BY HARRY WEEKES
I have been gone for a while—almost eight weeks—and in a variety of ecosystems, ranging from the island nation of Iceland, to the coastal waters of Connecticut, to the northern Outer Banks in North Carolina. As you can imagine, many observations found me (which is how I like to describe most of what happens to me in the natural world). Almost most recently, I chanced upon a Cutlass fish writhing in the sands of our eastern seaboard. As this happened shortly before this column’s due date, I thought, “Perfect.” Then, I came back to Idaho. (Rest assured, you will hear about this fish soon enough.)
I returned West, disembarking on the late flight into Hailey, where my daughter Penelope reminded us right away of the power of our Valley. “I forgot about the stars,” she said, looking up to a blanket of twinkling lights.
A powerful remembering happens returning to a place, especially a place one has lived so long. The quality of the air. The color of the sky. The smell of hay.
Terroir describes the natural environment in which grapes grow, from the soil, to the topography, to the climate. Individually and collectively, each of these shape and structure and transform, guiding and becoming what a grape is so much so that they eventually become part of the grape.
If there is terroir for plants, there is terroir for people.
My first walk unfolded like a lucid dream. The crunch of the road. The short buzzing of birds in the sage. The smell of the sage. A braiding of sensory information, immediately woven together as I descended through the canyon, remembering this place.
Then, the fragrance of skunk brought a memory of the past, one of my first Science of Place columns. I described the Skunk and the Mantis, two harbingers of a coming Fall.
I took in that skunky smell and thought about that piece, even as I registered, “The smell is getting stronger.” With the wind blowing in my face, I looked up and, sure enough, skunk. And an absolute beauty. Deep black with fierce white lines, this skunk glistened, looking as healthy as I have seen a skunk look in some time. I cut a wide berth on the road and he disappeared into a culvert.
I mused on wondering why he sprayed until I saw what looked to be a wet dog lying in a lighted garage. “Oh, you poor bastard,” I thought, though the dog seemed to have a smirk.
Farther on, a high pitched “klee-klee-klee” came from the conifers, giving away an American kestrel. This one seemed to be scolding or encouraging one of the now fledged young that were simple fuzzballs when I left at the end of June.
The parent cut through the morning sky, the sharp shape of its dark wings fluttering against a growing blue.
I crossed paths with house wrens and their now flitting babies. I heard the rattle of a Kingfisher at the pond. And then another kestrel flushed and brought my gaze up to cottonball-like clouds turning orange in a morning light that would take another half an hour to reach me.
“The Skunk and the Kestrel.” In that weird way of the emotional world, it suddenly felt like I had never left. Except a bit different. Like with people you haven’t seen for a long time, whose return makes remembering when they were gone almost impossible, except a lingering sense of… something… longing… knowing… terroir.
I made it back to the house with the dogs just getting out of bed and Hilary still in it.
“How was your walk?” she asked.
“Wonderful. Really wonderful. It’s great to be home.”
Harry Weekes is the founder and head of school at The Sage School in Hailey. This is his 54th year in the Wood River Valley, where he lives with Hilary and their two mini-Dachshunds. The baby members of their flock have now become adults; Georgia and Simon are fledging in North Carolina, and Penelope has recently changed roosting sites to Connecticut.
