Member Trip report

320 miles in the mountains

06/04/2019

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I set out before dawn on my cycling tour of the mountainous heart of Idaho. I always hope that nobody notices me leave. It's the Tolkien fan in me: I have always seen myself as a sort of Bilbo Baggins, a bucolic, if scholarly, eccentric who whisks off to have outlandish adventures in distant lands.

 

If you look at a physiographic map of Idaho, the Snake River Plain forms a great smiley face through the southern part of the state. I live in the center of that broad volcanic grin. To my north are the big mountain ranges of Idaho, reaching their climax at Mount Borah in the Lost Rivers. These mountains are why I love it here, and I planned out my trip to have a good long look at them.

 

But first, I have to traverse that volcanic smiley face, or at least 100 miles of it, which is more than enough for me. A shadeless expanse of sagebrush and lava, the Snake River Plain was built from millions of years of volcanic activity. It's a fascinating geologic story, but Hell to bike across. If the relentless sun wasn't bad enough, there's the triple-length semi rigs hauling hay along Route 93 that go screaming past you at 70 miles per hour.

 

Two hours into the trip, I hit the gas station in Carey, where all the locals know me, as I pass through on my bike regularly. But from here, it's terra incognita as far as my bike is concerned. I stock up on Powerade and Clif bars and push to the east, skirting the foothills of the Pioneer Mountains. I make a stop at Wildrose Hot Spring, a relaxing little thermal pool just out of view of the road.

 

I pass the freshest, rawest part of the Snake River Plain next – Craters of the Moon. Here, volcanic activity occurred 2,000 years ago, but the barren lava flows might as well have cooled last month. I slug out the especially dreary 20 miles to the town of Arco, whose claim to fame is being the first community in the world powered by nuclear energy.

 

I turn north, leaving the Snake River Plain and heading up the Lost River Valley. This is more to my liking: the White Knob Mountains are on my left, and the Lost Rivers are on my right. I am getting tired, but the last 15 miles to Mackay pass easily. I had intended to stay in the free campground owned by the town, but comfort wins out and I check into the motel instead. Hey, I've come 100 miles. I deserve it.

 

The next day, I start with the sunrise, continuing north. I gaze at the Lost River Range, admiring their hulking, ominous forms. I recite their names over and over as I ride past: McCaleb, Donaldson, Church, Leatherman, Obsession, Idaho, Sacajawea, Borah. Good lord, they're tall! Despite having climbed my fair share of them, they seem impossibly rugged and inaccessible.

 

It's a tiring ascent to the headwaters of the Lost River, then up and over Willow Creek Summit. Now I am in Salmon River Country. I have a wild coasting ride from the summit, especially where the road drops into the steep and curvy Grandview Canyon. I pick up more food and water in Challis, and then it's westward up the Salmon. I am heading into wetter country: little groves of Douglas-firs and lodgepole pines begin to dot the mountain slopes. I stop for the night at a campground by the river, logging another 75 miles on my bike.

 

The next day is my hardest, 80 miles through the steepest mountain country. The Douglas-firs finally win out over the sagebrush, and my ride along the winding river bottom is flanked by unbroken forests. Bald Eagles cackle in their curiously meek, high-pitched voices from the tops of tall snags. I pass through the burg of Clayton, population 7, once home of a large smelting operation, but few mines still exist in this part of the state.

 

Sometimes, a scenic panorama slowly unfolds for you as you ride along; other times, it's like a curtain parts, and a stunning landscape bursts upon you all at once. That's what it's like when approaching Sawtooth Valley from the east. It's all forest and river, then you come around a bend, and the full glory of the Sawtooth Range is spread out before you. I admit that I prefer the dark and forbidding Lost Rivers, but the Sawtooths have the classic, chiseled look of mountains from a fairy tale. If I have spent less time climbing and backpacking them, it's only because they are more crowded. The Sawtooths get plenty of attention in the outdoor magazines; the Lost Rivers, hardly any.

 

I roll into the tourist town of Stanley in time for a late breakfast, then turn south, between the Sawtooths and the White Cloud Peaks. Now, I feel like I am definitively heading for home. Sawtooth Valley is broad and flat, covered with dwarfed sagebrush and extensive meadows. I spot many little groups of antelope sprinting across the valley as I ride along. It is midafternoon when I reach Smiley Creek, and I am irritated to discover that the one store in town is closed. I am low on water, and my biggest challenge, Galena Summit, lies ahead. Do I sneak around and find an outdoor water tap? Do I go door to door begging? No, I am stubborn and proud, and I ride on.

 

Galena is something of a badge of honor among Idaho bicyclists. It is one of the highest mountain passes accessible by a paved road in the state. I rode steeper grades when I lived in Hawai'i, but Galena is a murderous long pull on a bike. It's just steep enough that it discourages you from stopping. Despite it being in the thirties at its 8,700 foot crest, I am pouring with sweat when I reach the little wayside viewpoint. I drink all but half a quart of my remaining water – might as well use it if you need it. Thunderheads are building over the mountains, and a light drizzle starts to fall. I snap a few quick pictures, and climb back into the saddle.

 

I don't think I cranked my pedals once in the next eight miles. It reminded me of biking down Haleakala on Maui, but the rugged mountain scenery made the ride down Galena much more impressive. I could not help but think of X-wing fighters and F-22 Raptors as I carved my way down the serpentine road. It drizzled on and off, but the thunderclouds didn't seem to be amounting to much.

 

Ah, now this is my backyard – Boulder Mountains on my left, Smokies on my right. I have climbed nearly every major peak in these two ranges, and I have summits here in every month of the year. I stop at an out of the way turnoff, and camp near the banks of the Wood River. As I bathe in the ice-cold meltwater, I look at it thirstily. I don't have my filter with me, and I'd sooner go a little dry than risk giardia. Besides, there's a ranger station down the road, and their bathroom has never been locked, no matter the time of day or night that I have visited it. All the same, I draw one quart from the river just in case. Never can be too careful as far as water is concerned.

 

I polish off my remaining half quart of safe water that night, which is just enough hydration to let me sleep soundly. The next morning is a dewy one, so I spend a half hour licking aspen leaves. Feeling safely watered up, I dump my quart of river water and hit the road. I do a watering stop at the ranger station, then buzz down Wood River Valley, hurrying through the towns of Ketchum and Hailey (I don't like them very much), then catching breakfast in Bellevue.

 

Out of the mountains, and back onto that wide, bleak Snake River Plain. I should feel glum, but my ankle is sore and I'm ready for some creature comforts. So 320 miles after I started, I pull into home, give the lawn an irritated glare because it continued to grow while I was gone, and rush into the house for that most sublime of pleasures, a nice, long, hot, post-trip shower.

 

There and Back Again, just like Bilbo.


- The Trip Has No Photos -

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