Post by bretf on Feb 22, 2017 20:48:29 GMT
The other day, I stopped by the library and I saw this notice:
Read Me Treasure Valley Event
For the month of February, the library will accept submissions of original fiction, memoirs, reflections, poetry, photography, artwork (or any other medium) to be included in a book compilation expressing what the Boise River means to you. All entries will be published for use by river advocacy groups to educate others about how important the Boise River is to our community. Prizes awarded for the best submissions! Involve your kids, too!
Then, join us on Feb. 22nd to meet people from a few local organizations, including the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality, the Boise River Enhancement Network, and Idaho Rivers United and learn the easy things you can do today to preserve the Boise River!
So I went home and did my chores. By the time I was finished, I had a number of notes floating around in my head, so I sat down and wrote them down. I worked on it off and on for a few days, and this is what I came up with.
Memories: A Boy and the Boise River
Bret Friend
The Boise River is prominent in many memories from my boyhood. It was a major playground and place of exploration for me, and I roamed up and down the river and the adjacent area every chance I got. Most of the memories from that time are good; however a few of them aren’t. But I cherish them all, even the ones that caused discomfort or pain at the time. The river was enchanting, and its magic drew me in time after time.
I grew up between Boise and Eagle when the area was still rural. When I was a kid, wide-eyed and curious, my dad rented a large piece of land right along the river where he pastured a number of cattle. It was paradise for a kid like me that loved the outdoors, the perfect place for me to access the river and the cottonwood filled floodplain.
As the water made its way through the area I roamed, it brought new adventures with it. Each of the four seasons along the river offered something different, something new and exciting. And each new season was my favorite, until it gave way to the next season and then that was my favorite time, at least until the next season rolled along. It really didn’t matter, anytime at the river was a good time.
Spring usually brought high water flows, with the water leaving its banks and flooding the low lying areas adjacent to the river. It was common to see fields underwater. One spot in particular that seemed to flood every year without fail was Dr. Lange’s veterinary clinic on Eagle Road at the South Channel. It was interesting to drive up to his facility, and wade through water part way up our rubber boots to get into the clinic.
Dad’s pasture, where I spent so much time, was high enough that only one small portion right along the river would be under water. But not always. One notable spring, the scouring action of the high water ate away the bank and exposed the roots of a large tree. With its support weakened, the tree toppled across the river, creating a diversion dam that directed the high water right into our rented pastureland. Our fields, as well as the surrounding fields, were flooded.
The man who had the home near the entrance to Dad’s pasture had a brilliant idea for alleviating the flood water. A dirt lane led from State Street to his driveway and our pasture. A drain ditch crossed the lane right in front of our gate, and the culvert under the lane was partially obstructed, preventing the flood water from flowing through fast enough to suit the neighbor. It could carry a lot more water if that obstruction was cleared out, he reasoned. Wanting to be rid of the water surrounding his house, our neighbor devised a plan to float a stick of dynamite into the culvert and blow the obstruction out. It was such a simple plan, how could anything possibly go wrong. Well, of course it did go wrong. Instead of clearing the obstruction, the blast collapsed the culvert. The flow through the culvert went from slow to a mere trickle, and the water level rose higher. But eventually, the high spring water receded as it always did, although the repair work required a backhoe and a replacement culvert.
Each year when the water receded, it was always fun to search the area where the water had been to see what had washed down the river and been deposited or hung up in the brush. There were always interesting things to find, including a whole picnic table on one occasion. Pools left in the flood plain often contained fish that were stranded there, unable to make it back to the current.
Once the water dropped, there was access to the patches of asparagus that grew along the river. That was always one of my favorite times along the river, to brave the patches of wild roses that grew thick, and come away with a delicious vegetable addition to our supper.
Summer along the river was the time to enjoy the water itself. There was a deep pool in the river channel at one point beside the pasture. Dad extended a large plank out over the pool, and weighted the end down. It made a great diving board to launch myself into the water. If I was at the pasture changing irrigation water or just goofing off, I’d be drawn to that pool in the river. I’d take my shoes and shirt off and run and jump off the end of the plank to cool off. It didn’t matter if I was wearing cut-offs or pants, I was going in. That plank and the pool of invigorating water, such a contrast to the hot summer air, pulled me in like a magnet.
A few times each summer, Dad would drop us off and we’d tube down the river, and he’d pick us up at the Eagle bridge. Long before Eagle Road was widened, it was a narrow truss bridge with a deep pool of water below it. It was a popular place for kids to gather and swim and play in the water. The brave kids, or foolhardy ones depending on personal opinion, would jump and dive off the bridge’s steel girders. Not me; I’d only jump from the cement support piling, which was plenty high enough for my taste.
