Dusk on the Palouse

Stepping outside for the evening dog potty, the cool of the settling night air brought instant relief from the heat of summer. The moon appeared massive and low – the Man in the Moon eyeballing me from the horizon while shedding increasingly intense light on the rain-starved landscape.

As the setters scattered in the dim of evening, the stillness became most obvious. Nary a leaf turned on the crab apple or lilacs. The scream of a juvenile Great-Horned Owl pierced the tranquility, and for a brief moment, the typically irritating sound was music to my ears, connecting me to my modest homestead among the vastness of wheat stubble.

Owl siblings chimed in, then an adult further off. A mule deer bounded up the hillside where Ali and I had planted a grove of pawpaw, persimmon, and elderberry. Their silhouettes danced across the wheat field against a crimson backdrop that was flanked by the fading blue of a cloudless eastern sky – a scene fit for a Thomas Kincaid painting.

Shadows began to drop behind the various barns and outbuildings that stood ghostly gray as corrugate galvanized metal siding does. Black locust loomed overhead, boney and dendritic. A fleeting scent of sweetness from the wheat and powdery soils wafted gently, reminding me of the chill of imminent darkness as I traversed the wheat country, bow in hand, in archery seasons past.

Mesmerized by the last few songbirds flitting their way to bed, the lonesome howl of the distant coyote, and the low hum of wheat being harvested under headlights, I suddenly realized that neither I nor my setters had stirred for some time. We stood statuesque on the lawn, breathing the saccharine air and taking in the chorus of the night critters. My youngest, Zeta, stood on point, head cocked, listening to the rustle of a rodent as it scurried beneath weeds.

To my left, Kea stood wagging, ears erect, head on a swivel. She too, was intent on the awakening of the nocturnal. The golden tones of the fields rolled under the soft glow of the failing sunlight, still reflecting their vibrance as moonglow overtook our small slice of habitat.

Homesteading is a job in itself, not meant for those with day jobs and other hobbies, but it's the life we live, albeit playing perpetual catch-up. It's these moments when the earth and surrounding ecosystem catch my attention that I am reminded of the soul replenishment that comes from working the land.

Wildlife competes for our food resources through the predator-prey cycle. It was here that pup Zeta hunted her first birds – a couple of plump valley quail from our strong home covey. Owls hunt over the chicken run and pluck pheasant from habitats in flux. Gophers snack on our orchard saplings and produce. Raccoons steal chicken eggs, and coyotes hunt the lot of them.

For a brief moment, the only inhabitants that were known to my setters and I were thriving, rejuvenated by the perfection of nightfall. The woes of trying times vanish at twilight. The yearning to see grasslands and shrubs recover the fallow grounds, to feel the tug of a mountain trout against a light fly line, and to hear the rush of wings as a rooster pheasant blows cover sent a shudder down my spine.

Upon locking the chicken run, the girls and I resumed the nightly routine and headed for the house. There were teeth to be brushed and winks to be caught before the dawn of another work day. Labor paid for my opportunity to live the homestead life and what my wife and I perceive as the American Dream. A dream that others held long before us. The homestead looked quite different more than a century ago when the property was originally settled. Back when the chicken shack served as a bunkhouse.

The cry of the young owls faded with the beginning of their hunt, about the time my head hit the pillow. Moments hence, the glow from the eastern sky prodded the shift change for the natural world. Owls and coyotes gave way to kingbirds, juncos, and mourning doves, and I began my day in anticipation of the serenity of dusk on the Palouse.

Correction: The print version of this article had the incorrect headline, "A partridge welcome to the Palouse"