I wear cotton and wool as armor against the cold. I am driving through the Palouse, up, past Mary Minerva McCrosky State Park, across a corner of Lake Cour D'Alene, through downtown streets of Post Falls, under Interstate 90 - it reminds me of home - through fields where subdivisions will sleet from the sky in coming weeks, onto the two way lanes of stop-signed downtown Rathdrum, and (turning left, then right) up the contoured road onto the heft of Rathdrum Mountain herself, the final road the rally road from heaven or hell depending on your preference.
There is a view over the valley between Hayden and the Reservation. There is a spur of the mountain. There is a creek coursing off that mountain. There is a blood-red barn. There is an old blue farmhouse. There it sometimes feels like home with its faint taint of cow shit and stale straw. There is welcome. There is friendship. There is no judgement. When I pull up I feel more than home.