by Bobbi Phelps
We turned west from our home before heading north on 4900. The clean air and dazzling sunlight made for a spectacular late-summer day. The four-mile drive was uneventful until we came over a small rise at the end of the road. As we started down the hill, Mike tapped the brakes. We were approaching Highway 30 and needed to halt at the cross road. Nothing happened as he attempted to stop the heavily loaded truck. He leaned back and slammed on the brakes. Nothing.
We continued toward the stop sign, at a speed way too fast to handle the corner. Mike shifted down and applied the hand brake. The truck slowed but there was no way it could stop in time. Mike turned the steering wheel hard to the left while shifting again. We flew around the corner, tires squealing on the pavement.
“What happened?” I shouted over the roar of gravel slicing into the truck’s underside as we decelerated and maneuvered away from the roadside borrow pit.
“The brakes failed,” Mike said as he brought out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his brow. “I still need to get rid of these beans. I’ll drive super slow to Kimberly so I can unload them.”
He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. We both opened our windows, and Mike blew smoke from the cab. I let out a sigh of relief and Mike repeatedly pumped the brakes as we continued on our way. They seemed to be responding, but just a little.
“How’s the baby?” he asked, glancing at our infant lying in my lap.
“Sleeping. He has no idea what we just went through. Will Terry be able to fix the truck?”
“Yup. No problem there,” Mike answered. “He’s one good mechanic.”
A stand of silos on the outskirts of Kimberly bordered Highway 30. We passed an idle line of freight cars on the railroad tracks and edged into a space near the silos. Our truck crawled to its proper location; and Mike opened the back of the truck, allowing the pinto beans to spill out, sliding down a conveyer belt into a rectangle container. I held Matt in my arms and whispered soothing sounds as the beans filled the metal box. He looked up at me and yawned, sleepy from the half-hour drive. He pressed his soft lips into my shoulder and began to coo. I cradled his head next to my body and rocked him back to sleep.
Mike walked around the truck and inspected the wheels to see if there was anything he could do. He shook his head. This would definitely be a job for Terry. He wiped his hands with his ever-present, multi-tasking bandana and climbed into the cab. Within minutes we were on our way, slowly driving back to Sky Ranch.
Chapter Fourteen
Coyotes
During the evening at the ranch, we often heard howls coming from far away. I had no idea what the noise could be. Mike said, “Coyotes.”
I noticed how differently he pronounced the word. Coming from the East, I pronounced it “Ki’ yote tee,” giving the word three syllables. In the West, they pronounce the word “Ki’ yote” with only two syllables.
A coyote is a dog-like animal, smaller than a wolf but larger than a fox, and they roamed throughout Idaho. They are great rodent hunters but will attack anything easy enough to kill and eat: rabbits, opossums, racoons, porcupines, dogs, and cats. Their soft, thick, long-haired fur, often a mixed color of greys and tans, brought a good price to hunters as their winter fur is considered exceptionally luxurious in the fashion industry. Mike had killed six coyotes the year before; the money he received from the pelts paid for our California vacation. As there were no limits on pelts, Mike and his friends hunted as often as possible. I heard one of the hunters brought a recording of a rabbit being skinned alive. The screaming of the rabbit enticed a coyote to approach the sound. I hated that version of the hunt. I soon began to dislike all aspects of coyote hunting as I found the animals to be exceptionally beneficial to our ecosystem.
On one moonless night after Mike and Matt had already gone to bed, I heard a chorus of coyotes yowling in the distance, out in the field beyond our lawn. They had a yippee noise that went to a howl. Their voices mingled, rising into a crying crescendo, creating an auditory illusion of a large pack. In reality, there were probably only two or three animals. Their sounds filtered into the living room as I opened the French doors. Our new black Labrador surged outside, responding to the sound in the darkness. Sam had died two years before, and Jack had become his replacement. A ridge of hair stood up on his wide back. He looked over his shoulder to see if I were following and raced to investigate the sounds.
He came back after scaring the coyotes away, his hackles bristling. Then they started howling again. Jack stood motionless, one foreleg slightly raised, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the dark distance. He shot back, running full out with his head extended and his body bunching and flattening. He proceeded further into the field, his black body blending into the night darkness. Each time he returned, the howling stopped. He wagged his tail as if to say, “Look, Mom, they’re gone.”
Then the noise started again, and Jack turned to run back into the dark field, a low growl emerging from his throat, his ears crushed against his head. My eyes adjusted to the night as he flew from the back steps. This time when he returned, his red rag of a tongue protruded and droplets of saliva scattered about his jowls. Again, the howling started. I called to Jack and brought him into the house. I had surmised the coyotes’ philosophy. They were wearing him down and would attack at his most vulnerable point, when he was absolutely exhausted and extremely weak. They were truly resourceful and had learned to exist in all sorts of environments, adapting their lives from woods to deserts and from farms to cities.
When Jack trotted into the kitchen, he headed for his water bowl. From there, he slowly walked toward the living room and flopped on his side next to the couch. For the rest of the night, he never moved again until the following morning. The coyotes had almost beaten him, but now he was inside and totally safe.
