Potato Grower

4 POTATO GROWER | IDAHO ANNUAL 2018 Between the Rows What Were They Thinking? Farming in the high desert is no picnic. I love the high desert country of the Snake River Plain. I think it has its own special breed of beauty that you really have to know to understand. To most of you reading this, that probably makes some modicum of sense. To the majority of the American public, though, I'm guessing this line of thinking represents some sort of mental illness akin to flat-Earthism. They just can't see how parched, endless miles of sagebrush and lava rock and a couple lonely junipers can measure up to the lush emeralds of the Northwest or the grandiosity of Arizona's canyon country—or for that matter, to the man-made wonders of the world's great cities. While the allure of the high desert is obvious to me, a native son, I can understand the skeptical eyebrow-raising thrown my way when I talk about it in wistful, reverential tones. And once I put a little thought and effort into understanding folks' there's-no- way-you-can-call-this-place-pretty sentiments, I sometimes get to wondering: What were those early settlers thinking when they made their way to southern Idaho and decided to become farmers? Seriously, if you're a farmer in southern Idaho, just take a drive a few miles—or a couple hundred yards, as the case may be—to the nearest uncultivated piece of ground and take a look. Even with today's gargantuan tractors, wicked brush choppers and zillion-row discs, the thought of turning that into farmland is a pretty daunting one. Now imagine doing that with a couple horses, a single-row plow and maybe a shovel. That's crazy, right? Most of those pioneers had come from east of the Mississippi, where land had been farmed for at least a couple generations and where, you know, rain actually fell from the sky. Yes, a significant portion of Idaho's early farmers were Mormon pioneers who had been forced west by religious persecution. But I can't imagine that means they were thrilled at the prospect of trying to raise anything in such a seemingly harsh and empty hinterland. It begs the question: What were they thinking? Well, I'll tell you what they were thinking. They were thinking it would be hard, maybe the hardest thing they or any of their ancestors or descendants would ever do. They were thinking of ways to get water where their crops, livestock and families would need it. They were thinking they'd never seen temperatures drop from 80 degrees to 10 below in a matter of a week. More than once they probably thought, "If I can't shoot an elk or deer or antelope or dadgum rabbit today, my children might starve." They were probably thinking they missed home, wherever that used to be. But I just bet they were also thinking how pretty the quakies up on the hill looked when they turned yellow and orange in the fall. They wondered how the big cranes and pelicans and eagles and, yes, even buzzards winging by overhead managed to lift themselves off the ground. They marveled at the beauty of a sunrise over the Bannock Range and a sunset over the Sawtooths. Once they got a little infrastructure built up, they probably thought the land was a whole lot more fertile than they had expected. Eventually, they got to the point where they could stop in the midst of some back-breaking task, wipe their brow, pause for a moment and think, "How lucky am I to be able to call this beautiful place home?" Most importantly, I believe, they were thinking, "You know what? We can do this." I was fortunate enough to get out into some fields in the Magic Valley during spud harvest earlier this fall. I debated in my mind for a while which route to take from Idaho Falls, and ultimately decided a drive across the desert would be good for my soul. It was a cloudy day, and the countryside on either side of Highways 20 and 26 exuded a lonely, almost ethereal beauty. Cruising past farm fields near Arco, Carey, Dietrich and a dozen other little hamlets along the way, my mind wandered back to those early Idaho farmers. What were they thinking? For that matter, what is any farmer in this country now, with 21st-century technology and amenities, thinking? The second I stepped out of my car and caught the sweet smell of freshly dug potatoes infused with a hint of distant sagebrush, I had my answer. Even with today's gargantuan tractors, wicked brush choppers and zillion-row discs, turning sagebrush and lava rock into farmland is daunting.

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