Unraveling a Good Yarn.

More and more, I see life as a prolonged absorption. I consider where I've been, who I've seen, and what I've heard, and how it constructs who I am and what I think and believe. Time and retellings sometimes layer the stories and memories that build me with a glamorous dust of nostalgia, and if I'm not careful, I find myself soaking in sterile versions of an otherwise complex reality.

Absorption is natural. It's a process of construction akin to setting up a Jenga tower one block at a time. And self examination, self analysis really, requires a certain stock of vigilance in order to scrutinize the fundamental elements of one's personal makeup. It can be exhausting, frankly, and lead, like gaming the Jenga tower, to periodic toppling.

Unlike Jenga, however, the fallen blocks do not constitute a loss. Understanding this, over time I've made self examination and self analysis as natural as absorption. I've learned that these symbolic Jenga pieces can do a lot more than make and remake towers; however, I've also come to see that making self study second nature renders one a slave to process--a believer that knowing is ongoing, really.

With this prologue in mind, I submit my annual summertime musings on the father-son dynamic by which I'm so ardently intrigued. In past summers I've analyzed some father-son traditions, asked that my old man expose me to one part of his history, and even tried (failed, really) to walk in his footsteps. In keeping with this interest and tradition, this summer I asked Dad to help me discover more relics of our father-son dynamic by showing me elements from his own past, moments from his history that perhaps trickle down to inform our own.

I can't say for sure if this in some way fuels my own understanding of my relationship with him, but I know that learned behaviors reconstitute themselves over time, and I know I understand him--to some extent--because of the way he understands his own experience as a father and son. Like last year's backpacking trip, I again forced him to take the reins. This time, however, I challenged him with a less strenuous quest through his hunting history in Idaho.

Hunting, for my father as a child, was a learned behavior. He followed the lead of his own father, who had in his youth forged relationships with other men who enjoyed the practice. This enjoyment eventually took them to the northern regions of Idaho, a place where hills give way to sweeping valleys and dramatic canyons that offer a treasure of public and private lands teeming with deer, elk, sheep, and bear. My father's first trip into such country involved 12 hours in the back of a trailer, where at 13 he and his twin brother bickered and argued nearly the whole of a drive which culminated in two, long hours down a nauseating dirt road into Wild Horse Canyon.

After returned trips, a property owner in the canyon suggested she and her husband better "make friends with them California boys." And thus, what started as an invite for dinner forged a bond that outgrew its original intentions. The family eventually provided lodging and hospitality for countless hunting trips, and offered staging areas for various trips in the canyon and around their daughter's home in the community of Council. In exchange for this kindness, my grandfather provided tractor parts--his trade, really--along other necessities for the rugged, canyon living characteristic to this kind of country. The relationship eased the burden of isolated living for them, and provided relief from the burden of urban living for my family. Things evolved--continue to evolve really--into an extended family forged by fondness and frankness, bearing all the brightly and darkly shaded tones of tradition and time.

I've included some highlights of my recent trip, and brief explanations of particular threads comprising the familial flag.

The view west through Wild Horse Canyon, toward Council, Idaho.

The view of the ranch house from an overlook bearing family memorial plaques.

My father, addressing his dad's plaque, alongside current property owner Darryl. The ranch and land were passed on from his father-in-law Arnold, whose plaque sits in the foreground. Portions of both men's ashes were scattered from the hilltop.

The ranch house and seasonal garden (below).

Darryl (at right) making homemade ice cream in the kitchen/dining room.

The staircase to our lodgings.

My spread.

We took a dirt road out of Wild Horse, driving the ridge line toward popular hunting locations. This is a view from the rim of the canyon, looking northwest in the direction of Oregon state.

The view toward a tiny speck of the ranch house from the deer trail (below), trekked countless times by the men in my family.

Dad, indulging my desire to try the fast-moving Wild Horse River, tying the brightest spinner we have.

We wised up, finding far more success the next day. Here's the result of my first cast at Lost Lake, north of Council. The second and fourth casts provided the same result.

Uncle Ray shows off the day's dandy whopper.

Final tally came to 14, four shy of the limit. We threw a number of smaller perch back, but saved a few for what I'm told are tasty filets.

Ruth, the matriarch and initiator of the friendship "with them California boys," surveys the remnants of our fish fry back in Council.

For me this experience, like those in past summers, hasn't been about uncovering the past so much as using aspects of it to justify the future. Before the dinner we shared on our final night in Council, Ray made a brief whiskey toast at cocktail hour "to old times." The salute seemed fitting: he and my father, estranged step brothers, had just spent the afternoon casting line and telling stories. From Ray's left, with my own glass, I added, "and to new ones," in a hazy move to solidify the permanence of our unfurling lineage. He paused, considered, and agreed as the atmosphere seemed to turn momentarily poignant.

But a really good story will do that to you.