Oreana and Castle Creek

“Noooo,” Brenna wails when I say we’re going to stop at a church on the way. But when we arrive at the old Catholic church where the pioneer town of Oreana once stood, she’s suddenly curious.

I describe what I remember of the Sinker Creek flood that wiped out the town and led to the church moving from its destroyed building across the street into this, what was the mercantile.

But she is more interested in probing the exterior for an entrance. “I want to see what’s inside,” she implores.

We leave Oreana behind and I tell her again the story of Lake Idaho as we wind our way between soft chalk hills and sharp rhyolite outcrops. It is a landscape intermittently morose and ebullient like a certain twelve-year-old I know.

“Were there people yet?” she wonders of the massive lake.

“It was millions of years ago so no, I don’t think so.”

Clouds intermittently occlude the sun so we’re one moment chilled and the next too warm.

“Do you think I should?” Brenna asks, contemplating a hop between rock spires.

“Can you make it?” I ask in return.

“Yeah,” she concludes as she lets go and leans to the second spire, forming a horizontal human bridge.

“Now what are you going to do?” I ask as she struggles to get her feet over to join her hands.

“I need help,” she concludes. “Just grab my hand,” she directs after I’ve walked to the rocks above her.

“Ow,” she calls loudly as I lift. A jagged edge caught and scraped her side. She lifts her jacket to take a look. “Do you think it will give me superpowers?” she wonders.

We talked a few minutes ago about the ancient processes that may have formed these curious layers, imbuing them with meaning.

“I’m sure it will,” I answer.

We hear the rush of water far below.

“Come see this dad!”

I dutifully climb down to where she is prying at the small rock layers.

“There’s dirt under here! How do you think it got here?”

“Maybe rain washed dust out the air.”

“But how would that get in here?” she reiterates. She seems to believe something mysterious is at work. I decide that sense of wonder is better than any answer.

Brenna notices an almost perfect teardrop crack in the middle of one of the flat rock surfaces and works to pry up the teardrop rock, as if from a cookie cutter.

“How do you think this happened?” she wonders repeatedly.

“Maybe a heavy rock landed here and that’s the kind of crack you get from an impact,” I speculate.

“But it’s too perfect. I don’t think that could be it.” Like most parents, I’ve accepted that my answers are usually wrong.

Brenna decides to conceal a little treasure in the resulting void.

“Promise we’ll come back in 2025 to see if anyone found it,” she says.

“Okay,” I answer.

“I’ll be a teenager then so I probably won’t want to but you have to make me — promise?”

She obviously remembers her siblings growing up. “I promise.”

“Do you want some help?” I ask.

“No,” she snaps.

I watch her struggle another minute.

“Are you sure?”

“Stay back, dad.”

We see three mountain goats as we’re riding single track toward Grand View. As we approach the Castle Creek crossing, I can see the water is, unsurprisingly, much higher than last time I crossed. We pause to evaluate.

“You could try crossing here,” Brenna suggests, pointing at the water where the trail crosses. I appreciate her confidence.

“I think it’s too deep, kiddo.”

“I could put a stick in to see how deep it is,” she suggests.

“That’s a good idea but I just don’t think it’s worth the risk. It would be a real hassle if we got stuck all the way out here.”

She seems to allow that.

“I’ll get the motorcycle turned around,” I tell her.

She is looking around while I maneuver in the tight space between outcrops and creek when I hear her yell, “I just saw three more!” (mountain goats).

It is clearly a good day.