I was born in our old farmhouse three miles north of Sandpoint, Idaho, August 25, 1933. Our little farm raised mostly stumps and a few weeds but otherwise didn't amount to much, except it was a wonderful place for a boy to grow up. The farm was located in a valley between two ranges of the Rocky Mountains, the Selkirks and the Cabinets. Sandpoint was located on the shores of spectacular Lake Pend Oreille, at that time one of the great fishing lakes in the country.

By the time I was ten, my friends and I were already backpacking, usually up Schweitzer Creek, which tumbled down out of the mountains a couple of miles from our homes. The creek was tiny but the adventures large, with every dark night filled with imagined terrors. Never have I been so glad to be greeted by first light of morning than on those first trips up Schweitzer. I know now that those early outings were not only wonderful adventures but great training for life ahead, particularly in learning to control fear of the unknown. They have also provided me with a great deal of material for my writing.

My mother was a country schoolteacher, usually teaching all eight grades in little one-room schools tucked away in remote mountain valleys. These were primitive places. The school at Squaw Valley was a one-room log cabin heated by an old barrel stove and lit by kerosene lanterns. Not only did Mom teach all eight grades there, she chopped the firewood, hauled the drinking water from the creek, shoveled the snow out of the path to the privy, handled all the janitorial duties, cooked and served hot lunches, put on school plays and assorted parties for the pupils, and, on weekends, arranged card parties and dances for the adults of the community. Oh, and to some extent, looked after my sister, Patricia, and to an even lesser extent, me. Even though I was supposed to be one of Mom's pupils in first and then second grade, I was pretty much allowed to come and go as I pleased. Indeed, I spent much more time messing about in the creek and in the surrounding woods than I ever did in school. I thought my mother and I were in perfect agreement on this arrangement, until I received my final report card at the end of second grade. My own mother had flunked me! The reason given: Too many absences! Mom explained later that her actual reason for flunking me was that she thought I was too immature for second grade. A likely story.

After my father died, when I was six, we moved back to our farm and Mom taught math at the junior high school in Sandpoint. My sister was very smart even skipped entire grades. I, on the other hand, distinguished myself as a student of unwavering mediocrity. Looking back, I don't know why I didn't apply myself in school, since I had to be there anyway. Although I put forth an absolute minimum of effort in school, I was not without ambition. From the age of six, I intended to be an artist, and I drew and painted constantly, turning out hundreds and probably thousands of drawings and paintings over my school years. Although I never became an artist, I think all the effort I poured into drawing and painting helped me a greatly as a writer. There isn't too much difference between painting with paints and painting with words, except the latter is a lot less messy.

While still in high school, I started working summers on the dams that were being built on the Clark Fork River. I drove trucks, serviced heavy equipment, assisted drillers, ran a jack hammer, and one year worked as a highscaler, a job which consisted of dangling from a rope over a steep cliff and clearing away loose rock. I loved it. Then one of the other highscalers got killed when rock fell on him, and I decided I didn't love highscaling anymore. I started thinking very seriously about going to college.

I saved enough money from construction work to get me through my freshman years at Washington State College (now Washington State University). Because my academic career so far had been distinguished only by its unrelenting mediocrity, I feared I might not be smart enough to survive in college. My Freshman English Comp teacher, I'm sure, shared my view. Every week we had to write a little essay for his class. My first half dozen essays came back with F's. Bit by bit, however, I became fascinated with writing and began to spend as much time on writing essays as I had once spent on drawing pictures. This diligence paid off with a major breakthrough: I received a D! Then came a C, a B, an A, several A's and finally, on my last essay, an A-plus! There was also a note from the professor that he had recommended me for honors English the next semester. I was on my way to becoming a writer: