From the Ganges to the Snake River
An East Indian in the American West
By
Debu Majumdar
Published by Bo-Tree House at Smashwords
ISBN 13: 9780983222712
First U.S. edition 2012
Copyright 2000 by Debaprasad (Debu) Majumdar
The stories and essays in this book, except for “Indians Across the Oceans,” first appeared as a joint publication by Rendezvous: Journal of Arts and Letters (Vol. 33 No. 1) and the Idaho State University Press. The book was then published by Caxton Press, Caldwell, Idaho with the inclusion of “Indians Across the Oceans,” and is still available in print form. This revised e-book edition is published by Bo-Tree House, Idaho Falls, Idaho.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Bo-Tree House.
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1749 Del Mar Drive, Idaho Falls, ID 83404 USA
For more information visit the Publisher’s website: http://www.botreehouse.com/
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase this it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data from the printed edition (ISBN 0-87004-397-8 (paper back):
1. Majumdar, D (Debu). 2. East Indian Americans–Idaho–Idaho Falls–Biography. 3. Idaho Falls (Idaho)–Biography. 4. Idaho Falls (Idaho)–Social life and customs. 5. Calcutta (India)–Biography. 6. Calcutta (India)–Social life and customs.
Cover Photo of the Snake River by Robert Bower
Discover a wonderful children’s book by Debu Majumdar: Viku and the Elephant
Read a Free Sample Chapter of Viku and the Elephant
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Noteworthy fact for the book
Four chapters from this book were included in the Memorial volume titled Rendezvous: Forty years of History, Politics and Literature of the West (selected from all publications by Rendezvous, an independent journal of the Department of English and Philosophy, Idaho State University from 1966 – 2005), edited by Sharon Lynn Sieber, 2009. ISU Press Price $24.95
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Author on the bank of Ganges by Catherine Majumdar
Chapter 1 – First Idaho Winter
Chapter 6 – Mountain River Ranch
Chapter 9 – An Excursion on the River
Chapter 12 – A Place to Hang Your Hats
Chapter 16 – Indians Across the Ocean
Embracing the West by Sharon Sieber
Foreword to 2000 Edition
What reviewers are saying about the book
Children’s book by the Author – Free Sample Chapter
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Chapter One
FIRST IDAHO WINTER
I clearly remember the day I first arrived in Idaho Falls from New York, the day after Thanksgiving in 1980. It was a crystal clear day. The plane flew over long stretches of mountains and lava fields, and I remember seeing clusters of human habitation separated by wide open fields below, all connected by one narrow black road. The drive from the airport reminded me of the little mining towns I had seen in Colorado. "Oh boy," I thought, "where am I taking myself?"
On December 12, I woke up and found everything white, and still snowing. More than a foot of snow on the roofs of buildings! Looking from our apartment window on West 15th Street, I was certain there had been a blizzard through the night, with snowfall the likes of which we had seen only once in several years on Long Island. I rushed to the front door to get a clear view of the snowy landscape, but couldn't open it because of the pile of snow. I woke up everyone and shouted with joy, "Snow day today–no school, no work!"
Through the clutter of unopened boxes, playpen and chairs, I threaded my way to the kitchen and started hot water for tea. My wife and two children came down the stairs, bubbling with happiness: "Daddy doesn't have to go to work today." Had the TV been working we would have known about this storm, but now we all looked outside with amazement; the beauty of the snow had covered the otherwise drab neighborhood. We had heard of Idaho winters, but hadn't expected this, especially at the beginning of December.
"Until they clear the roads everything must stop in this town," I told myself. No plows had come to clear the road, and no car drove by our apartment. I worked diligently and got the front door open and spoke to my wife, "Let's go out and see how bad the situation is."
Along the road to South Boulevard there were no people. Snow-covered pickup trucks in driveways stood as symbols of the stand-still town. The smell of burning wood filled the air. Black-gray smoke rose almost straight up from the tops of chimneys, and the neighborhood looked stationary and as picturesque as a painting by Grandma Moses.
A man, without gloves, was shoveling his driveway, and I wondered how he was going to drive on the road even if he did clear his driveway.
"When are they going to clear the roads?" I asked the man.
"It may be a week before they come to this street," he said, and looked at me as if I should know that. "We'll be lucky if they clear the main roads today."
A few cars were running on South Boulevard. The road was full of snow, but that didn't stop them. "There must be many accidents on this road," I thought. But I couldn't see any cars stranded; the few cars on the road had been parked the night before–before the snow. We walked toward 17th Street and Tautphaus Park. We passed a few children playing at the Hawthorne Elementary School playground. An older woman was with them. "Was she the teacher?" I wondered.
There were more cars on 17th Street, going both ways at rather high speeds. I hoped they were good drivers. "No one would drive in these conditions on Long Island," I told my wife. Why drive at all? Nothing could be open today!
We walked further south along South Boulevard, toward the wealthy neighborhood of Idaho Falls. Tall trees gracefully draped with snow stood next to driveways of big houses. Here the street was also lined with trees, as a boulevard should be. In contrast, the row of houses on 17th Street, which we had just left, looked like small summer cottages at the far end of Long Island.
We passed by the hospital. It looked lively. "I'm glad they can keep the hospital functioning," I thought. Opposite the hospital, the park was white and beautiful; a row of pines at the end of the field dazzled with snow sculpture. The round fountain in the middle stood out like a grand wedding cake. But there was no one at the park, no children playing in the snow. The mothers must have kept them in their warm homes on such a day.
