Last spring the Richardsons drove north to Boise via 95, gung-ho and ready for adventure. Finding a really nice, large turnout near the Oregon-Idaho border, baby Kait would finally be able to eat. Emily and I decided that a little exploration of the surrounding area was in order; grabbing our things we headed for the brush. First, we discovered a bovine carcass resting in a clearing. It was stripped clean, bleached and sanitized by the high-desert. We followed it's remains about 100 yards to an obvious coyote den. There were cow bones, cow hair, coyote leavings and refuse from the highway littered inside a small bed of broken sage and trampled weeds. A castle of carnage and blood lust, cow head resting in the center of the bed. I thought that was the worst until we sprinted out of the field to stumble upon this disturbing site. At first I thought, "dude, it's just a pile of taters some lazy hobbit of a man dropped out of the back of his truck in lack of a nearby landfill." Emma and I ran up to it when the horrid stench and swarm of flies invaded both smell and sight. It was literally alive, maggots crawling on some of the more rotten "eggs." Seriously, you would get within a few feet of this thing and would be instantly be transported to from 20% to 110% humidity, almost mesmerizing. I can't imagine how putrid and festery this thing would be if we had discovered it in late June. If you are driving through rural Oregon, or rural Nevada for that matter, it's worth a stop the minute you see a pile of rotten taters. Incidentally, we almost missed the exit for the Charbonneau burial site and almost flipped the truck on this journey. It had rained heavily the night before and temps dropped below freezing by the morning. I tried to bring the truck to a gingerly stop when I lost control on the inch-thick sheet of road-ice. Good Times!
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