some would say that Grand Coulee Dam was the single critical factor in determining the outcome of World War II.  Few would argue that the generators didn’t play a pivotal role in the ultimate victory.  A victory that not only preserved a way of life but enhanced it for generations to come.

Funny how things turn out.  And I wonder if there isn’t a God Moment somewhere in that snippet of history playing out over a span of years?

Today, Grand Coulee’s 12 million cubic yards of concrete houses 33 generators with a total capacity of 6,809 megawatts.  That’s a lot of 60 watt bulbs.  But wait….beyond Grand Coulee there are now some 60 other dams within the Columbia River watershed.  Each packing the punch of a thousand freight trains.  Over 36,000 megawatts of generating capacity total.  And that energy is about as clean as energy can be in this fallen world.  And just as the rains fall, the electricity flows.

But to suggest that there hasn’t been a cost would be foolish.  Communities were displaced by the rising waters.  Natural habitat altered.  Environments lost.  At Grand Coulee alone, 82 workers lost there lives in accidents ranging from electrocution to drowning to ill-tempered explosions to heat exhaustion.  Fisheries have declined - some would contend destroyed.  And there is the insidious threat of nuclear contamination at the Hanford Nuclear Reservation.  Once state-of-the-art facilities now decay in the slowest of motions but at breakneck speed when compared to the half-life of their residue.  But perhaps most troubling of all, the Nuclear Genie itself has forever been released.

A legacy of consequence regardless of one’s point of view.  And I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t a God Moment or two yet to be played out within that ongoing saga?

Ponder I do.  For those periods of darkness have been few in my life span.  Save for those brief occasions when storms have toppled trees onto power lines, I’ve enjoyed the amazing benefits that Grand Coulee and her kind have provided - day in and day out, year after year.  Switches are switched without second thought. 

To an even greater extent, I fear that I take for granted the liberties that this great nation has afforded me.  I write this as I do within the full security of my First Amendment rights.  Indeed, I am allowed, dare I even say encouraged, to pursue happiness in the forms of writing, traveling, and the most childlike of all endeavors, treasure hunting.

And I’m reminded of the costs – past, present, and future.  The truck driver swept into the raging waters as the earth beneath his vehicle gave way.  The salmon that will never strike a young man’s lure.  The daily realization that madmen control nuclear arsenals.  Cultures diminished. The simple accounting in dollars and cents of containing the uncontainable.                

All of it gives pause.  All of it humbles the soul.  All of it shouts of His Greatness and testifies to His Glory.  For indeed, it was no accident that one of man’s greatest achievements came to fruition bearing unintentional benefits at perhaps the most critical juncture of our country’s history.  No, not an accident.  Simply a tiny God Moment played out within the eons.  Just one among so many past.  Just one among so many to come.  Each with the power and din of a thousand freight trains.

Hang on.  The lights just came back on here in Hog Heaven.


Isaiah 55:8-9 - “For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
                              neither are your ways my ways,”
                                   declares the Lord.

                        “As the heavens are higher than the earth,
                              so are my ways higher than your ways
                                    and my thoughts than your thoughts.”






The Paradise Paradox (Kid Stuff)



In retrospect, I always look forward to a trip to the mountain.  With some regret there is a realization that the drive has been made too few times over the years.




Life of the everyday has a habit of thwarting those moments that engender memories.  Those occasions that capture our senses in ways unimagined.  Chance meetings with the unknown, the exceptional, and the secret.  Instances that touch our subconscious and leave mere shadows of themselves.  Fleeting, yet permanent.  Without cost, all the while priceless.  Encounters that hold us as tightly as we do they.

The image of the fluorescent blue azure blaring through translucent half domes of ice is as real today as it was 50-plus years ago.  Each tip of ice where it ended and giving way to the next frozen arch glazed with a drop of water.  Each droplet waiting its turn with destiny before raining down.  Splunk…splunk…splunk – cold and heavy on the skin.  Together they burst from the mouth of the Paridise Glacier in a revelry that only freedom can induce.  Beautiful.  Amazing.  Other worldly.  Dare we say heavenly? 