It was then that I looked toward the southeast and saw the most wondrous sight in Idaho Falls–a row of sparkling white mountains against the sky. They rose like the Himalayan ranges one sees from far away. I remembered my first experience of the Himalayas from my aunt's house in the planes of Siliguri, below Darjeeling. I stood and gazed at them for a long time: "What a beautiful place, and we are going to live here."
We returned to our apartment, but I suddenly decided that I would walk in the other direction to my office on Second Street to see how bad conditions were there. "I shall be back soon," I told my family.
The road conditions were worse along the low-numbered streets until I reached Holmes Avenue. Traffic on this road was similar to that of 17th Street, with a fair number of cars going faster than I thought safe.
When I reached our office parking lot there were piles of snow on it, but there were also cars parked there. Some of these seemed to have a ton of snow on top of them. I was surprised to see so many cars in the parking lot. Since I worked for the federal government, I knew the security people would be there, and I thought I'd go inside and say hello to them.
As I entered the building I saw the guards in the lobby, chatting as usual. The building was warm, and I saw my coworker, Armando, coming down the stairs.
"Hey! What are you doing here today?" I shouted at him.
He looked at me puzzled. "Why? Aren't you at work?"
"What? Isn't it a snow day today?"
"Heavens," he said. "This is nothing! Wait till January, then you'll see snow."
Flabbergasted, I went upstairs and found everyone at their desks–a most normal day at the office.
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Chapter Two
IDAHO TROUT
The first time I received a call from Idaho I was very surprised! It was for a position with the government, but I hadn't applied for a job in Idaho. In fact Idaho did not exist in my mind; one might as well think of Saskatchewan. So my spontaneous reaction was "Thanks, but no thanks," and I hung up. For someone who came to this country from India, Idaho has a connotation of the frozen North Pole. I chuckled and told my wife, Catherine, about the call from the federal government.
"You know, Idaho has its own beauty," she said. "Perhaps you should be a little more open-minded." Coming from a woman born and brought up in New York, the response was a surprise.
"So, tell me what is good there beside potatoes?"
"What about trout? You hardly find freshwater fish here."
That was intriguing. I grew up in Calcutta eating a small piece of fish floating in a soupy curry sauce with rice for both lunch and dinner. If one asked for more, there was none, because each piece was already counted for every member of the family. So we learned to savor its flavor in the curried rice. Going to a supermarket and being able to buy freshwater fish would be like going to heaven for a Bengali. We didn’t eat ocean fish in Calcutta. "Hmm. Fresh trout."
Destiny looms over our lives, and a few months later on a November day in 1980, I flew to Idaho Falls and my family followed a few days later. It was not the trout that helped me make my decision. That came from an unexpected corner.
Catherine's father told me that he refused to go to New Jersey in 1949 when he was offered a big territory for his sporting goods business. "Who goes to the hinterland?" he told me, "I vehemently refused, and stayed on Long Island." He looked far outside through the bay window in our living room and, although he was retired for some time, I could see regret in his face. Indeed New Jersey flourished in the next two decades and made the man who accepted the job very rich. It was not the money that bothered my father-in-law (he did quite well in his life), but the failure to accept the challenge and go to an uncharted territory that haunted him most. "You have come all the way from India. What's the difference to you between New York and Idaho?"
As soon as we settled, actually the second day after my family's arrival in Idaho Falls, I went to the biggest Safeway in the area, and looked for trout. There was none. I carefully searched the aisles again, but there was no trout anywhere. Puzzled, I went to the manager and asked where he kept trout.
"You want to buy trout?" The manager looked at me sympathetically. "They are not sold in supermarkets. You can buy other frozen fish here."
"No trout in this store?" I was so astounded. "Is there another store that sells trout?"
"You can't buy trout. It's free. You have to catch it." He smiled and patted my shoulder, "Go buy a fishing rod."
It was a blow to my dream–no fresh trout curry for lunch or dinner. "How strange. It is free, but I have to catch it."
At the office my colleagues comforted me. They told me many stories of trout fishing, how they caught big trout in many streams. The mere mention of trout fishing brought several more to my office. "It's so easy," they all assured me. "It's fun, you'll see."
"We'll get some fish for you next season," Dennis told me.
The summer came and I bought a fishing rod, a Mitchell reel, lead sinkers, forty-pound nylon line, and a few shiny metal lures. I was ready, but my two sons were more ready than I. They used the hobby horse stick and practiced fishing in the small living room of our apartment. They jumped up and down and told us, "We'll catch big fish." I loved watching their excited, happy faces. "This is what Idaho is all about," I thought. They would grow up loving what nature offered here.
I bought a detailed map of the area and looked for streams and lakes where we could go fishing, but everything was far away–one would have to drive miles to go there. I consulted my colleagues at the office. They all pored over the maps and traded fish stories, but no one told me where to go.
When I asked directly, "Well, suggest a place I can try out this weekend," they talked among themselves. "Hmm, he can try the Buffalo River, that's good." Someone said, "Perhaps Silver Creek. What do you think?" Another said, "That's good but the current is fast now, try out Indian Creek." And they all dispersed.
I looked at the map. The Buffalo River was fifty miles away. "Do I have to drive that far to go fishing?" Silver Creek was nearby, but I found the name in several areas. Was it a common name for several streams? How do I get to Silver Creek for fishing? Was there a public place where people go fishing? I bought a fishing license, but did I need permission from the landowner to fish from his property?
