State 50: Idaho
Dateline: July 6-16, 2023
Mountain Biking, Hiking, Rafting, Camping, and Hot Springs with Escape Adventures, Cousin Matt and Marty
The Frank Church Wilderness and environs- 18 miles of hiking, 27 miles of gravel and mountain biking, 12 miles of rafting class 2-4 rapids- Phew!
Required reading: The Last Honest Man, by James Risen (Biography of Idaho Senator Frank Church)
It’s a rainy day here in Bernardsville, NJ, meaning I’m faced with limited choices to fill the hours in the day. Plus, I can’t do any yard work- we have ground nesting yellow jackets all over the property, and I have been stung twice. Each time they attack, my reaction is a bit worse.
The house is clean enough. The laundry’s done. I did the Monday crossword in eleven minutes, scored Awesome on Spelling Bee, and failed at Connections, but only because I don’t know enough about TV.
It’s a bit damp for roadside cleanup. I’m ready for the upcoming meetings. No way I’m baking or cooking. And if I don’t get this written, it won’t get written.
It’s complicated. I’m torn. Marty told me there is a book in here, and it should start, as some of the best books do, at the end, with us sitting in a hot spring pool about twenty-five feet above the Boise River. Water cascades over the edge of the rock wall, and tales long untold spill forth.
What has this quest been about? Is it merely a physical feat, or has it brought me to a new place of freedom? Do I want to finish? Will I ever truly finish?
Perhaps if I get started, if I get it all down on paper, I can find out.
Steve drove me to the airport in the predawn hours July 6, even though we knew the plane was delayed. We were both up, so why not get it over with? I had just settled into a seat within the terminal when “Forever in Blue Jeans” wafted from the speakers like Muzak. That song really takes me back.
The flight was fine, and as we approached Portland, someone on the left opened the window shade to reveal Mt. Hood, clad in snow and glacier, bathed in the morning light. Where I was last in Oregon, she had been shy, wrapped in cloud cover. I was finally able to see her in her full glory.
Matt, Megan, and Tessa met me at the airport. We hadn’t been together in seven years, since we conquered Oregon at Waldo Lake in August 2016. My dad was alive then, and Tessa was ten; she’s seventeen now. Barack Obama was our president. It feels like another world. It was.
We spent the next couple days catching up and warming up, with city walks and short hikes in Washington Park and several connected parks. We explored the National Rose Test Garden, the Sacagawea statue, the redwood grove (which was about to be closed for a wedding ceremony), the Lewis and Clark Monument, and a mansion built and occupied by Henry and Georgiana Pittock. They merit a sentence or two here.
The Pittocks arrived in this vicinity in the 1850s via the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon. He became the owner of The Oregonian, and she was the founder of many charitable organizations. They and others transformed Portland into a booming, modern city, connected by rail, telephone, and telegraph to the world. Even better, he worked to create trail networks and joined the local bicycling club. I’m pretty sure we would have been friends. I found myself feeling wistful about the connections linking us all, all over this land, and through time. What a gift my journey over these nine years has proved to be.
After lunch and a nap, Matt and I ventured out for live music. We stood with other passionate rock and roll aficionados and enjoyed a solid opening act and then a truly outstanding main event, Blondshell. The lead female vocalist is already a star. I couldn’t stop thinking about Daisy Jones and the Six, another great read and TV series.
The following morning, we loaded the car at dawn, hugged Megan and Tessa goodbye, and set off on the long drive across the whole of Oregon to Boise, Idaho. We had the constant companionship of the Columbia and Snake Rivers, numerous dismaying dams, stops in two little towns for food truck food and ice cream, and a criterion bike race going on in downtown Boise upon our arrival.
As I had hoped and pretty much expected, Marty and Matt hit it off right away, riffing on music and reading and Greek myths. I hate Greek myths and made my feelings known, in no uncertain terms. Turns out Matt wrote his undergraduate thesis on one myth or another and was rereading the Iliad on this trip. Still, he tolerates me. We had a light dinner at a taco place with guac and salads and hard cider.
The next morning, we met our leaders Zack and Roy, right on time, outside the hotel. Together, we made the long drive to our campsite, following the Boise river, passing lots more dams. We stopped for gas and chatted with a large troop of Boy Scouts who had just spent five days rafting the Middle Fork. Marty has done that trip, overturning in an inflatable kayak and coming close to disaster. She carries the trauma of that moment in her mind.
The drive was lovely, the conversation good. The final thirty-seven miles of the trip were on dirt roads. Zack hails from NoVa and Roy is from Chicagoland. Roy was in flight school in Iowa at one time and was the more outgoing of our two leaders. Zack was quieter, more bookish. Both were interesting young men, doing a job they enjoy.
