Week 53a - Idaho

I wouldn't have thought people would want to be riding ATVs in the wee hours, but at Bannock Pass there was a steady traffic of trucks loading and unloading through much of the night, and I could see tiny headlights and tail lights creeping over the mountains in the dark. Maybe they were all getting in position for the start of Elk season like those Minnesotans. I was up to see the sun rise over Montana, and walked briskly up and down the hill to see it better and beat the chill. After a cold breakfast of oats soaked in kefir with nuts and dried cherries, I packed up and headed down the other side of the mountain into Idaho. As I crossed the border, the road turned to very rough pavement, but I hit the good flat asphalt in Leodore and joined the course of the Lemhi River, with cow pastures and hay fields on either side and the mountains behind them. Somewhere along the road, the bike died in the same way it had when I'd ridden it from the dealership. The battery was depleted, and again, once I got it started it would run fine as long as the lights were off. So it seemed the problem was upstream of the battery. I had a strong urge to fix it as soon as possible, but decided to hold off until I got to Las Vegas where I would have time to wait for parts and a clean garage to work in. I stopped in Salmon for lunch at an old-fashioned diner, and bought some apples and some local raw milk to feed my kefir grains at a little grocery store. The road then headed south up the Salmon river, with many twists and turns between majestic mountains and some stunning views. When I stopped for gas I calculated my mileage and it was 93 miles per gallon, which I think is considerably better than Punkin ever managed.

But it was a short day, only seventy miles or so, because I'd decided to camp for the night at Goldbug Hot Springs. When I arrived, the trailhead had a lot of cars and campers (it was Labor Day weekend after all), so I figured I might have trouble finding a camping spot, but after climbing up the incredibly steep switchbacks at the start of the trail, I found a fine little spot right next to the creek that flowed down from the springs. It was just a little flat spot across the trail from a group of young people (one of whom was busy changing into a pirate costume), but I didn't need much space since I was just sleeping in a bivy sack. I filtered water out of the stream, packed it with my towel and some food, and headed up to the springs. Apart from that steep climb from the parking lot, the trail was pretty easy for the first mile, mostly across fields of sagebrush and occasionally meeting up with the tree-lined mountain creek. Then it started to get steeper and steeper, the last 3/4 of a mile climbing 800 feet, with stone stairs in some places and scrambling over boulders and scree in others. I was already sweating heavily by the time I approached the springs, and breathing hard with the exertion and the thin air at 5000 feet. But holy cow was it worth the hike. Hot water gushed out of the mountainside above and welled up from cracks, and people had built countless rock pools at many levels in a broad cascade, separated by lush foliage. I found a pool near the top with a spectacular view down the ravine and soaked there for a while, watching the sun creep down toward the peaks above. When I asked a local how Goldbug ranked among Idaho hot springs, he said eight to ten out ten, so it seemed I'd hit the jackpot right off. I explored a little and found the hottest pool and the one with the best back-massaging torrent. Even though there were quite a few people, there were enough pools for them to spread out, and it didn't feel crowded.

After drying off, I ate my dinner next to the pool with the great view and talked to some other visitors, a guy who lived in Salt Lake City and traveled the world updating hospital software systems, and a couple based in Las Vegas that had both been in the Air Force, one of whom had the day job of flying skycrane helicopters. I thought about soaking some more but decided I'd had enough, and headed down the mountain with the folks I'd just met. They told me that there were bears in the area, so I returned to the parking lot to secure all my food properly in my bear-proof canister, and then stopped to talk to another guy I'd seen at the top who, after a morning hunting deer in Montana, ran up to the springs, happily smoked a cigarette while soaking in the pool, and ran back down. I made it back to camp just as it was getting properly dark and settled in. Again there was a surprising amount of foot traffic in the night. My neighbors had made a campfire, which I later found out was very much illegal, and I have a foggy memory of sheriffs dropping by to investigate a complaint about it. Then there were the midnight hikers going to soak under the stars, and just before dawn another wave of them trying to catch the sunrise. But having soaked in the springs myself, I couldn't find it in my heart to be annoyed, and besides, the hike and the hot water had jellified my muscles and I slept deeply between awakenings.

The next day, I passed by Slate Creek Hot Springs, wanting to get a little further down the road before stopping. The river passed through steeper canyons, where the sun wouldn't shine until late in the day, and I rode against a cold headwind channeled through the mountains, past a man and a boy fishing in matching black hoodies. As I approached Stanley, the valley widened out and the day got warmer. I'd spotted another hot spring called Elkhorn or Boat Box marked on the map, but didn't find it at the marked location, and had to ask a fisherman for directions. It turned out I'd passed it by about 3/4 mile; it was just off the road by the river, but hidden by a steep drop-off. The hot water flowed out of a pipe from under the road and spilled into a deep cauldron big enough to fit three or four people if they were cozy. The only way to get the water cool enough to be comfortable was to remove the hot water pipe and add buckets of cold water from the river, which two young men were doing when I arrived. Their middle-aged father was lounging in one of the shallow pools that collected the spillover from the tub, making comments and occasionally sipping from a bottle of spiced rum. I joined him in the pool, where the hot water mixed with the cold water from the river, found a place where the temperature was to my liking, and dug out a spot for myself. I struck up a conversation with the guy, whose family had come from Wisconsin more than a century ago and lived in the area ever since. He used to run 250 head of cattle, then downsized to 100 when the federal government said they were eating too much green grass. He started a "cow camp" where kids came from all over the world to learn ranching skills, then was forced by the government to shut down the operation entirely. He now had a small construction business (which he hinted might be a cover for selling firearms) and has paid off everything he owns, so whenever he gets some money he uses it to travel around in an old Willys Jeep from the 50s. When I said "small vehicle, big adventure", he agreed a hundred percent.