Willis, my coworker, told me, "Go to Birch Creek or the Camas Creek in the Mud Lake area. It is very easy. Drive north, and when you see a stream, park the car and fish."
So, the next Saturday, I took my family out fishing, and drove north along Route 15. "We'll have fish curry for dinner tonight."
In ten minutes we left Idaho Falls behind and passed by green fields, acre after acre, and mountains in the distance. We gazed at the mountains, white snow still on their peaks, and exclaimed, "What a beautiful country!" After about half an hour of driving through side roads, we saw a stream. Willow, birch and aspen trees grew along the banks, and its water looked silvery–rippling through pasture land. It was very pretty to watch the stream. "Was this the creek I'm supposed to fish?" I wondered. "But how do I get there? Through the farms?" Fences bordered the lands and occasionally one or two horses roamed in the fields.
Trout by Robert Bower
I couldn't see any path to the stream, and no place to park. Finally, in desperation, I parked the car on the shoulder of the narrow road. We walked along the road with my fishing gear but found no path to the stream. We found an open field and walked across it. There was no other way to reach the water. The few cows grazing nearby looked at us once and went back to grazing: "Strange humans. Don't know what they are doing."
I hooked a small lure to my rod, the one the store owner told me would be good for catching trout. The stream was clear, I could see its bottom very clearly, but the flow was fast. "Are there trout in this stream?" I cast my line and waited. My older son went to the water and called for the fish. He ran back and forth between the stream and his mother telling her how it was proceeding. My other son went straight into the water and wanted to catch a fish with his hands.
While my two sons talked, ran around, and cheered me on, I tried over and over again to cast my line at different parts of the stream, but got nowhere, no bite. "How long do I wait with the line?" I asked myself.
Time passed by. Catherine sat quietly and read a book. But she could not concentrate because our two sons were running back and forth and telling her what they were finding in the stream. "Daddy, when are you going to catch a fish?" my older son asked several times.
I questioned if one could fish with young children around. But how could I go fishing without taking them along?
The surrounding was uniquely beautiful–my family was there and no one else under the wide blue sky. The few trees along the stream provided shade for us, and the fields around were lush green. Distant mountains stood still in the sky. What a contrast to New York. Then I wondered, "Have we trespassed on someone's property?"
When I was totally frustrated, and the children disappointed, two teenagers came along walking in the stream with fishing rods in their hands. They had several small trout in a basket. They threw the lines in the same spot I was fishing and little trout appeared magically and bit their hooks. Suddenly I could see many trout in the water. They were small and shiny. The two boys caught several and ran along the river. They were having such fun. All this happened in a few minutes and they were gone, and we were back to the same place.
"How come they caught fish and I don't get a bite?" I asked myself.
We returned home empty-handed.
Willis confided in me: "Fishing locations are secrets; no one will tell you their favorite spots!"
"But there is so much trout in Idaho?"
"It is an enigma. You'll discover it yourself."
"Do you eat fish?" I asked.
"Oh, no. I hate fish."
"Why do you fish then?"
"Why? It’s to get away. It is wonderful to be alone and fishing. I take a six pack, some sandwiches and snacks, and spend the whole day fishing. It's great."
"You don't care what you bring back?"
"No. I release them."
Then he told me to go to the Roberts Bird Sanctuary. "It's close by and you will catch some there." Undaunted with the last experience, we ventured out to Roberts. It was a small town on Route 15, but we couldn't see a sign for the sanctuary and ended up in the town. It was Sunday and no one was around. A bar stood out at the center, which surprised me: "A bar in the middle of a Mormon town?"
I saw a man feeding his horse and asked, "Is there a fishing place here?"
"What? Fishing? No fishing here."
"How do I go to the bird sanctuary?"
"That's easy."
He gave me directions. I was pleased when a nice road led us to the place–a wilderness with plants, mostly cattails, grown all over the area. We searched for a fishing creek but found water in something that looked like a canal in between the cattails. No one was in sight. Was this the place Willis had mentioned?
Morning sun cast its warm rays on the plants, and I saw birds scooping in and out of the canals. Lots of different birds: yellow warblers, hummingbirds, redwing black birds, sandhill cranes, killdeers, and Western tanagers. They must be diving for insects. Fish must also be there. I took out my rod. I could not go to where the birds were feeding and settled for the nearby water. I threw my line and it immediately got stuck in a cattail on the other side. I pulled the rod, swung it this way and that, but it remained stuck. Finally, Catherine said, "Cut it and let go."
Next time I was careful. The children ran around, and finally went away with their mother to another spot to watch the butterflies. "Call us, Daddy, when you get a bite."
"Good. I can now fish in peace."
But no fish came to my hook. Worse, my line got caught again and I lost another lure. Another struggle. I looked at the far end toward the mountains. What intensely blue skies. Why couldn't I just enjoy the day and forget everything else?
On Monday at the office, Dennis was beaming with pride. Sunday, he had caught a twenty-inch trout at Ririe Lake. Our secretary, Pat, said she had also caught a big one last year from the lake. Dennis advised me to go to the lake. "It's easier to fish from the lake."
Finally, someone had revealed a secret location! I bought a few more lures, and rushed to Ririe Lake the next Saturday. For a change the route to the “good” fishing place was straight forward. We took Route 26 going east and saw a sign for the reservoir a few miles before Heise. The lake looked big, but calm. It was not a scenic place–no interesting mountain loomed in the distance and no panoramic view came into sight. Instead everything was brown all around. The lake was a reservoir in a large hole in the middle of several hills. A few boats stood still in the calm water. When we walked close to the lake, I saw only two men fishing from the shore.