National Park Service Photo circa 1958

My experience with that mystical place took place on a day hike with my Dad and Sister – maybe two or three years after that photo was taken.  I’d do the drive and hike again in a heartbeat in order to relive that moment.  But sometimes, “once in a lifetime” means exactly that.  Dad has gone to be with our Lord.  The glacier has receded and the ice caves are no longer - victims of a warming planet.  Only a fond memory remains.  Bittersweet.  

Mount Rainier.  Known to the Native Peoples as Tahoma – meaning “mother of waters” or perhaps better “that frozen water”.  Ice birthed from molten fire.  A giant spec that dominates the Puget Sound skyline yet follows suit with the lesser known peaks of the Cascades and Olympics.  At 14,411feet, Rainier is never far removed from eyesight.  And it calls.

Not long after Jamie and I were married, we became aware of something called the Wonderland Trail.  A 93 mile hike that encircles the mountain.  Not too daunting - until one considers the many ridges that the path traverses.  In all, those none too subtle dips and rises add up to a cumulative 22,000 feet of elevation gain.  But hey, the challenge is the better part of any good adventure.  So, undeterred, we gave ourselves hiking boots for Christmas one year, and the next we bought a tent.  We researched and plotted our advance.  In between, we made a few day trips to reconnoiter places where we would cache our food supplies.  And the mountain never disappointed.  The closer we got, the higher it loomed - as if daring us to actually touch its essence.  Names like Paradise, Sunrise, Devil’s Dream, Mystic Camp, Summerland, and Indian Henry’s Hunting Ground teased.  Well, I’m somewhat chagrined to report that our hike never got beyond those early planning stages.  Once again, that pesky activity called life got in the way and teaming with a narrow window of snow melt, the tandem derailed our ambition indefinitely.  Maybe, yet to be.  In all likelihood, given the consequences of age, not meant to be.

So, given my history with the mountain, there was an added thrill when it became apparent that The Chase would lead us along a number of trails on the face of Rainier.  To be sure, portions of the Wonderland would be traversed.  Indeed, I would go with Jamie along much the same path that I had trekked with my Dad those many years prior. 




I am nobody in the presence of such majestic grandeur.

And it is easy to imagine that the by-products of a search in a theatre of such glory might well be awe inspiring in their own right.  Well, one would think but not exactly.  For it is here on the flanks of Tahoma that a paradox is introduced and repeated time and time again.  Yin and Yang.  Black and white.  Good and evil.  Male and female.  Birth and death.

Here are some pictures of what we found having followed the bread crumbs, deduced “the blaze”, and “looked quickly down” in an effort to bring our “quest to cease”:


Clues leading nowhere?  Evidence hiding in plain sight?  The beginning of the end?  Yes and no.  

A paradox wrapped in a paradigm, versed in a parable, intersected by the parallel and presented in a venue of Paradise. 



The Women in My Life (God Moments)



I’ve been told that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.  Well, maybe.  For certain, the all of God’s creation is amazing and He has allowed me to taste my share.  And I know the peace and joy of His salvation.  But I must confess that idiom also rallies up some sort of perverse pride trait from deep within that demands a recount of those numerous heartaches and trials that drew out night after night.  A tally of the illnesses that drained and disappointments that overwhelmed.  An iteration of the countless failures in every aspect of life.  As if an enumeration of those all too common struggles and the attached survival of each would add a mite to that ledger of self-worth that lies just below the surface of my consciousness.  As said, perverse, and an exercise of questionable worth.  Better to add up the positive.  For to be sure I’ve more than survived.  I’ve thrived and flourished.  Not by my hand, but His.

