Before the World Wakes

There are places that become stitched into the fabric of a life. For me, North Idaho will always be that kind of place.

From 1998 through 2008, I lived inside a decade that now feels golden. Springtime meant fly fishing the St. Joe and the Coeur d’Alene—the sound of water folding over stone, cedar scent rising with the morning mist. Summer belonged to the lakes: Hayden crappies and Lake Coeur d’Alene pike. Glassy dawns. Hidden bays that felt private.

Autumn was elk in the high timber, bow in hand, the hush before a bugle. Later came deer camp near Orofino with my dad and sons, canvas tent walls holding back the cold, woodsmoke and crisp air, conversations that only happen by firelight.

Coeur d’Alene was a resort town then, and it felt like home. Summer had its tourists, but after Labor Day, the town exhaled. We had room. We had quiet. Small-town traditions became part of our family routine.

Years have reshaped Idaho’s panhandle. The same beauty I fell in love with drew a nation. Roads grew busy, the quiet scattered, and much of the old charm gave way to all that is modern.

I have come to accept that while it is entirely possible to return to the place of cherished memories, time has moved on—and the nostalgia with it. I feel a sense of mourning.

This morning, I wake before my 3:30 a.m. alarm. A pot of coffee brews, a thermos waiting to be filled in the hushed darkness. With my gear loaded and the boat hitched, I pull onto a dark highway, almost empty.

That old feeling returns.

It feels familiar again, like 25 years ago. Not because the clock has turned back, but because peace still lives in an earlier hour.

Not to recreate the past, but to step into the present with both feet.

That’s the work now.

Stay in the game. Continue to greet the sunrise. Show up for this amazing life. Make a new memory.

And live fully for another day.