One man shouted at us, "Watch out. There are rattlesnakes here."
"Rattlesnakes, you say?" I was shocked.
"Yes. One man was bitten yesterday."
Catherine stopped, and held our boys close to her. "Oh, brother!" she said, and was ready to leave. "
Let me try once," I told her. "Then we'll go back."
We walked slowly and very carefully. We saw a single man fly-fishing at one corner. What a desolate, but striking picture, it was. How wonderfully the line swung in the air before falling on water. We gazed at the man. The line went up in the air so gracefully, made a loopy curve and gently came down to the water as if to kiss it, and lay on the surface for a fish to be fooled by the colorful lure. It was indeed an art. One could watch how the man was throwing the line for hours. It appeared to me that he was fishing so single-mindedly–nothing else existed beside his rod, the line, and the fish. A great game he was playing alone and having fun even if he didn't catch any. "Was this why people talk about fishing?" I wondered.
Fly fishing by Melanie Wilde
I cast a few times but got no bite. The line fell on the water lifeless and only drifted with the current. A motor boat zipped by, sending waves to the shore. I doubted that I was at the right place for my kind of fishing.
At the office I asked Dennis which part of the shore he was fishing from.
"Shore? I don't fish from the shore. It's too hard. I have a boat. I go to the middle and fish where there is no one."
He told me that some people do catch fish from the shore. "You have to practice. You will learn."
Then he said, "Have you tried the Snake River? Go there after work, spend a few hours. You may catch some. In fact you may get a big one from the river."
Wow! The river was near our apartment. "Why didn't I think of that before?"
The Snake River goes through the heart of Idaho Falls, and Memorial Drive by the river had become my favorite road to come home from work–the river on the right and distant unnamed mountains on the far southeast, the most scenic place in Idaho Falls. Small Keefer Island, with an old cabin standing as a symbol of the early settlers, sits out in mid-stream. The tall Mormon Temple with its angel on the spire rises gloriously on one side, and ducks and Canadian geese make their home on the other bank. Construction work was going on for the new Broadway Bridge, and I decided that I should get away from the center and go south of the 17th Street Bridge. There is an island in the middle and water flows in uniform patterns on its two sides. I had not seen people fishing from this area. This should be an ideal place. When I went there alone, however, someone was already fishing, and he had caught a large fish.
"What's biting?" I asked.
He showed me a spinner with yellow and red dots, but I didn't have that. I tied a different lure, cast a line some distance away from him, and opened a can of beer. This part of the town was desolate–a concrete mix factory stood on the opposite bank. Streams of cars passed by on the bridge over the river. The noteworthy thing was the water and I watched how it was moving. As my line drifted, I cast again, and again. Soon I was absorbed in doing that. I didn't care that no fish were biting. It was fun to throw the line and watch it fall and drift in the water. An hour passed by. The crimson rays of the sun dimmed, and I could hear birds settling in a nearby tree. The traffic had become slow on the bridge and headlights were on. I collected my tackle-box–it was time to go home.
July came and I hadn't caught a fish. I had stopped talking about fishing in the office. Out of the blue, one day, my boss, George, asked me, "Are you ready for an experience?"
I didn't know what was on his mind, and looked up. He winked and said, "I'll take you out fishing, if you want."
I was elated because he was a great fisherman. Stories about him abound in the office.
He closed the door, stared at me for a few seconds, and said, "You have to promise that you won't tell anyone about my fishing place. It's a secret. I'll kill you if you tell anyone."
I had stopped being surprised when it was about fishing. I said, "Sure. I won't tell anybody. Besides, I am still new, I wouldn't know where we go anyway. You are safe."
One afternoon we went fishing straight from work. He came prepared; he had everything in his truck: his clothes, the cool beer, worms, snacks, everything. Before we started, he reminded me that I must not tell anyone where we were going.
We drove to Bone Road, and continued driving for what seemed like hours to me. We went by many hills; soon I was totally lost. We passed by an isolated, dilapidated outhouse. Finally he pulled the truck over at the top of a hill and parked. He pointed down below and stated, "That's Willow Creek." I saw with horror that if he hadn't put on the brakes just when he did, it could have been a disaster–a steep drop below us, only boulders scattered everywhere.
He looked around, and said, "We'll have good fishing. First I have to take a leak."
We went down the hill and came to a creek with bushes on both sides. The sun could set in an hour.
"This is the time the fish will have their last bite," he told me in a low voice. His mood was changing, and I thought he was transforming into a fisherman. He got down in the middle of the stream and waded through the water.
I followed him: "If I must get in to catch fish, so be it."
He opened a can and said, "Worms are the best for brook trout." I put a worm through my hook; I was disgusted, as its soft body wiggled and protested.
"Don't take that long to hook a worm," George whispered to me. "Just do it."
I threw my line and it went straight to the other side and caught a bush. "Oh, shit," he shouted. I struggled to free the line. Finally he untangled the line and went ahead of me.
It was late, and the shadows in the canyon made it darker. I cast a line. I proceeded in the direction of George. The river took a bend, and I could neither see nor hear him. Fishing in such a stream down in the canyon was new to me–especially being alone. Sunshine lit up a small portion of the eastern canyon wall, and the stream made a gentle, soothing sound as it flowed on its rocky bed.