Silver spoon?  Maybe.  Blessed?  Definitely.  And in no small part those blessings have been manifested in the form of family and more specifically, by the women in my life. 

I was thumbing through some old photo albums the other day and came across this picture:



A moment of time frozen in place.  The time – a season of life bookended by my entrance into marriage on one side and the death of my mother on the other.  The place – a wellspring giving rise to so many captivating memories dating back to early childhood.  A place of quiet on the shores of Hood Canal that we simply called Holly.  So much has changed since that day at the beach.  The memories blossom and fade.  But the people in our lives influence our very souls.

From left to right:

Kristin Ann – my second oldest niece.  Number two niece as it relates to age - tied for the number one ranking in terms of favorability.  Never misses a chance to sneak up behind me during our family water fights.  Always ready to laugh.  I watched from a distance as she battled afflictions in her youth and I’ve come away both humbled and inspired.  Now, a devoted and loving mother of two young boys.  Not to mention a professional photographer with a wonderful “eye” for capturing family maternity moments. 

Jamie Lynne - my wife.  A picture is worth a thousand words - especially mine.


Madelynn Esther - my great niece.  Now a young woman with a beautiful smile that seemingly never leaves her face.  Currently at college pursuing a major with a name impossible to pronounce, much less spell.  An avid outdoors person with a heart for others.  Occasionally I see mannerisms and facial expressions that remind me of my Mom.  A joy to watch her grow over the years.

Carol Lee - my sister.  Older than me by six years and my only sibling.  The mother of Amy Lynn and Kristin Ann…..and a son who shall remain nameless.  Where to start?  An accomplished pianist and I mean really, really good.  A recurring source of envy on my part as the sum of my musical talent can be best characterized by one word – embarrassing.  I digress.  Being the older, the instigator of many memorable childhood escapades.  Such as the evening we walked into the hornets nest while exploring the vacant lot across the way.  Or the day we traversed half way across Bremerton on the single minded mission of selling Girl Scout cookies – without Mom’s knowledge or approval.  And it is only recently that I’ve come to realize that the differences in our ages pretty much allowed me to skate by unscathed the parental repercussions of those adventures.  But most of all I see the Spiritual in my sister.  The gifts of helps, hospitality, mercy, faith, and giving.  Teaching, discernment, knowledge, and wisdom.  Always an encourager and wise counselor.  The tapestry of my life would look much less attractive absent her steadying influence.  And I’m sure my nephew Matthew David would say likewise.

Esther Evelyn - my Mother.  I think these Bible verses best convey Mom’s essence towards raising Carol Lee and me.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8


Amy Lynn - my oldest niece.  The mother of Madelynn Esther and two younger sons.  Loving parent, teacher, entrepreneur, and pianist.  There was another season of life - during her high school years and after a family dinner, I would habitually lie napping under the baby-grand piano while she played my favorite pieces.  I think we share the same genetic code that creates in us the appreciation of music.  But what is really cool to me is that with the passing seasons our relationship has evolved from one of uncle-to-niece to one of friend-to-friend.  In many ways, she has filled the void in my heart that was created when Mom died.  She is now my biggest fan.  Even when Crazy Old Uncle Doug is at his craziest.

As always, more could be said.  But sometimes words fail.  Individually, each a blessing.  Dare I say treasure?  Collectively, together………

And oh, in case you were curious, that genetic disposition towards blue and white is alive and well. 

And I wonder…..does a combination of blue and white pigments produce silver? 