Chapter Fifteen
Spring Floods
A few months later, scattered clouds surrounded the nearby foothills. KMVT weather forecasters projected heavy, spring rains. Within an hour of their prediction, the skies opened up. A strong rainstorm fell to the foot-deep snow still lingering on the ground from earlier winter storms. Lightning flashed across the landscape, illuminating the fields behind our house. Loud thunder burst from the angry clouds and streaks flared again and again, painting the sky a deep purple. A massive deluge poured down, inundating Sky Ranch.
Mike and I sat watching television in the living room while our toddler played with green and red toy trucks on his quilted blanket. Huge raindrops splattered against our windows as the wind intensified. A strong, steady rattling beat. A moment passed. Then we heard a familiar, crackling sizzle, and the house was plunged into darkness.
“Damn. We’ve lost power. Again,” Mike exclaimed.
As this was a regular occurrence during powerful storms at the ranch, we had lanterns and candles spread throughout the house. Holding a flashlight, I headed to the kitchen and reached for a glass lamp in the pantry. I placed the flashlight on a counter and struck a match, igniting the kerosene-soaked wick. Matt crawled after me as I meandered through the living and dining rooms, lighting several lanterns and candles.
Once we had enough light to read by, I chose a colorful children’s book and scooped Matt from the floor and placed him on my lap. Using the glow from a lantern with its wick turned high, I began to read a story. Mike sat in a wingback chair and reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a pack of Marlboros. Shaking a cigarette out, he placed it in his mouth and bent toward a candle. Once lit, he took a long drag and leaned back. Smoke rose above his head and the tip glowed a bright red as he glanced at the Times News.
Beams from candles flickered across the walls, casting eerie shadows as the storm raged outside. Gusts of wind hit our windows like waves in a storm surf. Then all was quiet as we waited for another round of thunder. Outdoors the wind blew from the west, and giant rain drops pelted our windows. Jack huddled close to my feet, shivering with fear; he hated thunderstorms. And yet when we duck hunted, gunshot sounds
meant nothing to him.
“Did you know the Oakley dam is threatened?” Mike asked as he read the newspaper.
“No. What’s going on?”
“With all this rain and with the snow melting so quickly, the reservoir’s to capacity,” he answered.
“What will happen?”
“They’ve added extra wood to the top of the dam.”
“Will that hold back the water?” I asked.
“No. There’s way too much water to stop the overflow. As soon as the skies clear, a bunch of farmers are going to dig a flood trench, moving the water away from Goose Creek. You know, the river that flows through Burley.”
“I did hear about a possible flood. But I don’t know any details. Are you going to help?”
“Of course,” Mike said. “We should get it finished in a few days.”
The following morning a bright sun finally shone down, and Mike left to help with the digging project. I climbed into my car and drove to a viewing site by the dam. Balancing Matt on my left hip, I exited the car and surveyed the scene from the top of a bluff that overlooked the giant gully below. I had brought an old bedspread and a picnic basket filled with tuna fish sandwiches, potato chips, cookies, and a thermos of milk. Mike jumped down from a road grader and climbed to the top of the ridge to join us for lunch. We sat in a half circle and watched dozens of farmers and their employees moving dirt. They had tractors, dump trucks, plows, backhoes, trucks, road graders, front-end loaders, mechanical shovels, and the ranch’s Caterpillar bulldozer. Even a gasoline tanker roamed the bottom land, filling machines and saving time so everyone could continue working. From our high vantage point, it looked like children’s Matchbox toys, vehicles in vivid colors, moving every which way. The machines shoveled dirt to each side and dug a large passage away from the original Goose Creek channel. A smaller ditch spread out toward Sky Ranch on a path to Murtaugh Lake. Many of the machines had bright headlights, allowing everyone to work in shifts through the night. The massive mission in 1984 was finished in a matter of days, just as Mike had predicted. I was impressed by the men, working side by side without pay to help with Burley’s crisis, no matter their farming status, religion, or ethnic background.
Two days after that immense undertaking, I attended a philanthropic educational organization (P.E.O.) in Twin Falls. I bundled Matt in his car seat and met Georgina, my sister-in-law, at the women’s gathering. She informed me that 4900 had been washed out because of the immense water overflowing from the Oakley Dam. On my way home that night, I decided to cut south near the Murtaugh Café on Highway 30 and avoid 4900. Once I circled the west end of the town’s lake, I came around a curve and approached a breach in the road. A fast-moving river, several feet deep, rushed across it. The initial creek had swollen above its capacity and had eroded the road I had chosen. In the pitch-black night I stopped and stared. My headlights illuminated flashing white caps. A swift current tore from the right edge of the road and boiled over several protruding rocks. I debated the situation as the water plummeted down into a quagmire, a channel swirling and churning toward Murtaugh Lake.
Thinking my Subaru was invincible, I decided to cross. Inching the car forward, I steered to the center of the road. The rushing water rammed into the side of my car, sounding like a blast from an oncoming locomotive. I tightened my hands on the steering wheel as the water surged over the road and slammed my car sideways, toward a deep ditch on the lakeside. My heart thundered in my chest as waves overlapped the rocker panels and began to seep into the car. If the current had overtaken me, my Subaru would have plunged into the ditch and overturned. I would have been upside down with water flowing through the car. Terrified and shivering from fear, I continued. I clung to the steering wheel, my body hunched forward, and kept the Subaru moving through the wide rush of water.
