by Bobbi Phelps
Once they had gathered their fishing gear, Mike leaned over Matt and told him to use an Adams fly to attach to his leader. They pulled on waders, tightened their belts, and strapped on khaki vests. Plastic fly boxes bulged from several pockets and imitation flies dotted their sheepskin patches. Once they attached reels to their fly rods and threaded a floating line through the guides, they headed out. I stayed behind to set up camp. After years of fishing and photographing, establishing camp brought me the most joy. We had a green, two-man mountain tent that I staked to the ground. I added a fly sheet above the tent that kept rain from entering the air holes above the entrance. I placed padded ground mats and three sleeping bags inside. It was a tight squeeze but we managed.
Although I had never camped in anything but a rustic cabin when I lived on the East Coast, I learned to enjoy the outdoor life when I moved west. In spite of owning the Angler’s business, I didn’t crave fishing. When the fishing was hot, I had no qualms about putting down my rod and picking up my Nikon camera. Consequently, I was fortunate to have several of my photographs illustrate fishing magazines, major sport catalogs, and, of course, my calendars.
As the sun sank beneath the surrounding cliffs, Mike and Matt returned to the campsite. The smell of burning wood greeted the two anglers as they walked from the river. Three bulky logs circled the fire, blazing in the pit, and a pile of sticks rested nearby. Dinner was almost ready.
“I have bad news,” I announced as they were putting away their tackle.
“Now what?” asked Mike as he turned to face me.
“Remember when we left home, our hamburgers were frozen?” I said.
“Yeah. So?”
“Well, I put them in the microwave to thaw,” I answered. “They’re still there.”
“What? They’re in the microwave?” Mike asked.
“Yup. But I have plenty of buns, ketchup, onions, and tomatoes,” I said. “We’ll make do for tonight. But I’ll expect fish for tomorrow’s dinner.”
“You got it!” they said in unison as they sat on the surrounding logs and began to eat their meatless hamburgers. Thank goodness they were starving!
I joined them fishing the next day with my two-piece Cortland rod. While Mike rowed, I cast to the side, throwing slack in the line so the fly would drift naturally. Yes! A trout took the fly. It was a beautiful rainbow that gave a decent fight with two aerial displays. Once I had him close to the boat, Mike bent over the gunnel and easily removed the hook from its protruding lip. He supported the fish in the water and moved it back and forth, allowing water to pass through its red gills. Once the trout began to squirm, Mike let him go. We believed in “catch and release” unless we were going to have fish for dinner. We already had three in the boat and didn’t need any more.
After an hour or so, I took the oars and rowed while Mike and Matt cast from each end of the boat. Rowing was one of my favorite activities while we camped. I could easily maneuver our boat down the South Fork unless we came to heavy white water. Then it was time for Mike to take the oars.
Before long, our mini vacation was over. I maneuvered the drift boat to the take-out spot, and the guys jumped to shore. Mike claimed his motorbike and rode it northeast to his parked pickup, fifteen miles away. Matt and I disassembled all our equipment and placed everything on the side of the public parking area. When Mike re-appeared, he backed his pickup and trailer down the ramp and attached the boat. Once the connections were completed and our belongings placed into his truck, we began the long drive back to Sky Ranch.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Harvest Time
As the harvest was in full bloom when we returned from Swan Valley, Mike rose exceptionally early the next day. While he showered, I put on a bathrobe and stumbled into the kitchen to make his breakfast. Once he sat at the round table in the dining nook, I handed him a cup of coffee and left to dress myself.
But harvest was only a process, not a conclusion as I had originally thought. It was not only a period to gather the crops, but also a time to prepare the ground for next year’s produce. Trucks rambled from potato fields to the ranch scale, professional hay mowers cut alfalfa, and combines swathed the grain. Men and vehicles moved throughout the ranch in a fluid dance between man and machine, bringing empty trucks to the fields and returning with their beds crammed with crops. Everyone was busy, busy, busy.
