From One Winter in the Wilderness

The literary excerpt contained below was graciously shared by our longtime friend and supporter Pat Cary Peek (pictured at right). Pat’s book, One Winter in the Wilderness, recounts a winter spent with her husband, Dr. James Peek (pictured at left), at the University of Idaho’s Taylor Ranch Field Station within Idaho’s Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness—one of the most rugged and remote areas in the lower forty-eight states, and where Advocates for the West is challenging the Forest Service’s decisions to maintain four unlawful airstrips. 

Affectionately referred to as “Partner” throughout the book, James Peek had been conducting research on the habitat of large mammals that frequent the Big Creek Canyon for several years when he and Pat decided to spend a winter at the research station to help caretake and observe the native wildlife.

One Winter in the Wilderness describes not only that experience, but the natural beauty and history of the area, including the Indigenous peoples such as the Tukudeka, referenced in the excerpt below, whose ancestral lands encompass the mountains of central Idaho. 

By Pat Cary Peek

It’s snowing on top of the ridge. Early this morning about twenty-five sheep were on the first bench. Partner gets his backpack and camera to get some photographs, but I opt to stay by the fire. 

He returns around lunchtime, and we watch the herd as it leaves the bench. Three ewes go down toward Cliff Creek. They gaze into the brushy bottom for several minutes, then move down. The rest of the ewes and the two rams wait and watch on the hillside. Then they run down into the trees, across the creek, and up on the other side. A coyote or cougar could lurk in the draw; they instinctively know that they are safe on the high ground. Most of them go to a steep, exposed bank to the left of the bridge. The old ewes walk with slow dignity once they are out of the brush, but the lambs run, jump, and play in the weak sun. Rocks and dirt roll down toward the river as they scamper around the bank. 

About an hour after this band leaves, another group arrives and does the same thing. What a bunch of followers!

In the afternoon, I walk downriver with my camera in search of the otters. There’s about five inches of snow on the ground. The trail is well-packed from frequent use by the elk and sheep, so the going is easy. I move around the bend slowly as the lower pasture comes into view. The only sounds are a magpie near the river and the crunch of my boots. 

I go through the gate at the edge of the Taylor property and start on the narrow path along the cliff. My favorite stretch of the trail is directly above the elbow of the river. In this deep hole, steelhead up to twenty-four inches long have been caught in the recent past. Tukudeka lads tossed their spears into this same hole a thousand years ago.

The water is mostly frozen, but the current is swift and the channels stay open. The black water swirls furiously around huge chunks of ice and rocks. Coyote and deer tracks cover the smooth frozen section near the shore. There is no movement, no splashing tails or flashing wings. No other nose is poking from the black eddies. 

I watch the big hole and catch a movement on an ice block beside the running water. It’s a small black bird, a water ouzel, called a dipper. He sits on the ice and dips his tail up and down. Why does the dipper dip? No one knows for sure. He’s a nondescript creature; in the world of birds he has little to recommend him. Compared to the flashy magpie and the elegant jay, he’s homely. He has a sharp beak and short stubby tail. His long legs and sharp claws enable him to hold on to the ice or the slippery rocks beneath the surface of a swiftly moving stream. His feathers glisten as he clings to the ice and dips his tail in his dipper dance. He runs over the ice, jumps into the frigid water, dives down, and paddles around. He’s after insects. I crouch under the rocks and watch his lonely performance. I smile. There may be mayhem in our cities, the family may be disintegrating, but as long as the dipper dips, there’s hope.