Finally, I made it to firm asphalt. It was as if an angel had wrapped its wings around my car and protected us from the flood. I leaned my head back against the headrest and took a deep breath. I waited and tried to calm myself. I had been so accustomed to city life and modern infrastructure, I had never experienced washouts and didn’t realize how dangerous they could be. And being single for so many years, I had completely forgotten the small bundle tucked in his child seat, sleeping in the back. Shivering from fear and stupidity, I headed to the Foothills Road and continued home.
* * *
The Angler’s Company had expanded, and I had way too much work to accomplish. Plus, the Federation of Fly Fishers (FFF),1 had asked me to produce a book to use as a fundraiser. As I knew the printing industry, I took on the challenge and contacted thirty fly casters, tyers, authors, and artists who all agreed to donate their expertise. I even had President Jimmy Carter write the dedication. At the end of the book, a dozen fly-fishing manufacturers consented to full-page advertisements. These sponsors paid for the production, and the FFF made a one-hundred-percent profit on each sale. It was a time-consuming but rewarding challenge, and as a result, the organization presented me with the prestigious Arnold Gingrich Memorial Life Award, recognizing me for outstanding writing achievement about the sport of fly fishing.
1 Renamed Fly Fishers International in 2017.
Chapter Sixteen
Mormons
“Are you feeling sick?” I asked Kay, my neighbor and constant babysitter.
She sat in a wide comfy chair with two children nestled on each side of her, watching cartoons on television. As soon as I let go of Matt’s chubby hand, he tottered to her chair and scrambled onto her lap. I stood beside them as they stared at the television. When I looked down at Kay’s shoulder, I noticed she wore something under her sheer pink nightgown.
“No. Why’d you ask?”
“Well, you’re wearing a T-shirt under your nightie,” I said. “I thought you had a cold.”
“That’s my garment,” she said looking at her shoulder. “If you’re LDS, you wear the garment next to your body. It’s part of our religion.”
I didn’t want to pry, so I said nothing more. But as soon as I returned to my office, I asked one of my employees about Mormon garments.
“It’s what they wear once they’ve gone through a temple ritual. They wear them day and night unless they’re bathing or swimming.”
“What do they look like?” I asked.
“It’s two white pieces: a top with capped sleeves and underpants that taper to their knees. Women wear the tops next to their skin, under their bras,” she added.
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve heard it makes them feel safe. They’re pretty secretive, so I really don’t know.”
For another hour we talked about Mormons, a shortened word to designate the people who belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (or LDS). Their churches are called “wards,” and except for family gatherings, most of their socializing is done at the wards.
Thirty miles east of Sky Ranch, a “beehive” farm existed. Whenever I’d drive to Burley, I’d pass a large white sign depicting a brown beehive with honey bees flying around it. The farmland surrounding the sign was owned by the Mormon Church and most all its workers were church volunteers. The food raised would be given to needy church members and to disaster victims around the United States. They believed in taking care of their own and helping others whenever possible.
I also discovered that Mormons kept a year’s supply of food and water in their homes. Because most of my neighbors belonged to the LDS Church, I began to follow their principles. I might not have had a year’s supply, but I certainly had enough food and water for a few months. Another interesting LDS assignment was Family Home Evening. It was a special time for games and spiritual guidance. Matt loved to go to the Nebeker’s on Monday night and play games with their many children. I sometimes joined the family in their fun-filled evening activities. As Monday approached, the designated child would plan the night’s entertainment. Sometimes it was a play, sometimes a mini cross-country event, sometimes hide-and-seek.
Living in a Mormon community, I learned about their tithing, missionary work, and baptism ceremonies. For tithing, they gave ten percent of the income to the Church—and that was before taxes. Missionary work was achieved by Mormons moving to different states and countries and proselytizing to the locals. The men went for two years and the women for eighteen months. Surprisingly, their time on a mission was paid by their family and friends. This meant the missionaries were responsible for the expense of their transportation, lodging, and food. If they needed to learn a language, they moved to Provo, Utah, for nine weeks. Their language school is considered one of the best in the world and is a prototype for our own government’s international employees. Whenever I saw a young man wearing a white shirt with a name plate over the left pocket, a dark tie, black slacks, and sometimes a dark suit jacket, I’d recognize him as a Mormon missionary.
An acquaintance of mine drove once a month to the temple in Salt Lake City. As a member of the LDS church, she would act as a stand-in during full-immersion baptisms, most of the time for individuals who had died many years before. The Mormons believed that to go to heaven, one had to be baptized. Consequently, she might be baptized a dozen or more times to help those who had not been baptized during their own lifetime.
Because Mormons do not drink alcohol or any caffeinated beverages, nor do they smoke, I found them to be a handsome group of people. Their skin does not wrinkle as much as others, and they basically seemed much healthier. They valued their families and worked hard both in their employment and in their home life. Although I did not share their religious beliefs, I was glad to have several Mormons as my good friends.