I looked back and the darkness had a dense, almost solid quality to it. Suddenly a thought came to me: what if a bear or a wild animal came over? George had moved ahead of me. A chill ran down my spine. It was the spirit of adventure I didn't have. "I'm really a city boy," I told myself. Like he parked the car, right at the edge of the hill. He could have parked a little behind, but there was no challenge there. People came out alone in these wild places, purposely. Strange! What would happen if there was car trouble, and it wouldn't start? What if bad guys surprised us? Could bears be around in this area? I had heard of many horrible incidents that happened to people in the wilderness.
I cast a line and told myself, "I'm here and nothing I can do about it now."
Soon, however, those thoughts vanished and I immersed myself in the quiet beauty of the stream and wondered how many New Yorkers had a chance to experience this? I remembered this time of the day is called "Godhuli Lagna" in India–the time when cows come home from fields and raise a cloud of dust in their path. This is an auspicious moment between day and night, a quiet time, a time to meditate.
A village in India came to mind: I could hear the chime of bells hanging from the necks of returning cows; mothers calling children to come home; and birds noisily settling in large trees. Soon lights were lit in houses, and crickets started their droning concert. If it was rainy season, frogs would join in. Otherwise, quietness fell on the village.
My line suddenly became stiff, and I pulled. A fluttering sound in the stream. I shouted, "George, George, I think I caught something."
George was just at the bend, and came over. It was a small trout, only five inches, a black and silvery thing, which tried to free itself from my palm. I looked at the beautiful brook trout. Is this why people fish–to feel a live fish in their hand, experience the last few moments of nature's creation?
"Do you want to keep it?" George's question pulled me back from my stray thoughts.
"Sure. It would be fun to take home something."
We put the fish in a small bag. He went ahead again.
Soon I caught another, a small trout. And then another. I didn't call George anymore.
It was not a good day for George, however. I yelled at him, "George, how are you doing?"
"I got a few, but they are very small. I released them."
It was getting dark; we decided to quit and climbed up the steep hill. "At least you got one. Isn't that great?"
"Yes. It's my first trout."
I wondered if fishing was pure luck. I didn't know what I did, but I caught five.
Fishing seemed so difficult. Why couldn't someone teach me how to fish easily? I figured out what I would have to do to catch trout for my fish curry. I would have to buy a heavy-duty four-wheel-drive car that could run on mountain terrain for the unexplored streams, or I would have to buy a boat and fish in lakes. Most important, however, was the time–time away from home, from my family. Why couldn't I just buy fish as I could in New York?
In August, Catherine told me she had met a friend, whose husband, Ron, was a fisherman.
"What do you mean by a fisherman? Is that his profession?"
"No. He works for a printing press. My friend said he lives to fish. He would go fishing every day if he could. When Ron heard that a Bengali fish-eating man was starving, he said he would take you out fishing."
Truly, we were in Idaho for almost ten months and had not had a decent fish curry. At this rate I would soon forget my childhood memories.
So, I called Ron up immediately, and he was very kind. He said, "I cannot guarantee you a catch, but I'd be happy to go fishing with you."
Ron was about fifty years old, a local man with a round reddish face and big shoulders. He didn't talk much as he drove his beaten-up truck through Swan Valley.
"You know I eat fish, but I don't go fishing for that."
"Really?"
"I love to be near a stream when nobody is around me."
We went by the Palisades Reservoir, and then by several smaller roads; he opened a couple of gates to follow a dirt road. After about an hour we came to a meadow and he parked the truck. We walked through a lightly trodden path with bushes all around us. We pushed aside the branches and eventually emerged next to a stream. "This is Moose Creek," he told me.
We were in flat land with an aspen forest interspersed with pines at the far end. A panoramic view was in front of us. The Wyoming mountains from the Jackson Hole side shot up majestically. The stream, only about twenty feet wide, was rather fast. A herd of cows grazed nearby. What a silent picture of the wide blue sky, the distant mountains, and the green meadow. There couldn't be any place more beautiful than this, I thought.
Ron took out a few finger-size live fish from a small basket. "These are minnows," he told me and gave me a wry smile, "The Fish and Game people don't like us to fish with minnows, but you can catch big fish with them."
He hooked one and moved to the stream. I took out my rod and a lure.
I cast my line as usual. I saw that Ron went away from the place. The lure sank with no action, but I had stopped being anxious. I learned that one cannot expect to get a bite each time a line is cast. "It'll happen," I told myself. The day was beautiful and warm, and I kept on casting–it would bite the next time, I was sure.
I took a break and went to visit Ron. Just then he caught a big one and was struggling to get it in. I rushed with the net. "Wow!" I shouted, "It's a large rainbow trout!" What a wonderful sight it was to see the pink fish come out of water.
"Must be fifteen inches," Ron said, and showed me he had another in his basket.
"You are great," I said, "may I fish next to you?"
"Certainly. And here, use one of my minnows."
I cast my line with a minnow, and saw the little fish flutter in the stream, but no fish bit it. Ron caught another–at the same place. A strange thing had happened to me over the last two months; I was not envious of him. I felt great joy in his success.
"How do you do it, Ron? Please tell me."
"Just relax and keep trying. Don't let the fish know you are nervous. Let go of yourself and enjoy. It will come."
Perhaps he was right. I went to another spot to try myself. I have failed so many times; so what if I go home again without any fish? Wasn't I happy to be here? Wasn't it great to see him catch such a big trout?
Vivid colors of the scenery became more intense to me: the sky was bluer, the fields greener, and the mountain tops whiter than before. What a wonderful day. I was glad that I had taken the job and come over to Idaho. I had no urge that I must have fishing success. It was okay if I didn't catch a fish.
