I have a confession: I am, regrettably, not an Idaho native. Although I’ve been here long enough that a good share of my neighbors and fellow 4Cers in Cassia County think I’m a native, and I have now lived the majority of my life in our fair state, I am not a born and bred Gem Stater. I don’t really know the protocol. The fact that I’m not a native either precludes me from offering criticism or grants me license to do such. I’m not sure which. Either way, I’ve always thought that my not-quite-native status, coupled with my affection for the state, has lent me a unique perspective on all things Idaho.
All five of my kids are products of the Idaho public school system – more specifically, Cassia County School District and Oakley Elementary and Oakley Jr./Sr. High School. Perhaps my favorite byproduct of that education is the boot camp otherwise known as Mr. Archibald’s fourth-grade class. Although Mr. A struggled with the pronunciation of some of the major landmarks of the northern reaches of the state (I’m looking at you, Lake Pend Oreille), a major point of emphasis in Mr. Archibald’s curriculum was Idaho history. It was through my kids’ dedication to his lessons that I learned each of Idaho’s 44 counties and their corresponding license plate designations and county seats. I use what I learned as a young and middle-aged father in Mr. A’s fourth-grade class nearly every day.
Today’s lesson will partially focus on a tiny hamlet in the rough, remote country of the west-central part of the state: Council. Just to help you keep up, Council is the county seat of Adams County, or 2A, if you’re driving and checking plates of the truck you’re passing in Weiser. Besides some of the best football players ever to come out of the state’s eight-man ranks, perhaps Council’s greatest contribution to modern Americana lore is the annual Fourth of July porcupine races.
I’ve never been witness to the spectacle, but it’s on my bucket list, just ahead of Cheyenne Frontier Days and a spot or two below Gettysburg. I don’t know how the tradition started, but I wouldn’t be surprised if alcohol is part of the origin story. Nevertheless, the institution has persisted.
As I understand it, the night prior to the event, teams – often comprised of high school boys (imagine that) – scour the countryside to capture porcupines. At the appointed time, the large prickly rodents are released from their makeshift cages as the team members herd them across the football field. I suppose the first one across the appointed finish line wins. And not to worry, the porcupines are unharmed and returned back into the wild. I can’t help but wonder if there are ever any repeat porcupine contestants – and if so, are they more apt to be good or bad at racing?
In the area of northeastern Utah, where I grew up, porcupines were relatively plentiful. They seemed to thrive in the gambel oak-covered foothills. I rarely see a porcupine in Cassia County, but I know there are a few around. Just ask my dogs. They occasionally cross paths with one of the ambling yet potentially dangerous critters. I’ve never been with the dogs when they’ve decided to introduce themselves to a porcupine, but I’ve dealt with the aftermath of the encounters.
One early fall morning, I stepped out of the house into the unexpectedly cool air. It was the first morning I needed a jacket to fight off the chill that I knew would only grow more pronounced in the following weeks. Peculiar was the absence of my three slightly useful and overly friendly Idaho shag dogs, who usually greet me before I step off the porch. In the gray of the early morning, I could make out the outline of Hercules, sulking over by the gate of the horse pen. Under the tree, I spied his half-brother, Deets. Goose, the old female, was nowhere to be seen. Something was obviously amiss, and it didn’t take long to ascertain the source of their misery.
Each mutt looked like some mythical, anime-produced creature with dozens of inch-and-a-half spikes protruding from his face and chest. Goose wouldn’t show up until later that afternoon, but she was in the same condition. I found a pair of pliers and did what I could to extract most of the quills from Deets’ nose and face. Upon witnessing the early parts of the operation, Hercules ran off and hid under the chute, well aware that he was next in line.
I did what I could with the first patient, but it was clear I needed more muscle and sharper eyes to finish the job and yank the several quills that were buried in the roof of his mouth and his tongue. That afternoon, upon her return home from her job at the school, my wife and I enlisted the help of our good neighbor, Danielle. We stretched ol’ Deets out on the tailgate like we were doctoring a yearling with pinkeye and finished the job. We had to do some deceptive coaxing to get Hercules out of his hiding spot, but we captured him and performed the same treatment on both him and Goose. It was a tedious, time-consuming chore.
I cussed the dogs and questioned their sanity and their motives. They gave me no good answer, probably because, well, they’re dogs. Still, logic would dictate that once one of them got nailed by the porcupine's defenses, they’d abandon the ridiculous mission. But no. They had to persist until each of them became a walking pin cushion. It made no sense, yet still it happened.
As much as I was befuddled by my dogs’ persistence in their idiotic behavior, it didn’t take me long to notice a lot of human parallels, most of the examples coming from my own choices and life. It didn’t take long for me to compile a lengthy list of stupid, mostly avoidable things I’d done.
I don’t think I’m wrong in my assessment of human behavior. Most of the trouble we get ourselves in has been “gotten in” by someone long before we fell into the pool. Why is it that we so often choose to go after the porcupine when we can clearly see what happened to the last guy that tried it? I’m here to tell you, you can’t walk across the manure pit without losing your boot or through the milk parlor without the smell sticking to you. So take a lesson from me and a trio of stupid dogs. Leave the porcupine alone.
.webp?t=1687979285&width=640){kind=logo}
