I didn't know what was under the train tracks, but that was the point. The track was elevated on top of a small bluff that ran parallel to West Yellowstone Highway, a road that ran right through my hometown of Idaho Falls in eastern Idaho. The highway made it possible for tourists to pretty much bypass our town altogether as they made their way on to their actual destinations like Jackson Hole, Wyoming and Yellowstone Park.
We drove that road all the time, on our way to our dad's law firm or the arts center my mom worked, or to pick up KFC to take to our grandparents house on Sundays after church. And every time we did I would glue my face to the window of our blue GMC suburban, because if you weren't looking closely you'd miss it, an opening in the bluff under the train tracks. It was a halfmoon shape with stones framing the edge. It seemed to have no discernable purpose but every time I caught a glimpse I could see light coming through from the other side, light that was dancing off of a cross stitch of thin trees with light green leaves, the delicate kind of green of something new in the world.