The water always felt so refreshing on a hot summer day. Now, decades later, the water feels cold, dang cold. It’s hard to believe I ever spent so much time in the frigid river water. Wading in that freezing water is the extent of what I do now.
We fished in the river some back then, but not very much. There was always so much other stuff to do, swimming, floating, rolling rocks over in search of crawdads. Fishing required more patience than I had then.
Fall along the river brought duck and pheasant hunting, and that became my new favorite time of the year. Hunting extended from fall, deep into the winter. Though occasionally we set out duck decoys and stayed in one place waiting for the ducks to come to us, most of the time I’d walk along the river looking for birds, and then try to sneak up on them. There were trails going through the cottonwood trees and wild rose thickets to the places most likely to have ducks. I went as stealthily as possible along those trails, watching ahead for birds, with my other senses fully attuned to the area. With fall, the leaves dropped from the trees and we often had rain. From the treks on those narrow paths, so aware, the smell of rain on the cottonwood leaves is imprinted in my memories.
With the end of irrigation season, the river flow was reduced. There were several places I could wade across the river wearing irrigator boots and hunt the sloughs and ponds on Eagle Island. It wasn’t always fun. There was a time or two that I slipped and fell while crossing, getting thoroughly soaked and cutting the day’s hunt short. Other times, I picked a crossing too deep for my boots and ended up filling them with the cold water. I would tip them up and drain them, but the damage was done, and I had to slosh around in wet socks. My activities came with a fair share of slips, bruises, scrapes and cuts, even a mishap with Dad’s pickup.
There was one unfortunate, but educational event, I can’t forget. I was at the river duck hunting in the wee hours of the morning and needed to answer nature’s call. It was later that I discovered I’d gone into a patch of poison ivy to take care of my business. The unfortunate incident led to itching, rashes and . . . discomfort I guess I’ll call it, in places I’d prefer to never experience any of that ever again. Up until that morning, I was always on the lookout for wild rose and getting scraped. Afterwards, there was another hazard, a worse hazard, to steer clear of.
The most prominent of those less than pleasant memories is from December 1972. It was a Saturday and no school, so of course we went to the river and do some hunting. It didn’t matter to me or my brothers that the temperature was negative 23 that morning, a record breaking cold for Boise. On that particular day, we decided to set up the duck decoys and let the birds come to us. However, the ducks were smarter than we were that morning. Wherever they were, they stayed there, and we didn’t see a single duck flying. So after sitting long enough, the bitter cold working through our insulated coveralls and heavy coats, we decided to pack up and head home. Although we had a pair of waders with us so we could go out into the water and pick up the decoys, one of my brothers was impatient, and ready to get somewhere warm. Slowly, he worked his way out on the ice that rimmed the water and extended his shotgun barrel to hook the string holding a decoy in place. With a loud crack, the ice broke and he plunged into the freezing water. After helping him out of the water and into the pickup with the heater going full blast, my other brother and I hustled to get the rest of the decoys out of the water and thrown in the back of the pickup. We had to get him home in front of the fire in dry clothes.
It was a sad day when the rented pasture was sold, and a tall chain link fence put up around it, cutting off my access to the river. The new owners planned to dig the gravel out of the ground. I believe it has been termed “develop the resources”, and I would argue long and hard that development doesn’t mean improvement. The place where I ran wild and free now required stealth and sneaking to enter. Trees were knocked down and the ground dug up. It was never the same to me again. Each time I went there, I came away saddened to see what had been done. My trips to the river became fewer and fewer, until I no longer went there at all.
Today, this special place of my youth is the site of a large gravel pond, and much of the remaining ground is barren where nothing grows, not even wild rose thickets or poison ivy. It bears no resemblance to the lush pastures where Dad’s cattle grazed.
A section of the Greenbelt passes through that area. On occasion I ride my bike along that section, where I spent so much time roaming as a youth. I slow down and look at the areas where we used to find and harvest bagfuls of asparagus, sometimes getting off my bike and poking around, but never finding any.
I look in the areas where I walked the paths and hunted, the few paths that remain anyway. I haven’t seen a pheasant along there in many years, but there are plenty of ducks, more in fact than when I hunted for them there. Not that they can be hunted there now, with all the development and people using the Greenbelt. But that’s alright, I enjoy seeing them.
I look in the places where I swam, but the river channel has changed over the years. My swimming hole is long gone. I look at the plants growing beside the bike path and cringe when I see the shiny leaves of poison ivy.
To this day, the smell of rain on fallen cottonwood leaves takes me back to those fall days along the river. When I smell that distinct odor, and when I ride my bike along that once familiar place, I picture it how it was so long ago, and I’m filled with the memories of that time. The memories of a boy and the Boise River.
