There is a wonderful valley north of Twin Falls, Idaho that reminds me of spring creek fishing haunts for big browns near Haast on New Zealand's West Coast. I will camp near Sliver Creek. Idaho just west of Picabo. The valley was the play grounds for Hemingway his shooting and drinking buddies from the heady 50's. After visiting Hemingway graves site many times over the years and retracing his final hours, I am convinced he never did blew his head off with a pre-war 1902. London Best, Boss Side by Side 12 bore. In fact, he still lives and I saw him in Las Vegas recently. I would camp near Love Spring Creek and watch wary browns sip midges. The dogs were delighted to get out and stretch. They had been wonderful for the last two days in their kennels. Tess was content to live in her cave.
Fe had been here before and knew what was unfolding. Her excitement infused Tess with curiosity and she became infected by the cool valley air that the clung heavily to the nearby chalk stream lined with pungent red willows. Fe pranced about in anticipation awakening her dormant hunting skills that were going to be in demand. A Picabo night would wash way all desert dust for the next 6 weeks it would be Prairie night filled with arctic geese and wolf calls.
After Tess had meant her litter mate by accident, I knew the world was getting smaller. I craved elbow room and so I pulled the plug and headed up to the Canadian/U.S. border and WHOA was I in for a rude meeting with US officials. I was taking a new hammer gun into Canada and decided to declare it on the US side even those it was made in 1872 and considered an antique not a weapon. The official by the name was Fish made me take all my pre 1800 double barrels out so he could check them into his data base of course with my personal info. Now I know why they call it fishing. I asked for statues and he said he could not allow me to cross into Canada unless I declared all my guns. I did and let it go. I can see the angry of the Tea partiers. It took five minutes to declare pay for my guns in Canada and he bid me adieu and told me to enjoy myself. He apologized for the America saying they are over the top thinking that everyone was a boogieman.
Five miles down the single road I was humming a John Phillip Sosa tune thanking God for me allowing me to cross over to freedom of openness. Our first night was by the big Coulee I usuall camped at when hunting Huns, Sharptail and jump shooting teal and Mallards. The morning couldn't come soon enough.
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