Reflections (Psalms and Prayers)



Oh, my Lord Father, what do you see?
          When you look in my eyes
                   This child yearns for Thee

A man in Your image
                   Saved by Your grace
                             Fed through Your mercy
                                      Loving embrace
                  
                   And I sing with the angels
                             Blessings be Thine!
                                      Glory eternal
                                                Father Divine
                                               
Oh, my Lord Jesus, help me to be
          Reflections of your love
                   Abundant and free

A light in the darkness
                   Warmth in the cold
                             Walk with me always
                                      Daily uphold
                  
                   And I sing with the angels
                             Blessings be Thine!
                                      Glory eternal
                                                Savior, my vine
                                               
Oh, Holy Spirit, live within me
          The Source of my comfort
                   Grow fruit of Your tree

Gifts of the Trinity
                   Joy in all things
                             Peace in the present
                                      Thanksgiving springs
                  
                   And I sing with the angels
                             Blessings be Thine!
                                      Glory eternal
                                                Spirit, sublime

And I sing with the angels
                             Blessings be Thine!
                                     
And I sing with the angels
                             Blessings be Thine!

Mirrors (Kid Stuff)



It was always a big deal when a routine shopping trip included a stop at Bremers – the lone department store in downtown Bremerton during the ‘50s.  Another season approached and something of significance was looming.  Maybe Christmas - there’s a very vague recollection of sitting on Santa’s lap.  Or back to school always demanded some new piece of apparel for my older sister, Carol.    

Just off to the side of the “women’s section” there was a short, dead-end hallway with four, I doubt six, individual fitting rooms.  Two rooms per side.  And on the wall at the end of the little hall was mounted a floor to ceiling mirror.  Now also, between the two doors, on either side-wall of the hallway, there were full length mirrors as well.

Well, Mom was helping Carol try on a new skirt or something in one of the dressing rooms and left me in the hallway to wait.  That was OK back then – it was safe.  And without warning the space in between those doors went magic.  Suddenly, there were tens, maybe hundreds of “me” lined up in a row.  Each receding image slightly smaller and off just a smidge to the right of the previous “me”.  That was really fascinating.  Why regressively smaller?  And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself line up straight.  Why the subtle arc? 

It would be any number of years before there was an understanding that the walls were ever so slightly off parallel and the distance increased with every passing bounce off the wall. 

About the time that I finally came to terms with those conundrums, another season of life had come to be.  I was up early on the premise of fishing.  The sky was just barely turning gray and only the brightest of stars remained visible while the lesser lights slowly withdrew.  The tide was high and the waters of Hood Canal were perfectly still - the thermals had yet to stir.  The resident harbor seal, influenced by the launching of the tiny dingy from the pebble beach, slipped silently into the depths.  No doubt, his “skill” would be rewarded with breakfast while my “luck” would payoff in less tangible ways.  Soon, the oarlocks squeaked a rhythmic cadence against the silence.  And again my simply being there touched the position of a blue heron resting in stately repose.  An isolated squawk greeted me before echoing off into the distance.  And then the wooosh,,,wooosh,,,wooosh of massive wings pressing against the earth’s pull.  Even now, if I can’t sleep at night, that peaceful morning will replay in my mind and before long I nod off.

Well, the morning rays were now dancing off the mountain tops on the opposite shore.  And a ways down the canal, one small, secluded cove was particularly inviting with alders draped over the water as if admiring themselves in a mirror.  And they called.  Shimmying out the trunk just a few feet I soon found myself lying on my stomach, almost parallel to the water, and little more than arms-length above the surface.  And looking down, there I was, looking back up.  But my presence had disturbed the solitude – a piece of bark or debris fell from the tree.  The ever expanding ripples distorted my features as they moved across my likeness.  The apex of the first tiny wave stretched my nose while the trough of the next shrunk my chin.  And in the quiet of the morning, I was struck with another quandary.  What is the real image of me?

Quite some time later, I was married and yet another season began.  A stepson, Ryan, came into my life.  And it came to pass that Ryan and I attended a Father/Son Weekend that our church was sponsoring.  I recall there being a period of free time on Saturday afternoon, so my friend Ted and his son, Ryan and I, decided to take a short hike.  While the boys raced ahead with enviable exuberance, Ted and I strolled after a ways back.

And Ted asked me, “What’s it like being a stepdad?”