As we talked, a bunch of people arrived who were guests at a wedding down the road in Stanley, and a couple of Indian guys started flying a drone over the river, which my pool mate threatened to shoot down. He didn't actually shoot it down because he was too comfortable to go back to the truck for his shotgun, but he said he'd taken out quite a few drones in the past, even going to court for it, but apparently local judges tended to have no sympathy for the drone pilots. I was taking advantage of the clothing-optional tradition of the place, although nobody else was, and he said they all used to soak naked too until two years ago, when the springs started to get really crowded. He disparaged Goldbug because there were so many people there and said I really should have gone to Slate Creek, but to me the social aspect is a major draw. My fingers were getting pretty wrinkled, so I said my goodbyes and got back on the road. I passed through Stanley and found a free camping area a few miles to the south. In one of the sites, there was a really cool short school bus with solar panels and a wood stove, and a bunch of RVs with kids running around. I cooked up a pot of millet which stubbornly refused to get soft (I thought maybe it was the high altitude) but I ate it anyway and crawled into bed. The night got down to just below freezing and I woke up with frost on my sleeping bag.

In the morning I met a neighbor, an 85 year old woman who used to ride a CT90 on mountain trails back when she was only in her forties. When I told her my planned route, she was concerned that I wouldn't be able to make it over the pass at Galena Summit, which is 8,700 feet above sea level. I said I was sure I could, it was just a matter of how slow I'd have to go, and this turned out to be true. At times I was crawling up the grade at 25mph with the engine screaming in second gear, but there was never any danger of stopping. The views were fantastic despite the haze of wildfire smoke, and then I was over the top and flying down the road on the downhill side, surrounded by more lush deciduous foliage than I'd seen since my visit to North Carolina. The road twisted down into a warm breeze, and I stopped for lunch in Ketchum at a vegan organic restaurant (I guess this was a crunchy part of Idaho). From there I continued to descend onto the flat, arid Snake River Plain, crossing over many dried up rivers and canals, although as I approached Twin Falls, irrigated crops started to appear. Just before crossing the bridge into town, I turned left onto a dusty track through the desert and arrived at my campsite, which was right on the cliff edge of the Snake River Canyon, overlooking an epic view of the distant waterfalls and the blue-green river more than 400 feet below, flanked by tall trees and dotted with tiny kayakers and swimmers. Birds flew by at eye level and dove to perch on the rock outcroppings. When darkness fell, the distant city lights shimmered in the dry air, and mysterious smells arrived on the wind, perhaps from the sugar beet or potato processing plants. Apparently Twin Falls has many unusual agro-industrial smells, and the locals just say "it smells like money".

In the morning I rode across the Perrine Bridge into town, and on a tip from the guy at the Elkhorn hot spring, pulled over at the visitor's center to watch the BASE jumpers. Apparently it's the only place in the US where you can jump year round without a permit, and it's pretty convenient because jumpers can walk out onto the walkways on either side of the bridge, paraglide down to the river bank, hike back up the trail to the visitor's center, and do it all again. I watched how it worked and it seemed there was a buddy who held onto the rip cord so it would open right away. After taking in the scene for a bit I continued into town to run some errands and eat a hot meal, and then crossed the border into Nevada.

Things I Learned

• Salmon swim 1100 miles from near Portland, Oregon to the headwaters of the Salmon River in Idaho, climbing a total of 6100 feet. They're easy to catch, but locals won't eat them because their flesh is unpleasantly soft from having expended all their energy on the journey. They die soon after spawning.
• Lots of middle-aged people out west recognized the CT90 from childhood. One guy bought one with money from his paper route, another used to use it to work on his family farm's irrigation systems, and another went hunting on it and used it to pull elk out of the woods. I even met some kids who recognized it because their Grandpa had one.
• In Idaho it's legal to sell raw milk openly in stores, without needing the fiction of claiming it's only for pets like people do back in North Carolina. Just like a lot of prohibition laws, people are apparently fine without it.

Wonderful Things

• Thinking I've got the perfect way to fold my jacket into a pillow, and then discovering an even more perfect way.
• Camping without having to worry so much that it might rain. It was surprising how much thought and effort I normally put into making sure me and my stuff don't get wet, which I only really noticed when desert camping allowed me to stop worrying about it.
• Finding that crevice in a hot spring where the really hot water comes out and wallowing over it.