After a recent ancestry study unearthed generations of regional roots, a wave of homesickness stirred. I assured myself I’d return to my origins soon, and to the setting of a disaster film—Roger Donaldson’s 1997 volcano epic, Dante’s Peak—that time had all but forgotten.
Every summer, I flee my obligations into the forest air up north. The scent of sweet-sharp pine sap settles like perfume over trails of crisp brown needles and silvery mist patches drifting up from the lakes. Evergreens carve sunlight into slats that wiggle in edgewise to kiss you. If you lose yourself in the right stretch of pines, you’ll not be disturbed by another soul, save for a chance deer, turkey, or, if you’re lucky, a bald eagle.
For many, America is best embodied by its metropolitan sprawls. For others, like myself, the spirit of this country feels intrinsically woven into its open wilderness and quiet corners, where mankind has wielded a softer touch. At present, one of those corners—the graceful yet modest Inland Northwest—suffers from wildfires that have destroyed countless homes and smothered the region in smoke…