My whole reason for fishing was to eat fish curry, but suddenly I felt that was very short-sighted. To be here was a much more pleasant experience. There was greater joy in fishing.
I hooked a new minnow and threw the line out. "Look at the water, how lively it is," I said and watched how the little minnow was moving in the fast stream. The water was so clear, I could see the stones at the bottom of the Creek. Soon I saw a large fish swimming over and it went after the minnow. I was amazed I could see it so clearly. The fish gobbled the minnow just when I pulled back on the line. My rod bent like a rainbow, and I felt a strong pressure in my hand. "Oh yes. I feel it. I feel the struggle of a great force." A large pink trout jumped out of the water and made a splash. I let go of the line and then I reeled and reeled it in. "Oh God. I have a big trout. I did it. I did it." I pulled it up in the net. What a lively creature, at least a twelve-inch trout. What two beautiful pink stripes on the sides, what colorful mottled skin! I held it in my arms against my breast. And then I took it over to Ron.
Ron was very pleased with my success. "Now you are a fisherman," he proclaimed. "With a little more practice you can have fish curry every day."
The fish squirmed in my hand, and I gazed at the various colors of light being reflected by its body. What a beautiful creation of nature. For a moment I forgot the purpose of my fishing.
On our drive back Ron said, "I didn't tell you minnows are illegal for fishing. There is a severe fine for using live bait."
"Really?"
"Yes. I took a chance to make sure you would catch a big one and get the thrill of fishing."
"Wow!" I looked at him with astonishment, but didn't know what to say.
"Minnows are not good for the streams. They multiply too fast. Practice with worms. They are as good as minnows when you get the hang of it."
When we returned home, he asked me to take all the fish we caught–five fish. I was bubbling with my new experience, and was grateful to him, but I didn't want to take his fish. "You caught most of these. Don't you want to take home a few?"
With a glint in his eyes he replied, "It's not the fish I'm after," and started his truck.
I wondered if one becomes a fisherman only by letting go of ego; that's when one starts to appreciate the beauty of fishing; it's not the catching, but time spent. It is meditation. When we learn this meditation, fish come automatically. The fish curry would have to be a by-product, not the reason for fishing.
* * * ~~~ * * *
Chapter Three
FOURTH OF JULY
In the summer of 1981 we moved into our new house. The paved road stopped at the end of our driveway, and beyond that was a field that no one had planted for the last few years. Cows mooed from this field and at dawn we could hear a variety of birds from nearby trees; a particular owl hooted regularly in the morning and in the evening–a country atmosphere, although we lived in a town, one with 45,000 people. Another such town, fifty miles south of us, is Pocatello, but there are no other big towns in the north, east, or west. The best known place in this area, Jackson Hole, is ninety miles away.
Near the end of June one day we heard a loud noise just after dinner, a sound like a small bomb blast, and we went out to the front. No signs of commotion could be seen or heard from any corner. A girl was riding her bicycle, unconcerned. The evening was upon us, only a few remnant lavender tints in the sky. Then we heard another blast.
Our oldest son loved the sound and shrieked, "Fireworks."
"Fourth of July," Catherine murmured.
"Such huge blasts! These must be good size M-80s," I talked to myself. "Are they selling these in stores in Idaho Falls?"
Fireworks didn't bother me. I had made those myself when I was young, but these were more than simple fireworks.
"Daddy, when do we get fireworks?" my younger son asked, holding his brother's hand.
"Fourth of July is far away," I told them. I was not ready for fireworks.
At the office, Dennis said, "They have started earlier this year."
Willis agreed, and I thought it was a chance to question local experts. "I see so many trailers selling fireworks; do they sell M-80s?"
"For good fireworks you have to go to Wyoming," Dennis said. "It's only an hour's drive. There you can buy anything you want."
I was surprised. "People would drive fifty miles to buy fireworks?"
"Sure," Dennis said. "When I was young, we bought fireworks from the Indian reservation. Now people go to Alpine Junction."
"It's a family town," Willis interjected. "Lots of children in each family. They love fireworks. Wait for a few more days; you'll see."
"I know someone who uses bottle rockets for coyotes," Dennis commented.
I had no clue what Dennis was talking about.
"Coyotes are bold in farming country," he explained. "They often stand near a fence to steal a chicken or something. When dogs carry on continuously you can see the coyotes. Specially, the brazen ones. You can't shoot them in the dark. What my friend does is light a bottle rocket, and off they go."
"What a solution!" I exclaimed.
Farm life was certainly different in Idaho. Fireworks, especially those that shoot up in the sky, were dying fast in crowded cities for obvious safety reasons, but here they have found a use for them. And why not? My curiosity was piqued. "Are there any other unique things, Dennis, at this time?"
"In some areas," Dennis said, "you can still see a grease-piggy contest. They grease a baby pig and let the kids catch it. It's a lot of fun, especially when the winner takes the piggy home."
The smile of a happy memory glowed on Dennis's round face. Clearly, he had participated in such contests with delight. I wondered if it was Dennis, or life in Idaho, that revolved around farm animals.
The next Saturday we drove to Alpine Junction in Wyoming, partly because of my own inquisitiveness. It was beyond the "square ice cream" store in Swan Valley and beyond the Palisades Reservoir–not the "never mind" little drive I was led to believe at the office. Perhaps it was so for them, but it took me over an hour to find a sign for the fireworks stores. The place was desolate: a gas station, one motel, a small store selling sundry items, and a few houses. Three fireworks trailers stood out prominently. Inside, the trailers were packed with fireworks–cartons piled up on the floor–only a narrow passage to walk through.