Read Me Treasure Valley Event
For the month of February, the library will accept submissions of original fiction, memoirs, reflections, poetry, photography, artwork (or any other medium) to be included in a book compilation expressing what the Boise River means to you. All entries will be published for use by river advocacy groups to educate others about how important the Boise River is to our community. Prizes awarded for the best submissions! Involve your kids, too!
Then, join us on Feb. 22nd to meet people from a few local organizations, including the Idaho Department of Environmental Quality, the Boise River Enhancement Network, and Idaho Rivers United and learn the easy things you can do today to preserve the Boise River!
So I went home and did my chores. By the time I was finished, I had a number of notes floating around in my head, so I sat down and wrote them down. I worked on it off and on for a few days, and this is what I came up with.
Memories: A Boy and the Boise River
Bret Friend
The Boise River is prominent in many memories from my boyhood. It was a major playground and place of exploration for me, and I roamed up and down the river and the adjacent area every chance I got. Most of the memories from that time are good; however a few of them aren’t. But I cherish them all, even the ones that caused discomfort or pain at the time. The river was enchanting, and its magic drew me in time after time.
I grew up between Boise and Eagle when the area was still rural. When I was a kid, wide-eyed and curious, my dad rented a large piece of land right along the river where he pastured a number of cattle. It was paradise for a kid like me that loved the outdoors, the perfect place for me to access the river and the cottonwood filled floodplain.
As the water made its way through the area I roamed, it brought new adventures with it. Each of the four seasons along the river offered something different, something new and exciting. And each new season was my favorite, until it gave way to the next season and then that was my favorite time, at least until the next season rolled along. It really didn’t matter, anytime at the river was a good time.
Spring usually brought high water flows, with the water leaving its banks and flooding the low lying areas adjacent to the river. It was common to see fields underwater. One spot in particular that seemed to flood every year without fail was Dr. Lange’s veterinary clinic on Eagle Road at the South Channel. It was interesting to drive up to his facility, and wade through water part way up our rubber boots to get into the clinic.
Dad’s pasture, where I spent so much time, was high enough that only one small portion right along the river would be under water. But not always. One notable spring, the scouring action of the high water ate away the bank and exposed the roots of a large tree. With its support weakened, the tree toppled across the river, creating a diversion dam that directed the high water right into our rented pastureland. Our fields, as well as the surrounding fields, were flooded.
The man who had the home near the entrance to Dad’s pasture had a brilliant idea for alleviating the flood water. A dirt lane led from State Street to his driveway and our pasture. A drain ditch crossed the lane right in front of our gate, and the culvert under the lane was partially obstructed, preventing the flood water from flowing through fast enough to suit the neighbor. It could carry a lot more water if that obstruction was cleared out, he reasoned. Wanting to be rid of the water surrounding his house, our neighbor devised a plan to float a stick of dynamite into the culvert and blow the obstruction out. It was such a simple plan, how could anything possibly go wrong. Well, of course it did go wrong. Instead of clearing the obstruction, the blast collapsed the culvert. The flow through the culvert went from slow to a mere trickle, and the water level rose higher. But eventually, the high spring water receded as it always did, although the repair work required a backhoe and a replacement culvert.
Each year when the water receded, it was always fun to search the area where the water had been to see what had washed down the river and been deposited or hung up in the brush. There were always interesting things to find, including a whole picnic table on one occasion. Pools left in the flood plain often contained fish that were stranded there, unable to make it back to the current.
Once the water dropped, there was access to the patches of asparagus that grew along the river. That was always one of my favorite times along the river, to brave the patches of wild roses that grew thick, and come away with a delicious vegetable addition to our supper.
Summer along the river was the time to enjoy the water itself. There was a deep pool in the river channel at one point beside the pasture. Dad extended a large plank out over the pool, and weighted the end down. It made a great diving board to launch myself into the water. If I was at the pasture changing irrigation water or just goofing off, I’d be drawn to that pool in the river. I’d take my shoes and shirt off and run and jump off the end of the plank to cool off. It didn’t matter if I was wearing cut-offs or pants, I was going in. That plank and the pool of invigorating water, such a contrast to the hot summer air, pulled me in like a magnet.
A few times each summer, Dad would drop us off and we’d tube down the river, and he’d pick us up at the Eagle bridge. Long before Eagle Road was widened, it was a narrow truss bridge with a deep pool of water below it. It was a popular place for kids to gather and swim and play in the water. The brave kids, or foolhardy ones depending on personal opinion, would jump and dive off the bridge’s steel girders. Not me; I’d only jump from the cement support piling, which was plenty high enough for my taste.
