172. Mountain Mahogony

 

There is an amazing tree that grows on the cliffs and hillsides of the Salmon River and lower Snake River in Hell’s Canyon. It’s the mountain mahogany and you can find it in other drier places in the west besides Hell’s Canyon and the Salmon River canyon, but those Idaho rivers are my home and where I’m most familiar with that tree. It isn’t really a mahogany at all and it’s more a shrub than an actual tree, though it does typically only have one trunk like the other trees.

The leaves of the evergreen mountain mahogany are tiny, curly little dark green elongated leaves that are so dark they make the tree look like a dark, overly tall sage brush. They have little yellow flowers that bloom in the spring. Because it was one of those trees that didn’t usually grow in forests and was only to be found in sparse outcroppings on the cliffs over the river, it wasn’t a tree I really knew much about because no one seemed to use it for much. I didn’t even learn its name until my later teens unlike all the conifers I knew so well from childhood.

During my college years when I was thinning timber in Harney County, Oregon for the forest service is when I figured out why the mountain mahogany took on the mahogany name. Whenever I had to cut one of those down I had to sharpen the chain on my saw because the wood was so hard. The wood is also a rich dark brown like mahogany and can be used to make some beautiful items, though typically those items need to be smaller.

I will say this about my appreciation for the mountain mahogany: it was always there lending a beauty to the cliffs of home every bit as valid as moss on those same rocks. And I always took it for granted just like grass on the hills. It is beautiful and wild in a way that we canyon dwellers probably overlook more often than not, but now that I’m away from those canyons on the Palouse (not so far away) I look at those canyon walls with more appreciation. The mountain mahogany has a part of my appreciation for home.

171. Gold Rush

Much of our history, especially our western state’s history, is based not upon freedom but greed. This is true with the historical gold rushes of most of the western states. Sometimes, as Americans, we have the view that we are a free people and we can do whatever we want and no one can get in the way of our individual liberties. Of course, the problem with that idea is that there are other people in this world who may also have ideas about their own freedoms. The lust for gold and money has always caused conflict in America and the sense of power that wealth gives to those who think it’s theirs. You see this in the exciting narrative of the old west with the gold rush. You also see it with our sense of meritocracy that is largely based upon the colonial conqueror model that comes largely from Great Britain since it was from them that our existence as a nation began, the idea of who had what first. As long as we feed that myth we will have people follow racist ideologies in America from the ideas of Anglo-Saxon beginnings which almost completely ignore the beginnings of all peoples and their convergence on this land.

Every nationality has recognized the freedom and wealth of America, so when gold was beginning to be discovered in the late nineteenth century during the same time as China was suffering from great famine, many Chinese came to America. They came to America, not to stay, but to get some money to provide for their families. Many gave their lives building the transcontinental railroad, being murdered when they staked claim and made money on reworking discarded mines. The tribalism of America often refused to accept other’s similar desires for gold. I don’t know that that has really changed much.

Most of the American lust for gold is just human nature but I am always interested in how we recover from our greed and work to unite ourselves into the country we are. I think, in spite of all the old west lawlessness of the many western gold rushes, we came away with some pretty great after effects like the transcontinental railroad. It’s never good to see the raw greed people have, but it is amazing what comes from the aftermath. I love the history of our gold rushes and am grateful for what has come from them.

170. Syringa

 

It’s January and a little cool, though we’re in the middle of a thaw and the snow is just left on the shaded hillsides and dirty piles on the sides of the road. Today it’s a cold rain while other days it’s a slushy snow or just gray. On occasion, like yesterday, there are moments of sunshine giving little hints of hope beyond the clouds. The grass is starting to green even, but I know it will get covered again by snow because it’s only January. It’s cabin fever season and there’s a good two months of it left, or even more since we’re in the middle of a pandemic.

This is when I long for the spring and for the heady scent of syringa in June. The state flower of Idaho grows in every disparate part of this state of varied landscapes from the desert hills in the south to the breaking meadows in the heavily forested north. While now its branches are barren, in late May through June it will be heavy with white blossoms, sometimes weighting its branches as even now when the snows are heavy. But those flowers will send you over the moon with their heavenly scent. They smell and look like orange blossoms which is also why it’s called mock orange.

On a day like today when it is all cloudy and raining steadily, darkness imposing itself over the light, I just like closing my eyes and imagining all the blue sky just beyond those clouds. In my meditations it becomes a balmy June day and I’m sitting on a rock beside a river surrounded by syringa bushes fully in bloom with their effervescent scent wafting on the air. When that occurs, I am able to find a little piece of contentment in this troubled land.

So now, in all of the crazy newsfeed time of “stolen elections” by people upset about some self-centered egomaniac who never should have been legitimized ever, I just give thanks for those things that are bigger and better, giving no thought to the pettiness of humanity. Even in this dark hour those things like the syringa still have a place, not only in my imagination but in the reality of time’s continuum.

170. Mountain Bluebird

(This image is from the Cornell Lab.)

I’ve always enjoyed watching birds. It’s fun to see them fly around in the trees or the bushes busily foraging for seeds and berries. In winter time there are plenty around here that come to the feeder my neighbor has so I can just sit in my living room and watch them. In the summer time it is always fun to catch a glimpse of a mountain bluebird. They seldom (if ever) come into a town, even a town as small as where I live. But you will see them near here in the meadows on a rare occasion, most likely in late spring and early summer. If you’re in southern Idaho they are a little more common most any time of year. I only mention that because of where I live and the fact that they are the state bird of Idaho. You can actually see them anywhere throughout the mountain west depending on the time of year, but you won’t see them on the coast.

I think the thing I love most about the mountain bluebird is just how blue they are. They look like a piece of the sky twittering around in the bushes, eating pesky insects here and there.Their song is that of a dewy mountain meadow sparkling in the morning sunlight. The entire presence of a mountain bluebird has a way of bestowing beauty to the earth, to me. When I see and hear one I am likely already in a place that brings me joy, but in case that wasn’t happening the presence of one of these little pieces of eternally blue sky transports me away from all annoyances or problems and reminds me that I only need to breathe. I continue to be astounded at how little things can create such darkness in my life and then I see or hear a bluebird and the beauty of a clear sky radiates into my very being and all the dark clouds of my mood can be swept away as if they were never there at all.

I don’t know if other people are so easily transported to joy by this little bird, but I am and that’s why I am grateful for the mountain bluebird.