Salmon-Challis Natl. Forest - Meade Morgan, GY

Hardly working. The signs we were supposed to post to beetle-blighted trees failed to arrive and so instead of working we tramped about in the rain in the measured wake of an old fellow named Cliff who explained and described and diagrammed in loving detail his familiar ski trails, preparing ourselves.

Through thick and silent stands of spruce and pine, across swollen streams and little sodden grouseberry marshes, emerging occasionally into sunlit meadows scattered with still leafless aspens, whiling away and easy afternoon or two.

Armed with a book on edible and medicinal plants we marched about collecting morels and memories of western blue flax, desert parsley, sage and shooting star, avalanche lilies, violets, goat's beard, waterleaf. Learning quick, but much yet remains to be learned before I die young or grow old or this mad technoindustrial culture erases it all. Coming slowly to my senses, sorting through the old city-born irritations and fears, hoping to find, intending to find, a saner man at the end of this.

I must say, it offends my pride to be forced to admit that much of what I was told regarding the corps (i.e, that the work will be challenging, that I will likely make new and excellent friends, that I will take stock of my young life, etc) has turned out to be true.

The folks are a solid bunch: Jorge, a tattooed thunderbolt from Miami. Beau, who quit his job in an act of rare gallantry and headed west to try and match his amazonian love in woodland skills. Katrina, five indomitable feet of freckled theatricality (and more). And our increasingly nominal leaders, Sally and Chris.

Good fortune forever attends me; to be surrounded by such folks...