Walking through foothills near my home, thoughts flow of people who lived there way before I was born.
My great-grandfather built a house 140-plus years ago, one of the first and still standing. I guess he cut and dragged logs out of the mountains with a team. He made the foundation of stone. I wonder how long it took to cut the logs so precisely, what sealed the spaces.
I stumble upon pottery shards from Native Americans who lived in the valley. My great-grandfather wrote of reluctantly hunting some who raided nearby white settlers, how he searched for a "brave" who disappeared into sagebrush.
There is sagebrush left. I can see how someone could hide there, what it would be like searching on horseback. I wonder, imagine, marvel, and then it's not uncommon for a piercing whine of a dirt bike or ATV to come through from miles away, the bumping, banging, of someone's 4X4.
It squelches my solitude, my thoughts, whatever solitude and thoughts are worth. Do those who want motor access think about what it's like to explore, think without the sound and dust of a motor? Can they see value in what I value?
Carla Coates, Holladay