"Roman candles, Daddy, that's what we want," my older son told me.
I saw packets of M-80s and cherry bombs. My two sons gazed around and touched the packets with wonder. Fireworks spouted all around us. Boxes of fountains, pinwheels, bottle rockets, crackers, and long sparklers. Their pictures and colors took me to another world.
I saw a boy in a village on the outskirts of Calcutta walking through fields in search of dried eggplant stems. He would burn the branches to make charcoal. Light charcoal makes the best fireworks. Very few knew this secret–light charcoal powder makes the sparks fly high up. They also make fountains look full. One mixes the charcoal with finely ground sulphur, sodium nitrate salt, iron filings and fine aluminum chips. The aluminum chips produce the beautiful blue flowers that shoot out occasionally from the fountain. The recipe for this mixture was a secret. Different boys had different recipes and they would not easily share them with anyone. We filled palm-size round clay pots with the mixture, tightly pressing each layer with our thumbs. These pots were sold for this purpose only during this time. The small pots were finally sealed with clay at the bottom. One lights these from a small hole on the other side. Dried well in the sun, these shoot up to almost two stories high and make a ten-foot wide show.
Then the fireworks night comes, an auspicious New Moon night, the night of the worship of Goddess Kali. The darkest night of the year, and all houses are lighted with little earthen oil lamps on each door, each window, and around the roof. Silhouettes of houses glow in the dark, an ideal setting for fireworks. Fiery sparks cover the rest of space–the roads, the fields, and the sky. Light and sound everywhere, and a boy dancing in a trance.
"Daddy, Mommy wants to go home," my son pulled my hand. Oh, yes. My house was in Idaho Falls, not in Calcutta. This place was spooky. We bought fireworks and headed home.
"Did you know that Utah hasn't had fireworks since 1943?" Catherine told me on our way home. "Only sparklers are allowed. This year they almost got a fireworks bill approved, but the governor vetoed it."
"How do you know all this?" I was surprised she was interested in this kind of off-beat news from Utah.
"I read in the paper," she told me. "You can buy fireworks in Utah this year, after no fireworks for thirty-eight years. The fireworks companies got smart and reinterpreted the definition of sparklers. Anything that gives off a spark! So they are now selling ground fireworks–cones, fountains and others."
"Interesting, how business people will find a way to make money." I chuckled to myself.
The West was perhaps the last resort for fireworks.
Palisades Reservoir was soon visible on our left–the long, winding body of water looked graceful, surrounded by green hills. Water seemed to float along the bends of the hills. Who would believe it was man-made? So natural in this place, so Idaho-like. It was actually a part of the Snake River, the South Fork, that passed through the narrow valley, now turned into a lake for hydropower and for water control. The road went by its entire length and we gazed at the serene view.
The vast wilderness of pine trees, however, reminded me that a forest fire could ruin this beauty. How could one light fireworks in this area?
In the evening, armed with a large shopping bag of fireworks, my sons and I went to the open field near our house. The cows that mooed during the day had already gone home. We were ready to have some fun. I took out a plastic bottle and lit a Roman Candle from it. However, as soon as the sparks started to fly, the bottle fell and the Roman Candle went straight to a bush. I watched with horror as sparks and smoke came out of the little shaggy mass.
With courage I put rocks around the bottle, and lit another. This time it went nicely up in the sky. A nice display of color. But the next one bent and moved toward the neighborhood. My heart sank.
"Oh God. Let it not fall on a roof."
I imagined a headline in the Post Register: Federal Government Employee Starts Fire in Rose Neilson Subdivision–Illegal Fireworks Involved.
My children cheered, "That was great, Daddy. Let’s do another."
But I gaped at the roofs in the neighborhood. They were mostly made of shingles, not flat concrete roofs as in Calcutta. They could easily catch fire. I decided I needed a better place to light these fireworks.
"We have so many, Daddy!"
They both clamored for more, but I couldn't bring myself to light another rocket.
"Why don't you take them to the sand dunes?" Catherine suggested the next day.
My two sons' faces brightened up. Yes. The perfect solution!
The sun stays up late in this area, and my sons were eager. They lit the smaller fireworks in the driveway even though the sun could still be seen on the horizon–the tanks marched, black snakes emerged, and colorful smoke covered the driveway. Finally, it was dark enough to go to the sand dunes.
Sand dunes by Robert Bower
People came to the sand dunes to ride horses, boys and girls slid down the sand hills with thrills and shrieks, and older kids brought drinks. But at this hour of dusk it was disquietingly quiet–no one around except for two men in an old car at one end. We marched up the hill. It was a long journey to the top, and when we reached there, a new view of Idaho Falls came to us: a light here and a light there, the picture of a thinly populated town getting ready to fall asleep. There were several other sand hills next to this big one, but no houses or trailers nearby. An ideal place to shoot fireworks.
I lit a bottle rocket, and it went up smoothly. I lit several others. The Roman candles displayed wonderful colors in the sky. My two sons took off their shoes and ran around. They chased each other while I lit the fireworks. They were happy we came for fireworks, but playing was equally fun. I lit away several more rockets. Then I saw headlights of a car coming toward the hill and stopping at the bottom. My heart stopped for a moment. "Is that a police car?" Had someone complained?
