This is Idaho. Drive through 16 miles of muddy, pot-holey spring roads to this frozen lake, pine-cloaked basin below the mountain.

Is this Gods’ country? Is that Him up there, lonely on man-fragile skis cutting slow zigs down the slope? There’s somebody up on that mountain!

No. The deep black eyes of empy oil drums say no. There’s no one. This is Idaho.

— James Bertolino lives north of Bellingham.