On a junket to the Priest Lake Museum to view a moonshining exhibit in the summer of 2014, I encountered my friend, Kris Runberg Smith, and asked how the book I knew she was working on about Priest Lake was going. She looked at me imploringly. “I just want it to be done,” she said. Continue reading →
Author Archives: Marylyn Cork
About Marylyn CorkMarylyn Cork has lived in Priest River more than fifty years and in Bonner County more than sixty years. Writing since she was nine years old, she retired as editor of the Priest River Times in 2001. She enjoys reading, gardening, hiking, camping, and traveling.
Rocking R Memories By Marylyn Cork Spring has come to Missouri Ridge, that low rampart of humpbacked granite knobs running westerly down Dufort Road in North Idaho’s Bonner County. My father, who owned part of it, always called it a … Continue reading →
The boy was sulking. Even sixteen-year-olds do that sometimes. In this case, my grandson Jesse was intent on trying to convince me to drive my truck to Priest Lake so he could take his little fishing boat along on a camping trip.
It’s a rowboat, basically, although he does have a motor for it and takes it out on small lakes and the Pend Oreille River near his home.
“There’s no point in it,” I remonstrated. “Your Uncle Kurt has decided to go along on this camping trip, and he’s taking his fishing boat. You won’t need yours.”
Still, he sulked, until we arrived an hour later and he got his first glimpse of that huge, beautiful lake, one of northern Idaho’s celebrated Big Three. (Priest Lake has 23,000 surface acres and nearly eighty miles of shoreline.) Perhaps Indian Creek Bay, at the campground, looked a bit intimidating for a boy in a rowboat. With a lighter heart, he clambered aboard his uncle’s eighteen-footer and away they went, along with his two teenaged cousins, intent on catching a few of Priest Lake’s celebrated mackinaw trout. We three women stayed behind to set up camp. Continue reading →
On a June day in 1982, I came home from my maternal grandmother’s funeral to find a scraggly little American Redbud tree blooming in my front yard for the first time since I’d planted it there several years earlier. The tree had been a gift from Grandma, who’d heard me say I’d like to have such a tree, and had gone out and bought it for me. It had never flourished and I’d given up on it and decided to let it die that summer. It did just that, but first it bloomed, paying tribute, I have always believed, to the memory of a remarkable woman. Continue reading →