But police cars would have red and yellow lights on top. A chilling thought came to me; I was alone on top of a hill with two very young boys, and no one could hear our cry for help. I was not sure what there was to be afraid of, yet I was unsettled. It was the city upbringing that couldn't stand a lone adventure. I needed a crowd around me to feel comfortable, safe. Several boys got out of the car and went away in a different direction.
I remembered, Willis told me, what young boys did with Roman Candles. They lit those inside the Seventeen Mile Cave on Route 20. This was known to be a hiding place for horse thieves in the old days. The boys played games in the long, dark cave. Each boy would have a pipe to shoot Roman Candles at each other. "Imagine a bright light coming toward you in the pitch darkness of the cave?" Sometimes they would light several and shoot in succession guessing the direction of an opponent. "You must duck and shoot back."
"Isn't it dangerous in the cave, when you can't see anything?" I asked.
Willis only looked at me and I understood his unspoken words, "Can there be any excitement when there is no danger?"
The sand dunes were quiet, a large empty space under the sky, not like the cave. My children had no fear–they were happily running around the sand.
I lit a few more rockets, but my heart was not in it anymore. My inner child had escaped.
"Can a city boy make it in Idaho?" I asked myself.
Over the last few months I had come to know Willis. Fifty-three years old, white curly hair, and white beard surrounding a happy round face. Willis was different. A doctorate from Berkeley in nuclear engineering, but he had no pompousness about his education. What amazed me most was that Willis spent long hours at local cowboy bars playing pool with men who had never gone to college; many had not even finished high school. "They call me Doc," Willis said with a smile.
On Friday, July 3, Willis asked me, "Why don't you come over to my place in the morning? I'll take you to Bernie's to start the celebration."
"Who's Bernie?"
"An old lady, a friend."
"Where do you go to see fireworks?" I asked Willis.
"We rent a room at the Westbank."
"In a hotel?"
"We'll have a party–lots of food and drink. Hard liquor, you know. And we'll watch fireworks from the balcony. It's fun that way."
I couldn't understand how, in this wide open country, Willis preferred to watch the Fourth of July fireworks from a balcony on the top floor of a hotel?
When we went to Bernie's house, I didn't know what to expect. She was sixty-five years old and dressed in a long white skirt with red and blue flowers, a white top with frills, and a colorful vest, reminding me of the colonial times. "I'm glad you could come to our Independence Day celebration," she told me. Several people from the neighborhood were already in her house. They knew each other. I was the only newcomer.
"Are we ready?" Willis asked her.
We formed a line: Bernie at the head with a flute in her hand, and others with different instruments–several kazoos, an oboe, a little child's drum, and some with pots and pans. Willis gave me a metal gong from the top of her display case.
We followed her to the outside like a band of children.
The procession went to the backyard, and started to play America the Beautiful, all marching behind Bernie. The pots and pans joined in the music. As we strolled outside, it became a fun procession. Several marched with distinct body gestures, some purposely waddling. The music was not in unison and the marchers were not together, either. But gaiety was apparent. Soon my hand started to beat the gong and I happily marched behind Willis.
We went by a little path through her garden, by the flower bushes and the trees. All knew it was frolic–"march any way your heart desires." The tune changed to Battle Hymn of the Republic. And we went out of the garden and around the house. By the time the little march was over, I realized it was their own Independence Day celebration. My stuffiness finally melted in the joy of the occasion. Bernie's husband had passed away eight years before, but she still followed what they did together on the Fourth of July–a little parade in their own backyard.
Inside, a hearty breakfast was waiting. Bernie had baked for several nights to prepare for this occasion. Some guests also brought homemade goodies. Willis stood out prominently among all: he wore a specially wide stars and stripes tie–bright red, blue, and white, and a white top hat. This was his singular outfit for the Fourth of July, and he obviously enjoyed wearing it for the occasion. I wished I had something special to wear instead of the regular office clothes I was wearing. Willis was so cheerful. I wondered with some sadness if I could ever experience the true feelings of the day as these people did; perhaps they couldn't be generated unless one was born here.
I remembered the Independence Day in India, August 15, but felt that it was very sterile. As a young boy, I participated in marches, and heard lots of speeches by politicians during the day, but there was not much else for a boy to do. It was the same for the grownups. The struggle to survive was so overwhelming in India that people could not afford the luxury of nostalgia. That is also the way it is in the big cities of the United States. The Fourth of July is a day off to rest and catch up on work needed to be done. The feeling of these people in this little parade in Idaho, a homegrown family tradition, cannot be reproduced anywhere else.
In my time in the fifties in India, Independence Day celebrations were primarily a celebration of the very recent freedom from British Rule. It was a day of remembrance for those who gave their lives and praise for those who fought against the British. A joyous day, and many, who could afford to buy one, raised flags on their houses. It was also a day for the politicians to earn credit with the public by making patriotic speeches and reminding people how they had personally suffered to win India's freedom. In the U.S., after 200 years of freedom, it has become a celebration by individuals for the freedom they have. A personal celebration rather than a public one, focused on the individual blessings and joy.
I remembered how, as a young boy, I had proudly gotten up and rushed to my school to join the "march" early in the morning. We paraded through the streets with older boys holding the tri-color flag of India at the front, and occasionally shouting, "Jindabad (long live India)." Then I returned home, hungry, and had nothing to do the rest of the day. No barbeque at home and no block parties; no parades with beautiful floats, and no fireworks. Nor would there be the big, colorful tents that popped up everywhere during the religious puja festival in the fall. Independence Day observance took a backseat to puja celebrations, when each neighborhood vibrated with pride and joy.