At the bottom of our gravel driveway, I walked a short section of a small side tributary to the Middle Fork of the Potlatch River that borders the property. I focused closely on the meditative rhythmic sound of walking on gravel and how it synchronizes with my leg muscles contracting and relaxing. I stepped off the dusty gravel road, where the moist, cold morning air changes from a mixture of dust and smoke to the sweet, musty scent of plants decaying back into the soil. I noticed the taste of the mornings' coffee laced with cream is swirling over my tongue as I turn to ascend alongside the creek. Once teeming with spawning salmon, this small creek, is now dry as a result of the neighbor's farming practices. A Northern Flicker eerily announces her presence with a high pitched squeal that emanates like a rifle shot from somewhere high in the Cottonwood grove. As I move higher up the creek, the air smells sweeter and less dusty. I see a pair of Mourning Doves and remember that I read somewhere that Mourning Doves mate for life.