We arrived at midday at our campsite right on the banks of the Boise, which was itself right next to the hot, medium, and cool springs, elevation: 5,500 feet. After setting our tents and a quick lunch, we shuttled up a really steep hill which may or may not have been Mount Greylock. That’s the name of the highest point in Massachusetts and may not really belong in my trip notes for Idaho. It’s December as I write this, and the trip was six months ago! I only write when it rains… Well, turns out we could have been on or near Mt. Greylock, because there is one in Idaho as well.
Marty atop what may very well be Mount Greylock, or not. We will soon descend that slope to her left, in mortal terror.
Wherever we were, we were at maybe 7,000 feet, and we were going to ride nine miles on trails to get back down. My bike was purple. My heart was racing.
With zero warm up, the trail started STEEP and rocky and washed out, and stayed that way for quite a stretch. Marty and I were terrified at first. Like No Way are we doing this. Accustomed to thin tires and paved roads, we saw serious injury or worse in every rock and eroded channel. Over the course of the first few miles, we learned that these bikes were a different breed. We had left our thoroughbreds at home and were now riding quarter horses, sturdy, balanced, shock absorbing, fearless. As I had done more than thirty years ago in Wyoming at the Bitterroot Ranch, I told myself to trust the horse (or, in this case, Bike). In truth, both Marty and I had to walk some of the trail. Matt was being super nice and was sweeping, though he must have been bored as all get out. Eventually, the ride levelled out and we urged him to leave us to our own devices. After a fashion and in our own fashion, we got to the dirt road and rode an endless, hot mile to Atlanta and felt we deserved a soda.
The guys had waited for us, and we treated ourselves to Dr. Pepper with sugar at the bar, the only going business in Atlanta. That soda was The Best! We felt much better and blamed our fatigue on the altitude. Marty and I went back to camp and lowered ourselves into the hot springs and the bracing current of the Boise. Matt and Roy rode some singletrack to check the trail for our hike planned for the next day. Good thing, too, because there had been a landslide.
Nothing like an ice-cold Dr. Pepper
The day ended with a beer and a scrumptious dinner of roast salmon, potatoes, and asparagus, with s’mores for dessert. Luxury camping is pretty luxe. We all crawled into our tents, lulled by the rush of the river and soothed by the aroma of the campfire settled in our clothes.
July 10- in which a ten-mile hike lasts 9:30-5 and change
Not much sleep, sliding down in the tent and enduring strange dreams brought on by exercise, altitude, and dehydration. I took a solo walk that morning at 5:20. At Escape Adventures, the day is organized by a 7-8-9 plan. 7- Coffee. 8- Breakfast 9- Activity.
So I had some time to kill. Wildflowers everywhere, and they became my focus for the day.
After, coffee, fruit, and french toast (more on that, later), we set out by 9:30. Microclimates, Ferns, yarrow, columbine everywhere. Foamflower, golden ragwort, Agastache in the wild, alpine meadows with sedges, including just one blue-green one.
Water crossings. One was reasonably big. Everyone else crossed on logs. I was, like nope. I did my crossing NOLS style and soaked my boots, but they were dry by the end. And on the way back, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and did a log. There was an avalanche downing of Douglas Fir about 1.5 miles in that was just humongous.
We all squeezed under in an area Matt and Roy had cleared the day before. We got to the high point at 6,000 feet, saying, “F you, Denver!” The Frank Church Wilderness is also mile-high. And no crowds, no cars, no McDonalds. We would not go hungry, however. Zach opened his pack and produced a half loaf of huckleberry french toast left over from breakfast. We all ate it and declared it perfect and christened the spot French Toast Point.
French Toast Point, Post Toast
Refreshed, we continued on about another 1.5 miles to our turnaround spot, Mattingly Creek. On the way back, we saw the only other human we had encountered the entire day, a backpacker who planned to be out two weeks. So many hours had passed by the time we made it back to the treefall that I told Roy that the West is big and so ten miles out here is not the same as ten miles back East. Seriously, how can it take 7.5 hours to hike 10 miles?
Whatever. We were back at camp, and it was time to hit the river and hot springs for our baths and laundry. More campers arrived, and a huge dog party was on. Turned out that all the kids and dogs and families were quiet and a pleasure to camp beside. Tomorrow, we move on. The itinerary will need adjustment, because the road is closed, but whatever we do will be a treat. Whatever.
7/11, with no 7 Elevens for Miles
The morning ride on single track started out very easy but didn’t stay that way. Pedals banging into rocks, ups without momentum, one easy graceful fall and one in the other direction onto the rocks. No harm done. We rode to the tree fall and then turned round, this time, Matt getting to lead and do his thing. I may have tipped once on the return, and I moved one rock off the trail. I was so winded I walked to the top of the hill. Only three miles, and by the end, I was slightly nauseous and needed to eat again, STAT. I didn’t succeed in shifting at all or lowering my seat, but I did figure out how to time my pedaling to avoid the rocks.