“It’s good.  But I’m still feeling my way.  Probably, not much different than any other Dad.  But sometimes he seems like a stranger.  It can be really hard to identify with him - understand him.”

Ted paused for a moment, then offered, “I see a lot of myself in Jason…..problem is……he’s a good kid……but I see my own failings and short comings in him too.”

I had never thought of fatherhood in that light.  It’s stuck with me.

Bremer’s was long ago demolished.  That wonderful alder tree has lost its battle with gravity and very little of it remains in its watery grave.  My friend Ted has moved and we’ve lost touch.  Ryan now lives on the other side of the country.  The seasons are forever moving forward.

But three lingering reflections remain. 


Holes (Kid Stuff)




Holes are a deep subject - akin to a well.  Now there are doughnut holes, fishing holes, button holes, blow holes, key holes, post holes, air holes, sink holes, pin holes, mole holes, pot holes, and fox holes.  Peep holes, man holes, chuck holes, cubby holes, and pigeon holes.  There are holes-in-one, holes in the roof, and Jamie Lynne is forever shooting holes in my theories.  Simply put, there are a whole lot of holes. 

But for the moment, let us ponder just three: black, white, and worm.  Now beware.  We’re about to blunder into the subject of spacetime – a mathematical model in physics which combines time and space into a single interwoven continuum.  Pretty deep stuff and I’ll be the first to admit that I really have no idea what the vast majority is all about.  Especially the math part.  But maybe you’re somewhat like me and have yet to reach that age when a boy becomes a man.  And if so, perhaps you’ll venture with me into a nebulous reality where a wiser man would never tread.  To look in ways that an eye of greater experience, tempered by the hard knocks of reality, would never allow the mind to scurry, much less dawdle.   And for a brief while, view the world not through the practical lens of the scientist but with the quizzical eye of a treasure hunter.

First, let’s look at black holes.  These are areas of spacetime where the gravitational effects are so strong that anything entering is infinitely trapped.  Even light is squeezed increasingly tight by the darkness.  Next come white holes.  As the name would suggest, these regions of spacetime are the reverse of black holes.  Purely hypothetical, the province of these areas is like that of a fountain - matter and light continually flowing forth.  But nothing enters.  And lastly, let’s throw worm holes into the mix.  No, not those in apples.  Here we have a feature that links two separate points in spacetime.  A “passageway” capable of connecting immense distances as well as short.  Not to mention universes other than our own and points in time either past or future.

Wow.  OK then. There we have a bit of other-worldly scientific theory if not the foundations for some good science fiction.  But the intent here is not to debate the merits and/or deficiencies.  The question is:  what, if any, applies?  And, if so, how?  And of course, there are no firm or concrete answers to those questions.  But for fun, let’s theorize.  Take a look at a few pictures:






So, how do those seemingly random pictures relate to our quest for treasure?  Within the scope of reality, not much.  But taken metaphorically and with some degree of imagination these very tangible landmarks suddenly become gateways into other dimensions of our search.

It is here that it becomes helpful to let the mind’s eye wander and think once again as a ten year old.  Feel free to poke a few holes in these thoughts.

Let’s imagine that various clues, sprinkled like the proverbial bread crumbs, have led us to a specific location (point “A”).  The pathway is constant and sure.  But upon our arrival at point “A”, the trail goes cold.  Ice cold.  Except for a feature that could be construed as a black hole - physical in nature, symbolic in meaning.  Oh, Oh!  We’re too close.  We’re being pulled in.  As hard as we try to claw our way out, we continue to slide down and into the vertex.  Faster and faster.  Tighter and tighter, the pressure builds.  Then in the blink of an eye, we hit the worm hole.  We’re flipped and spun.  And we explode through the apex on the opposite side and out past the base.  Catching our breath, we notice that this spot has points of reference that are parallel in nature to those at point “A”.  And it is at this subsequent locale where the clues once again spew forth allowing the search to continue.    