It seemed like we were in the middle of a stirred-up ant hill. Even after dusk, Sky Ranch employees continued to harvest. I stood at our dining room window and watched the lights of gargantuan combines reaping a nearby grain field. The machines belched out thunderheads of brush while I continued to stare. Mike would soon be home, tired and craving dinner.
As the next morning warmed, I joined a half-dozen Mexican workers in front of the potato cellars. They were hired as clod pickers. Trucks pulled up and slowly tipped their beds backward, unloading the potatoes onto a rubberized, conveyer belt. Workers stood on a platform alongside the belt and pulled culls as the crop passed in front of them. These were potatoes too small to sell for human consumption. They would be saved and used for cattle feed. The workers also pulled vines, sticks, clods of dirt, or anything else that was not a good-sized Russet potato.
I stood beside a small woman, her head wrapped in a brightly colored scarf, as potatoes passed in front of us. Any non-potato items she missed, the next worker on the platform would catch and toss to the ground. As potatoes moved closer to the storage shed, the conveyer belt held only the desired tubers and the ground was littered with remains. The stored potatoes were destined for McDonald’s, other franchises, and most Magic Valley grocery stores.
While I stood on the platform, I ignored the tiny clods and collected the largest spuds, the ones the size of small footballs. These I would send to friends and relatives back East, always adding a note stating that they were Idaho’s “average” potatoes. Standing on the platform as potatoes moved past me on the conveyer belt, I felt like Lucille Ball at the candy factory. I couldn’t seem to keep up as they moved so quickly in front of me. One time the machine stopped and I practically fell over. My body had been swaying right along with the moving potatoes. The workers laughed at my inexperience, and I laughed right along with them.
Harvest time was always hectic. During one extremely busy period, our neighbor, Dean Moss, suffered a major health issue and could no longer work. I was surprised by the local reaction. Even though it was in the middle of harvest, all the nearby farmers put in extra work, men, and machinery to assist the Moss family. In record time, their crops were gathered. Although sadness consumed the area, the family didn’t lose their income. While the relatives suffered, neighbors brought food and comfort to the home. I went over with a plate of brownies and visited with Marsha, revisiting funny stories we shared throughout our years together. Matt played in the living room with her children while Mike helped with their harvest. Dust consumed the land as neighbors worked from row to row and from field to field. Clouds collected into a squall, but no rain appeared. Before long darkness had snagged them. I saw lights from the combines slicing through the fields as they continued to harvest. A red moon crept over the horizon. The men turned off their machines and left the fields. Work would continue at the Moss ranch the following day.
Living in rural America, I discovered that it was almost an unwritten rule: when someone was hurt, everyone pitched in to assist. We were glad to help. And we knew if we had experienced a tragedy, our neighbors would have been there for us, too. It’s just the way it was.
* * *
October slipped into November and the smell of burning farmlands seeped into the sky. Clouds of smoke rose from the fields as the days grew shorter, the air turning cold and crisp. This was the time to take Matt and a few of his friends into nearby fields now reaped of their crops. I drove onto a harvested onion field about noon, making sure to drive parallel to the rows of brown dirt to get to the middle of the field. The boys scrambled from my new Jeep SUV and pulled black bags from
its trunk. In jeans and flannel shirts, they scattered like autumn leaves, two to a bag, running to pick as many onions as possible. The big machines couldn’t reap all the onions, so we’d pick the leftovers. It was called gleaning. Once the black bags bulged, the boys dragged them back to my car. In the heat of the day, the trunk smelled like French onion soup. From there we went to pea fields and then on to our potato fields. Gleaning was like a gigantic Easter egg hunt. But instead of colorful eggs, we collected potatoes, pea pods, and onions. And the children learned the value of crops, whether they had been harvested or left in the field for us to gather.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Christmas and New Year’s Activities
Weeks passed and the days began receding, becoming shorter and darker. Soon late autumn winds swept across the valley, taking with them its beautiful fall colors. The nights were cold as I stood on our back steps and looked at the sky. The light of the moon, bright on long grasses that ruffled in the rising breeze, brought a feeling of mystery and wonder. The nearby foothill colors had faded, and light flurries heralded the holiday season.
