I grew up in the metropolis of Adrian, Oregon—if you can call it that. I spent my entire childhood in the same house, gazing out my bedroom window at Three Fingers, Succor Creek Canyon, and the Owyhee Mountains of Idaho. From the time I was three months old, my family took me camping at Succor Creek State Park every October. As I got older, we spent even more time exploring the lower Owyhee Canyon, Owyhee Reservoir, and the surrounding hills near Adrian. Each trip sparked my imagination, turning the landscape into a world of endless possibilities. The towering rock formations became castles, the winding rivers transformed into secret passageways, and the vast open spaces felt like uncharted territory waiting to be discovered. The Owyhee wasn’t just a place—it was a canvas for adventure, a place where curiosity roamed as freely as the wind through the canyons. Every hike, every campsite, every bend in the river held the promise of something new, something unknown, something magical.
For me, the Owyhee isn’t just a place—it’s home. Just like the house you grew up in, where every room holds a memory, the Owyhee holds the memories of my childhood. When you grow up in the same house, you hope it never changes. You want to walk through the same doorway, see the same walls, hear the familiar creak in the floorboards, and feel the comfort of something that has always been there. Even as time moves on and you grow older, you hope that when you return, the house will still feel like home—that the essence of what made it special remains untouched. The Owyhee is no different. It’s a place that has shaped me, just like a childhood home shapes the person you become. The Lower Owyhee and Succor Creek were my front door—the first thing I saw, the familiar welcome to my world. They were the entryway into something larger, something I would come to understand more deeply with time.
Growing up, I saw photos from all over the Owyhee—images of towering cliffs, winding rivers, and vast open spaces. Each one fascinated me, revealing another layer of its beauty, yet none of them ever felt quite real. A picture could capture a moment, but it couldn’t hold the silence of a canyon at dawn, the warmth of the sun against ancient rock, or the endless sense of space that made the Owyhee feel like home. It’s like looking at a photograph of a painting your grandparent created—capturing its essence but never quite conveying the depth of the brushstrokes, the richness of the colors, or the intricacies that make it irreplaceable. And just like you wouldn’t want someone to carelessly scribble on that masterpiece with crayon or pen—disrupting its beauty with harsh, artificial marks—you wouldn’t want industrial development to do the same to the Owyhee. Power lines stretching across the horizon, wind turbines towering where open sky once reigned, or massive mining operations carving into the land are no different than careless scrawls on a priceless painting. They disrupt the composition, overshadow the details, and leave scars that can never be erased. The Owyhee, like that one-of-a-kind artwork, isn’t something that can simply be restored once defaced. Some marks are permanent, and once they’re made, the original vision is lost forever.
By my late twenties, I had started exploring deeper into the Owyhee, much like a child finally learning to crawl and discovering new rooms in their home—each canyon, ridge, and river bend revealing something new, something that had always been there but was now mine to experience. Just as a child moves beyond the familiar walls of their nursery and begins to understand the layout of their house, I ventured beyond the landscapes I had known since childhood, realizing how vast and intricate the Owyhee truly was. With each trip, I uncovered hidden pockets of beauty—waterfalls tucked away in basalt amphitheaters, rock formations shaped by time and weather, ancient petroglyphs whispering stories of those who came before. The more I explored, the more I understood that I had only been living in a small corner of my home. There were entire wings I had never stepped into, hallways I had never walked, and stories embedded in the land that I had yet to hear. The Owyhee was more than just a backdrop to my childhood—it was a living, breathing place that had shaped generations before me, and now, it was revealing itself to me in ways I had never imagined.
But exploring the Owyhee wasn’t just about discovering new places—it was also about uncovering its past. Just like in any childhood home, stories are passed down—some happy, some difficult. Parents share memories of what the house was like before you were born, the changes it has seen, and the moments that shaped their lives within its walls. Over time, some of those stories fade, just like the small scars on your skin or the nicks in the walls that you don’t always notice. You may not remember how they got there, but sometimes, with enough curiosity and the right questions, you uncover their history. The Owyhee is no different. As I explored deeper into its canyons and plateaus, I became fascinated with the stories embedded in the landscape—the history of Native Americans who lived here for thousands of years, the settlers and ranchers who followed, and the adventurers who sought to understand its rugged beauty. Some of those stories remain strong, passed down through generations, while others have been lost, buried beneath time, just like the forgotten marks and memories in an old home. But with patience and a willingness to look closer, history reveals itself, waiting to be rediscovered.
And just like a childhood home, knowing its history makes you care even more about keeping it intact.
The same applies to the Owyhee itself. It has been a place of connection, survival, and tradition for generations—shaped by those who have lived, worked, and explored here. Understandably, people worry about how change might affect what they cherish. But protecting the Owyhee wouldn’t mean erasing its past or shutting people out—it would ensure that its landscapes, history, and way of life endure, just as maintaining a house keeps it livable. A fresh coat of paint may change its look slightly, but the home remains the same. Likewise, thoughtful protections and responsible stewardship could safeguard the Owyhee while preserving the character, access, and traditions that make it unique.
I hope that one day, the Owyhee is protected—not just for me, but for everyone who finds a sense of home, adventure, or solace in its vast landscapes. I want my kids to see it the way I did growing up, to experience the same silence, the same wonder, the same feeling of belonging to something bigger than themselves. But it’s not just for them—it’s for the hikers seeking solitude, the families making memories, the hunters and anglers who rely on its healthy ecosystems, and the communities that have lived alongside it for generations. The Owyhee is my home, and as I grow older, I want it to stay that way—not just for my children, but for all who come after, so that decades from now, they can stand on its cliffs, walk its canyons, and feel what I felt: the unbroken spirit of a place that remains wild, beautiful, and unchanged.
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