Every Spring Break my parents took my siblings and I to the Salmon River. The River was a constant in my childhood; and like many great things of an upbringing, under appreciated. I recall grabbing up blankets from my bed and spreading them out in the middle of the lawn in the Summer. I would close my eyes and pretend the blankets were a sleeping bag and the distant roar of the freeway was the roar of the River. Even now I muse about how even mild rapids could fill the river canyon with sound. It became the base and the norm in my ear, just like the soft but constant hum of cars on the freeway near my parents farm.
On the Salmon, Elk and Deer could be spotted daily, however finding good antler sheds was always a special experience. Back on the farm my dad set found antlers in the flower beds. Years in the sun and open air turned them chalky. Their white cracked tines rose up amongst the flowers not completely unlike the conditions in which they were found.
The flat ancient flood plain where my parents farm resides and the steep rocky canyon carved out of a granite batholith by the Salmon River contrast greatly. One land cradled and fostered life while the other seemed to want your skeleton for its collection.
Still though, when I think of the concept of home, I see my parents farm just outside of Idaho Falls, and the Salmon River.