The water always felt so refreshing on a hot summer day. Now, decades later, the water feels cold, dang cold. It’s hard to believe I ever spent so much time in the frigid river water. Wading in that freezing water is the extent of what I do now.
We fished in the river some back then, but not very much. There was always so much other stuff to do, swimming, floating, rolling rocks over in search of crawdads. Fishing required more patience than I had then.
Fall along the river brought duck and pheasant hunting, and that became my new favorite time of the year. Hunting extended from fall, deep into the winter. Though occasionally we set out duck decoys and stayed in one place waiting for the ducks to come to us, most of the time I’d walk along the river looking for birds, and then try to sneak up on them. There were trails going through the cottonwood trees and wild rose thickets to the places most likely to have ducks. I went as stealthily as possible along those trails, watching ahead for birds, with my other senses fully attuned to the area. With fall, the leaves dropped from the trees and we often had rain. From the treks on those narrow paths, so aware, the smell of rain on the cottonwood leaves is imprinted in my memories.
With the end of irrigation season, the river flow was reduced. There were several places I could wade across the river wearing irrigator boots and hunt the sloughs and ponds on Eagle Island. It wasn’t always fun. There was a time or two that I slipped and fell while crossing, getting thoroughly soaked and cutting the day’s hunt short. Other times, I picked a crossing too deep for my boots and ended up filling them with the cold water. I would tip them up and drain them, but the damage was done, and I had to slosh around in wet socks. My activities came with a fair share of slips, bruises, scrapes and cuts, even a mishap with Dad’s pickup.
There was one unfortunate, but educational event, I can’t forget. I was at the river duck hunting in the wee hours of the morning and needed to answer nature’s call. It was later that I discovered I’d gone into a patch of poison ivy to take care of my business. The unfortunate incident led to itching, rashes and . . . discomfort I guess I’ll call it, in places I’d prefer to never experience any of that ever again. Up until that morning, I was always on the lookout for wild rose and getting scraped. Afterwards, there was another hazard, a worse hazard, to steer clear of.
The most prominent of those less than pleasant memories is from December 1972. It was a Saturday and no school, so of course we went to the river and do some hunting. It didn’t matter to me or my brothers that the temperature was negative 23 that morning, a record breaking cold for Boise. On that particular day, we decided to set up the duck decoys and let the birds come to us. However, the ducks were smarter than we were that morning. Wherever they were, they stayed there, and we didn’t see a single duck flying. So after sitting long enough, the bitter cold working through our insulated coveralls and heavy coats, we decided to pack up and head home. Although we had a pair of waders with us so we could go out into the water and pick up the decoys, one of my brothers was impatient, and ready to get somewhere warm. Slowly, he worked his way out on the ice that rimmed the water and extended his shotgun barrel to hook the string holding a decoy in place. With a loud crack, the ice broke and he plunged into the freezing water. After helping him out of the water and into the pickup with the heater going full blast, my other brother and I hustled to get the rest of the decoys out of the water and thrown in the back of the pickup. We had to get him home in front of the fire in dry clothes.
It was a sad day when the rented pasture was sold, and a tall chain link fence put up around it, cutting off my access to the river. The new owners planned to dig the gravel out of the ground. I believe it has been termed “develop the resources”, and I would argue long and hard that development doesn’t mean improvement. The place where I ran wild and free now required stealth and sneaking to enter. Trees were knocked down and the ground dug up. It was never the same to me again. Each time I went there, I came away saddened to see what had been done. My trips to the river became fewer and fewer, until I no longer went there at all.
Today, this special place of my youth is the site of a large gravel pond, and much of the remaining ground is barren where nothing grows, not even wild rose thickets or poison ivy. It bears no resemblance to the lush pastures where Dad’s cattle grazed.
A section of the Greenbelt passes through that area. On occasion I ride my bike along that section, where I spent so much time roaming as a youth. I slow down and look at the areas where we used to find and harvest bagfuls of asparagus, sometimes getting off my bike and poking around, but never finding any.
I look in the areas where I walked the paths and hunted, the few paths that remain anyway. I haven’t seen a pheasant along there in many years, but there are plenty of ducks, more in fact than when I hunted for them there. Not that they can be hunted there now, with all the development and people using the Greenbelt. But that’s alright, I enjoy seeing them.
I look in the places where I swam, but the river channel has changed over the years. My swimming hole is long gone. I look at the plants growing beside the bike path and cringe when I see the shiny leaves of poison ivy.
To this day, the smell of rain on fallen cottonwood leaves takes me back to those fall days along the river. When I smell that distinct odor, and when I ride my bike along that once familiar place, I picture it how it was so long ago, and I’m filled with the memories of that time. The memories of a boy and the Boise River.