One of the saving graces of my life is owning a sailboat. I bought it with my buddy Jake Hagadone (brother to Reader Editor-in-Chief Zach Hagadone) about five years ago; and, after fixing it up inside and out, the Free Spirit has become one of my favorite ways to escape the madness of the day.
We share the boat well, each of us averaging at least a few missions a month. Whether it’s camping out for a weekend or just motoring out to bob around and drink a few beers, every time I climb aboard that boat, life slows down to the pace that really matters. Petty bullshit is not allowed on the boat — just good vibes. There are absolutely no exceptions to this rule.
The heart over Hope. Photo by Cynthia Mason
Each trip out of the marina, I look up to the mountains and give a nod to the heart over Hope. It was created by either an old logging clear-cut or a landslide and resembles a big heart looking over us all.
The heart over Hope is a bit of a totem for me — a symbol of the love that these mountains and this amazing lake regularly give to our lives.
When I see it, I think of all the men and women in boats over the years who have also glanced up at that heart and smiled. I think of those old-timers of the past in their wooden Chris-Crafts, puttering along and looking at a shoreline devoid of the houses that line it today. I think of the ancient fishermen who smoked their pipes and waited patiently for the big ones to nibble at their hooks. I think of the behatted buddies cavorting in homemade skiffs, the ladies in layered skirts who were tougher than most men are today. I think of the ones who came before us; the ones who knew North Idaho deep inside their souls.
The heart over Hope makes me think of the arc of history and how we’re all connected by this magical place. As more and more things change around us, the simple things that remain seem to matter more and more.
It’s easy to lose hope when you think about how badly we’ve lost our way in the U.S. We are as divided as we’ll ever be right now and the outlook ahead remains bleak. Civility is a thing of the past. Decency is dying out. Cruelty is entertainment now; a bloodsport that is claiming more and more “fans” every day.
The ones who made it to high ground have pulled up the ladders behind them, and now sit tossing rocks at those trying to grasp at the rungs to save themselves.
Yet, for just those few hours every week or so when I can shut off the engine, hoist the mainsail and jib, and feel the wind push me around this lake surrounded by mountains, I’m truly connected to the environment. I’m one with the small town in which I was born and raised. The only noises are the water against my hull, the wind against my sails and the ice rattling around in my glass.
On long passages across the lake to and from camping spots, I’ll let my mind wander. I’ll remember old friends long gone, familiar faces I haven’t seen in decades and funny stories from the past.
Living in the same small town where one was born can be a curse, too. Sometimes I wish I lived in a place where I wouldn’t feel pain every time I saw a big change.
But it can also be a blessing. Not everyone can feel this level of connection to the place in which they live. Not everyone still runs into their elementary school teachers in the grocery store, or frequents a restaurant in which they remember eating as a kid. In a place like Sandpoint, which is changing more and more every year, it’s not the additions that we remember, it’s the things that are gone or taken away. Those are the memories that keep some of us up at night.
The heart over Hope helps remind me that we are stewards of this place, not owners. We, the lucky few who can still afford to live here, are merely caretakers. Once you let that mentality take hold, life in North Idaho gets a lot simpler.
It’s not about how much you can grab; but, rather, how gently you hold what you have. I’ll be the first to recognize that I’m damn lucky to have what I do. Things could be better — sure — but they could be a lot worse.
No matter how bad the storm blows outside our little shire in North Idaho, if we keep the home fires burning bright enough, we can stave off the darkness for a little bit longer. Long enough, perhaps, to find our own hearts over Hope to guide the way back home.
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Sandpoint in Pictures
Filmmaker Jimmy Matlosz of the Idaho Film Company has made a series of mini documentaries about influential Sandpoint locals, including the late Dann Hall and Erik Daarstad as well as icons Diane Michaels and Dan Shook. He is currently working on a series of interviews connected to the history of the Panida Theater. Jimmy is a 30-year veteran filmmaker who's work can be seen at dpmatlosz.com.
Meet the Reader
Ever wonder who makes the Reader happen? Here's a behind-the-scenes look pieced together by summer 2017 intern McCalee Cain in which Ben, Cameron and Lyndsie explain what exactly about the Reader keeps them coming back to their shabby (but well-loved) office each week.
