You're Looking At Country

Yes, everything is bigger here, I think every time I cross the border. Not because anything becomes, instantaneously, bigger or greener or colder. More, perhaps, because even the speed limit – the Portland 55 becoming the ‘Welcome to Washington' 60 then the 70 all the way to Oly – quickly accelerates, propelling you back into the bigness of it.

I am writing a new book entitled You Know You’re in the Country When… ; as in, you know you’re in the country when you pass the first ‘Archery House’ shop, you know you’re in the country when the first major town requiring a reduced speed zone lasts for less than a minute, you know you’re in the country when you remember why your love for "You’re Looking at Country" is not ironic. When you remember, you learned to drive on a dirt highway hugged by the rocky canyons of an Idaho sunset. When you remember that you and your high school sweetheart used to take clandestine rolls in the hay in your neighbor’s hay shed.

The mountains humble me.

But, this is not a country house. Do not be fooled by the elk skull by the front door, however authentically found on the riverbed that summer by your cousin. You will only find one dog here, literally rusty and bought in a gallery in Sun Valley. Do not be fooled by the towering river rock fireplace; notice the cord of firewood from the tree they took down stacked bare and wet in the rain. No, this is not a country house.

I wished I had the shotgun – the country shotgun – twice while in the country. Once while walking the dog at dusk. For this is the only time I truly want a gun; in the country with the dog with the very real probability of meeting a cougar or bear. And once after I forgot to remove my wellies before entering the house. He found a speck of mud and immediately went for the broom. Upon retiring that night I had the sudden urge to break the willful ignorant silence. I wanted to show them a real mess. I wanted to imagine what that would do to their country beige carpet, country sage walls, country oak furnishings.

I’m drawn to the North like a magnet. And then repelled just as forcefully. I flip off road signs driving North than East. I flip off road signs driving West but not South. As I drive South relief pours over me like an embrace. Both are home. But I appreciate the choice more and more.