DRIVE TO IDAHO; Sam Shepard, Winnemucca & my dad
“Girls like me like to kick it on a river bank..”
—Ella Langley, Country Boy’s Dream Girl
May 31st was a fifteen-hour drive to Idaho, something I have done a hundred times over. Driving out of L.A., the 14 gets us to the 395, then into Nevada, a cutover to the 95. From there, the Interstate 80 up to Winnemucca, where my dad was born. I remember going there with my family as a kid, but the only memory that stuck was The Griddle, a place that claims ‘Good Cookin’ since 1948.’ This is the place for pancakes in the state of Nevada.
My day was fueled by Ella Langley, Jessie Murph, Shaboozey, and eventually a little George Jones, George Straight, and Led Zeppelin. Ella Langley marks for me one of the freshest female country artists to land the recent spotlight – her nomination for Favorite Female Country Artist at the American Music Awards made a lot of sense, as did the win to Beyonce for Cowboy Carter (my other obsession – and that show is an entire Substack post).
This drive is through Paiute country. Pretty much all the way. Paiute and Shoshone. I always think of the Dann sisters when I drive through this country. They have been an inspiration to me for as long as I can remember, for the strength of their fight for land and rights. But it was their fight for the horses that caught my spirit as a young person. I grew up with the Challis [Idaho] band of mustangs, which moved along the East Fork of the Salmon River. I used to follow them, from a distance, on my own horse. All wild horses are threatened today, but the power of the Dann sisters somehow guides their freedom.
I saw a family of mustangs today in central Nevada, somewhere after Hawthorne, a picture-perfect assembly alongside the water. I often see rams on this stretch; they are one of the most regal and robust of the four-legged, negotiating the rock-face cliffs as they do. I have photographed my share of wild horses, but never a Ram.
I once road-tripped through Northern Nevada with Sam Shepherd (and my friend Elizabeth in tow). Sam and I had the idea to work on an experimental documentary called Nevada, born of our mutual fascination and reference for the state. The land, really, but also the place – the towns, the highways, the colors, the people, and the vast space that allows for something else to emerge.
We drove around Winnemucca, Sam’s version of the town. This included hitting the best bars, and passing by the various brothels at the edge of town. Not sure whether his knowledge was empirical or just bar-knowledge of the landmarks. From there, we made our way north and ended up at my dad’s hat shop in Donnelly, Idaho. Sam was a solid patron of my dad’s hats and loved all things of the authentic West.
Both Sam and my father died of Lou Garret’s disease.
I wish I knew where those hats ended up.
(Sam & dad at the hat shop)
Before my dad got sick, he came to Santa Fe and hung out for a few months while I was working on a show, waiting out the Valley County winter. As if Santa Fe’s winter could be mild to another… but it can be. During this time we spoke of years of life behind us, and at a point he asked if I’d consider taking the family name back: Priest. I had dropped all my last names when I was a teen – too much pain, too much memory, and too much to contend with. I took off when I was fifteen and left family and all that behind. But last year, I honored that conversation and took back his family name, so I am Heather Rae Priest.
Not too long ago, one of my dad's friends told me a story of their last trip to Winnemucca – a party trip. At some point, my dad wanted to go to the brothel, but first had to swing by the grocery store to get pork chops and potatoes. His friend said they went to the brothel, my dad made dinner for the staff, and they partied the night away. I dared to ask, did he patronize the brothel?
His friend said no. He just wanted to make them pork chops.
It should be noted that throughout Central Mountain, Idaho, my dad was famous for his pork chops. I never knew him to use anything but salt and pepper, but somehow, they were magic.
I do have an association with Nevada and men. Elko has hosted the Cowboy Poet Gathering for years and years, going back to the very early days of my dad's hat-making. He was a mule packer and a cowboy, and I’m not clear if the hat-making may have come out of necessity. I think it started with just cleaning and blocking the hats of his peers. But as time went on, and his body couldn’t cowboy or mule pack anymore, well, making hats was there.
From Winnemucca you get back on 395 and head north. You’ll go through the Fort McDermitt reservation, and then cross into southeastern Oregon. Some miles later Rome, Oregon, and beyond that is Jordan Valley, one of my favorite rodeos of the region. My dad used to sell his hats at that rodeo, one that maintained that intimacy and charm.
Driving this country, you are feeling some of the finest High Desert a person can see in the American West.
