Idyllic sanctuary of past times

I returned to my youth yesterday. While walking over the bridge, I pointed to the shady waters where my fish hook could find any snag willing to be pierced. I parked my pickup alongside the turnaround where my brothers and I once collected leaves from the bushes to substitute as tobacco for our makeshift cigarettes.

Cars and trucks rolled by incessantly on the highway to the east, but nary a jake brake from big trucks burping to signal a slowdown while coming off that hill and rounding the bend at the old curve near the railroad trestle. That hair-raising highway hazard disappeared long ago, but Union Pacific trains still cross over the local stream that some newcomers like to call the "jewel of Sandpoint."

We never thought of Sand Creek as a jewel while growing up at our farm on North Boyer. It was our playground, and that bridge, now known as the Popcicle Stick Bridge, provided the centerpiece for a day's fishing (and smoking) activities once we left the house, grabbed our poles and cycled to the creek about a mile away. We spent hours there almost every day all summer.

Occasionally, we'd go to the creek across Best's hayfield, where once the level field ended, we'd make our way down to the water via steep dirt trails forged by Clarence's Holsteins. Naturally, lots of cow plops and potential snakes in the grass kept us vigilant with every step downward.

I remember a day nearly almost 48 years ago when my folks told Mike, Kevin and me we were going to have a new brother or sister. I was 12 and the baby at the time. We arranged a sibling meeting down at Sand Creek to talk about the possibilities and whether we wanted a brother or a sister. Our rendezvous took place near the remnants of an old bridge which used to cross Sand Creek, and that day we never dreamed that one baby sister would lead to another and then a baby brother.

Well, yesterday's trip to the past did not include my two older brothers, but those two younger sisters were there, paddling their pontoons and giving me a good work out. They made it look so easy as they sat back, rowing and enjoying the sights, sounds and peace. We paddled north from the bridge. Barbara and Laurie immediately headed to the east shore where they could snap pictures of colorful wildflowers on the hillside.

We paddled around little peninsulas with tall grass and rustic goose stands, we paddled past service berry bushes loaded with big fat juicy berries. No wonder the birds were singing happy songs. We paddled in the shade and almost felt cold while looking at thin fingers of light coming through the heavily wooded landscape just below a huge housing development, which was once home to just the Bottchers and the Bests.

We passed the Co Op Country store, then a small mall established by Lorraine Bowman, and we could see the backside of Rokstad Ford. As we paddled on, civilization seemed so far away. Toward the end of our trip to the north, we reached a point where Laurie announced, "If I were an animal, I'd want to live here." It was at that same point where my sisters reminisced about bringing their horses for illegal horseback swims.

My dad had told them not to do it, and as far as he knew, they had obliged---until that day further on down the creek toward the Schweitzer Cut-off Road when a newspaper photographer had snapped their picture and published it on the front-page of the paper for my dad to see. Illegal horse swimming was no longer a secret and still frowned upon by my dad.

Barbara had horse-riding lessons to teach at 5:30 yesterday, so at 4:20 we turned around and paddled back into the present. For each of us, however, the pontoon experience took us on a pleasant afternoon outing and on a trip to some cherished times of youth.