Duane Hagadone, cutting through the waters of the lake he loved. Thirty years ago, I came to Idaho to work for a most extraordinary gentleman. And on Saturday, April 24, the call I didn’t want to hear reached me way down south, in an idyllic seaside village that is now my winter home, a place and a life that gentleman quite frankly made possible. When I joined the tiny
Priest River Times as a writer, photographer and chief bottle washer in the chilly fall of 1991, the owner of that paper and many others, Duane Hagadone, was already a legend. Long before I met him, his signature was evident: in the high standards we were all expected to meet, in the way my publisher, who called him DBH, spoke of him in awe and admiration, in the elegance of his hotel.
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