A year ago, I went up to the creatively named Moscow Mountain outside the town of Moscow, Idaho, after the first snowfall of the year. Last year that meant October.

This year was earlier. Unseasonably cool weather brought us our first snow on September 28th or 29th. It was my day off, so I drove up to see it. 

Heading Up

In my truck, I kept an eye on the thermometer. Leaving town, it read 39 degrees. In the country, 37 degrees. Up onto Tamarack road, 35°. Then 34°. At 33 degrees, I was high enough up that patches of snow began to grace the cedar boughs, and the road became wet from yesterday’s thaw. 

32 degrees. Snow three or four inches deep: soft, dry, and cold. Thankfully it wasn’t windy, but when an odd gust came through, the trees would sigh, and snow would flurry from the trees, and douse me like sea foam.

I didn’t have a plan, but these days in the woods, I rarely do. When I’m with company, I make it a point not to bring my camera, but today I thought it would be a fun experience to record our first visit from old man winter. So I parked my car, and wandered up the snowy logging roads, moving uphill. 

There is something rather wholesome about finding creatures in the snow. Little coveys of quail and turkeys descend to the valleys, but other stubborn birds will remain. Nuthatches and Woodpeckers seem to enjoy it, crawling up and down the trunks, looking for whatever life forms are left to devour. The woodpecker, a Hairy far up above, tore pieces of bark off its tree, which would clatter the whole way down, and make a faint pile of evidence wherever she went. 

The croak of a raven, the chatter of juncos. Whitetail deer tracks, undoubtedly headed downhill toward greener pastures. 

I keep walking. 

The chatter of industrial life fades in the mountains.

When the birds aren’t present, and no planes are flying overhead, the mad chatter of industrial life fades. Lucky too that the logging trucks aren’t here. The thick carpet of snow dampens any natural sound anyway, so I’m left completely alone, with my breath heaving in time with each heavy step up the hill. If I’m really lucky, my brain shuts up too, and I can hear the full effect of nothing on the senses. 

I think silence is one of the joys of the natural world. “Silence is dangerous,” says Jim Carrey. “It’s very addictive.” I don’t disagree. 

There is some consistent route to the top of the mountain, but I don’t know it. Instead, I walk more or less aimlessly up roads, and back down them, stopping when a sound catches my ear, or I get too warm walking and need to cool off, or take a photo or two. To the avid peakbagger, this is heresy. To me, this is a great Monday.

Not Quite Public

Moscow Mountain isn’t a “park” per se. It’s not even public land – the vast majority of the Mountain is owned by logging corporations, and as such is still an active logging site, especially on the now-bare north side, which faces away from the college town of Moscow and its tree-hugger constituency. 

No, like many places in the United States, this is private land, and “no trespassing” signs abound. “Stick to main trails” some read. “Non-motorized only” read others. The mosaic of landowners out here know it’s a popular recreation site, and have been very welcoming to the public: It’s the only decent-sized mountain near town, and folks have been coming out here to bike, hike, hunt, ski, and bird for decades. Some people live up here too, like this random crocodile-infested property at the end of a road. 

And right before that property, this sign: “Please Respect the Mountain.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Private land is seen as a crucial right in the United States, one that I have mixed feelings about, at best. ”Castle laws” are just one very extreme take on property, that it takes precedence over the lives of others, even if they trespassed on accident. But maybe roads and logging are trespassing here?

Old Trees

Near the very top of the mountain, tucked in the flanks of this 4,983-foot castle, stand beings of another age.

Some of the Western Red Cedars on this mountain are in the ballpark of 500 years old. In 1519, Cortez had just decimated the Aztec empire. It would be almost another 100 years before the English colonists or African slaves arrived on the mainland of North America. A full 250 years would pass between when some of these trees were seedlings and the Declaration of Independence was signed. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I explore these local giants, the sun emerges, and the hiss and crackle of the thaw begins. Time to start back down. 

As I dodge soppy snowballs from above, I feel so much gratitude that those ancient cedars are still there. I think about how we can all work a little harder: for landowners to be sustainable, for recreationists to be mindful, and for trees to be better represented. 

So hike your hikes and fell your trees—

 

But please respect the mountain.