Throughout the growing year, the ranch had looked like a patchwork quilt: green potato leaves, gold grain grasses, olive alfalfa, and lime-colored peas. The fields had changed their subtle shades of color with each passing month. Finally, the snows came, and the ranch converted to a white blanket, stretching across the barren valley.
Strong storms swept from the Sawtooth Mountains, and colored lights blazed in downtown Twin Falls. The streets, arched with bare tree limbs, were crusted with ice. Groups of shoppers bustled about in arctic gear and strolled along winding sidewalks, their faces bathed in the intermittent lights of shop windows. Mike, Matt, and I wore down jackets and wool caps and were swept along Main Street by a chilly wind at our backs. We walked past Sav-Mor Drug and Rudy’s Price Hardware, their windows decorated with red ribbons and green wreaths while shoppers waved and wished us “Merry Christmas” as they hurried through the chilly night. Once my gifts were bought and wrapped at The Paris, a high-end women’s store, I returned the pink credit card to my purse. The three of us convened under the old-fashioned streetlamp in front of Roper’s Clothing Store, its windows now glowing against the gathering dusk.
From Main Street, Mike drove us to Rock Creek Restaurant on Addison for an early dinner. A stained-glass window, depicting a jumping trout, greeted us in the foyer. Mounted fish, ducks, and deer enhanced the inside wood-paneled walls. At the far end stood a large, brightly decorated Christmas tree. White lights draped across the salad bar with its ever-present, homemade chowder.
“Hi, Stan,” Mike called as we entered.
“Hi, guys,” Stan hailed us from behind the bar. “You’re awfully early, aren’t you?”
“Yup, we’re in town to shop and buy a Christmas tree.”
“Glad you’re joining us. We have a steak special today,” Stan said with a wide smile.
We hung our jackets on hooks next to a booth and slid into our seats. Matt wedged his back into the corner and looked at the menu. Mike and I decided on Angus beef and mashed potatoes.
“We’ll have the special, medium rare. Matt wants chicken fingers,” Mike called to Stan. “And I’d like a Coors. Bobbi wants a glass of merlot, and Matt wants hot chocolate.”
“Coming up,” Stan answered and turned to place our order with his cook. A hint of baking bread drifted in from the kitchen, and our stomachs started to growl. Stan retrieved the drinks and brought them to our table, wiping his hands on his white apron. After we’d settled in and chatted for a few minutes, Mike rose and headed to the salad bar. Matt and I followed, making sure we each had a cup of corn chowder along with an assortment of salad vegetables and some homemade rolls.
Later, the three of us drove to the tree lot in the Albertson grocery store’s parking lot and meandered between rows of upright spruces. Leaning against an old travel trailer parked at the five-points corner of Blue Lakes Boulevard were layers of wrapped spruce trees. After inspecting several, we found a full one, about eight feet tall. A small man with a black mustache, wearing padded overalls and a black wool cap, approached us. He told Mike the price and I asked for the leftover branches to create a wreath and to decorate our fireplace mantel.
“They’re free,” he said. “Here, let me help you get that tree into your truck.”
“Thanks,” I said as the men heaved the tree into Mike’s pickup.
As soon as we arrived home, we pulled the spruce from the back of the truck and placed it on the cement pad behind the garage. Matt and I held the tree while Mike cut several inches from its base. From there, we carried the heavy tree and wrestled it through our French doors while Matt ran to retrieve a heavy towel from our upstairs bathroom. Once inside, I put down the towel and added a tree stand. While I was on my hands and knees, Mike lifted the tree, high enough for me to place the trunk into the stand. I crawled underneath the bottom branches and fastened long screws into the thick trunk. While I filled the base with water, Mike and Matt untangled extensive strands of colored lights. The three of us wrapped the cords in and out of the branches until the tree was completely covered. Mike plugged the string into a socket and the tree lit up. The sweet scent of sap soon filled the air. We hung an assortment of familiar ornaments, and then came time to tackle the dreaded tinsel.