One final musing.  The previous reverie dealt with the abstraction of space, but our holes are fused to the concept of time as well.  What about the past?  And the future is even more problematic.  Here too, the mind of a child helps rather than hinders.  Because there are no rules that demand we stay in the here and now.  Perchance, our veritable worm hole will deposit us not in the physical world at all.  But rather something more abstract - a chapter in a famous novel, a scene from a blockbuster movie, a great piece of artwork, or even a cartoon.  Perhaps a classic sci-fi thriller will transport us back to the future.

Well, all that wasn’t too hard.  The tricky part is making it all come together in reality.

What say you?  An ace in the hole?  Or bottomless well?

Madison River Valley (Kid Stuff)



And take it in the canyon down

The waters of the Firehole River join those of the Madison near Madison Junction within Yellowstone National Park.  Only occasionally is the pace swift.  More often than not the waters meander and linger within the pools of cobalt.  Fishermen lay the fly on the gentle swirls and wildlife finds a sanctuary.


The pace is leisurely through the meadows and stands of pine.    And the mind slows as well – drawn and reluctant to move forward.  Content to ponder simpler times and events of bygone eras.    

Nevertheless, forth we must go.  The canyon insists.  So, we leave the park along with the gentle riffles.  Onward to where lines of cottonwood assemble along the banks – sentries guarding over the procession below.




Slow and steady is the way.  But soon the terrain becomes less gentle and the river becomes enclosed by steep hills that rise majestically above either side.  It is here that the course is impeded.  First by man at Hebgen Dam.  And then again not much further down at Quake Lake which was formed in 1959 when an earthquake triggered a landslide of massive proportions.  Steep escarpments were jolted from their grip on the southern wall.  Mere seconds, and the natural flow was blocked.  Immovable standing in defiance of the inexorable - although a short time later the earthen hodgepodge was reinforced by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to prevent a breech.  The lake quickly filled and remains to this day.  As does the scar on the southerly slope.   While on the northern face we find huge boulders, some the size of large houses, which had resided peacefully at the top of the southern mountain, slid down the void, and then back up the opposite side.  Here they remain, a good distance above the lake surface.  All three give testament to the magnitude of the event. 

Here the waters rest.  Along with 28 souls that died that fateful night.


But the canyon calls.  The waters will not be denied - they find escape.  Up and over.  And then for some three miles the waters rush.  Free and white.  As if impatient to make up for lost time.   

  

And it is along this stretch of whitewater that a number of our “clues” suddenly converge - “Water high”, “below the home of Brown”, “warm waters halt”, “no place for the meek”, and “heavy loads”.  And yes, “the blaze” is in full view as well.

The search intensifies while on foot.  And more “clues” fall into place as the din of the rushing water forces one to “listen well” and the accompanying mist in the cool mountain breeze prompts the hope that our “effort will be worth the cold”.  Nonetheless, the debris field is vast and rubble strewn.  Each step demands our undivided attention.  The proverbial needle in a haystack comes to mind.  The uneventful breed’s monotony.  Together they conspire to muddle the mind.


Wait.  What was that?  Something from the corner of the eye and a few steps back calls after to look again.  With a moment’s afterthought, an object unknown seems distinctly out of place.  And so it is.







To this day the true meaning of that solitary memorial is unclear.  In all likelihood, a family’s final homage to a beloved husband or brother.  The last home for one who found his greatest joy when a prized Brown broke the surface and the Elk Hair Caddis was set.  But the trinkets left in tribute remain somewhat curious and together they would seem to point to another canyon, in a different location of grandeur.  Nothing certain.  All circumstantial.  Yet, as a whole they suggest a destination both compelling and irresistible.   

So it is here that we part ways with these beautiful waters.  The canyons of the Madison will soon merge into those of the great Missouri and move east.  While our journey, our adventure takes us west towards the Pacific.

To a place “not far, but too far to walk”.