“Only one strand at a time. No bunching and no throwing,” Mike commanded. Single tinsel strands were a Wolverton tradition. He worked on the top of the tree, I took the middle branches, and Matt scrambled around the bottom. We stood back and inspected our creation. The tree looked beautiful. Christmas music played on our record player and snow started to fall.
Everything seemed picture perfect, but I wanted more. I wanted Christ in Christmas. I thought the season had become too commercial. Growing up in a small town in Connecticut, I remembered a community service that many had attended on Christmas Eve. I thought we could duplicate the same thing in Murtaugh. As a member of the Methodist Church, I asked the women’s guild if we could have a Christmas Eve service. The ladies would provide punch and cookies, I would organize the event, and the whole town would be invited.
“What do you mean by the whole town?” one of the women asked.
“Well, everyone. No matter their age or their religion,” I said.
“The Mormons and the Catholics won’t come. They have their own services,” she stated.
“Let’s try. I just need your permission,” I said.
They voted and approved the church’s first Christmas Eve service. Once they decided to move forward, they did so at lightning speed. The women talked about which cookies to make, what type of punch, and whether to have coffee. It was a rush job but they were up to it. I just had to create and manage it.
“Hey, Kay,” I called over the telephone to the Nebekers’ that evening. “Can you help? I’m organizing a community Christmas Eve event, and I need some singers. Do you have a men’s choir at your ward?”
“Yes. It’s fabulous.”
Once she gave me the name of the choir leader, I called him and asked if his group would be interested in singing on Christmas Eve at the Methodist Church, not for just the church but for the whole community. He told me he’d get back to me but he was pretty sure they’d do it. Next, I called three Murtaugh leaders, two women and a man, and asked if they’d join in the celebration. They all said, “Yes.” And Dale Metzger, the Methodist pastor, volunteered to obtain candles.
“Anything you need, just ask me,” he said. “I’ll be out of town that week but I’ll help any way I can.”
My good friend and postal employee, Jane Toupin, volunteered to play the piano. There would be no sermon, just three adults reading verses from the Gospel of Luke, and the congregation would sing a half dozen Christmas carols. Surprisingly, on that first Christmas Eve service at the Methodist Church, many community members supported the event. They entered the warm vestibule and before long, we had over a hundred people, from infants to elderly seniors.
Considering we usually had twenty or so people attend the regular Sunday services, it amazed me that so many came that night. Not only was it a last-minute event, but it started snowing in the afternoon. It was definitely a season of miracles. The familiar carols, sincere and sweet, filled the old-fashioned church.
At the end of the thirty-minute service, everyone walked to the front of the church, collected a candle, and lit it from the advent display. Then they returned to form a giant circle around the perimeter of the nave, facing the now-empty pews. Kay stood near the backdoors and turned off the lights. What a sight. All these people stood with their backs against the church walls, their lit candles reflecting the rosy glows in their faces. The last song was “Silent Night.” In soft, flowing voices, the gathering sang the three verses. I wiped a tear from my cheek and marveled at the beautiful occasion, the sacred joy of the Nativity. As the town folk left the church, they took their candles and placed them in small snow banks surrounding the church. Mike, Matt, and I turned to face the white edifice surrounded by candles, sparkling in the snow. It could have been a postcard photo. People were chatting, hugging family and friends, and thoroughly enjoying the moment. For me, Christ had come back into Christmas.
* * *
After the spiritual celebration, Mike and I prepared our house for a New Year’s gathering, asking fishing friends from Southern Idaho to join us. We usually had six or seven couples coming for a New Year’s Eve dinner, an overnight stay, and a full breakfast the following morning. Each couple brought and served one course while I managed the vegetables and entrée.
A few days before the group’s arrival, snow had spun a cocoon of white all around Sky Ranch. Sunlight sparkled on ice crystals hanging from our trees; it looked like a fairyland. Mike and I extended the dining room table and covered it with a giant, white-embroidered cloth from Italy. We placed chairs around the table, and I arranged the formal dinner place settings with separate wine glasses for each of the six courses.