Go, Marty, Go!
The guys had thought we would all be bored by the 19-mile ride out on dirt roads, but we had a grand time, Marty and I solidly in our comfort zone. We hugged the Boise River, riding through swarming butterflies. One collided with me and was briefly stuck in my helmet straps. I kept talking to them. There was a bush with flowers so sweetly scented they put me in mind of gardenia and jasmine. Their scent wafted pleasantly along with us. At the end, there was no shade, but there was a hot spring, and Roy and Zack set us a full lunch of pasta salad, sun chips, and melon. We had EL Fudge Cookies for dessert. Keebler. Elves. You know.
Thirsty butterflies
On the long shuttle over the pass from the Boise watershed to the Payette, there was one hair-raising moment when two construction trucks carrying boulders as big as heifers were coming downhill through switchbacks while Roy was coming up, a cliff on the right side. He had to back the rig up. The rig is BIG. Luckily, he also had to stop, so I was able to buckle my seat belt just in time.
Our new campsite at Pine Creek Flats was more crowded, but we had two sites and were able to spread out nicely. The river and hot springs were a solid half mile away. I found Matt down there lifting and placing rocks to create a hot pool.
Zack was reading Moby Dick. I hadn’t read a word since reading The Last Honest Man in NJ. My head still ached.
Dinner was vegan wontons with onions, carrots, and celery in a soft rice wrap. Apple cake for dessert. We want for nothing. Except sleep.
That night, we had a youth group right next door to us, and they were very chatty. I did manage to make it to the outhouse just before all fifteen of them returned from their hike, lustily singing Sweet Caroline. Neil Diamond was the soundtrack of the trip, so far. Three nights here. I didn’t know what our last biking day would bring, but next, we RAFT.
Rafting with Class (4)! Payette River Company
7/12 We raft. Better sleep last night with a pillow borrowed from our fearless leaders and a pair of ear plugs. First song up on the day’s drive was You Can Go Your Own Way (the most poignant break up song in the world). I was sitting next to Matt and worried that he would see me crying but I had a plan to just tell him I had sunscreen in my eyes. Whatever. 50inthefifties is all about going my own way.
Rafting… Sean, the owner, Joe, the guide, whitewater. It comes fast. It’s whitewater. Duh. There was a scary portage around a Class 6 waterfall, the footing precarious, the rocks slick.
By the time we got there, I had already cut myself like a scalpel on a piece of the aptly-named Sawtooths at Matt’s Pool, and I was bleeding. I got into the rafting hot seat front left just after the portage because I was the first to portage. I wanted to be in that seat, anyway. Trigger Warning- next is the injury photo. There will be Blood!
Deep laceration!
Joe said, “Who wants to surf?” Marty said, “Not me.” She had surfed before, on the Salmon. I didn’t even know what it was. We had to attempt it twice before we managed to tip me out of the boat and into the whirlpool. I was, like, “Ok. So. This could be a way to drown…” but no panic. I eventually came up. It was reportedly a couple seconds but of course seemed way longer. Assumed the position for descending a rapid without a boat, but then Joe yelled, “No! Swim like you mean it!” So I did. With a paddle.
As Joe and one of the other guys hauled me into the boat, dripping and breathless, and Matt held his injured shoulder in the socket with his other hand, Marty said, “Which is better, marching Selma to Montgomery or THIS?”
I said, “Give me a minute… I’m not entirely sure…”
Matt had had enough of me in the hot seat. I got relegated to the stern. Oh, well. It was super fun while it lasted.
Later, I jumped off a 20-foot rock, after climbing up, peering over, saying, “No,” and then making Matt go first. Which he did, even though he was only up there for me. What a guy. Like he said many times, we would do “all the things.”
That night, the campground was nearly deserted except for the 50-foot camper right next to our tents. I hoped they wouldn’t turn the generator on, but at least I had earplugs. Like, they could park anywhere. (They ended up with motion detector lights, which were an issue when it came to late night pee breaks, but they moved on the next morning.)
7/13 8 mile out and back hike on double track. Easy hike, easy conversation. Next up, the hot springs at Kirkham, which were really impressive, with warm showers cascading into cool pools right on the raging river. I managed to stub my toe on another of those Sawtooths and it was bleeding, as was my left ring finger, which sported a tiny cut that was spurting blood all over the rocks like a horror movie or the aftermath of Thelma and Louise. Luckily, I had my bathing suit in hand to apply direct pressure, except, of course, for when I was retying my boots.
I have a rash on my ankle, am battered and bruised, have a butterfly bandage holding my right leg together, and I’m very happy. Roy takes care of my worst injury, the cut on my leg. No urgent care or emergency room available out here.
Next, we checked out the only establishment in Lowman, Idaho, the Lowman Mercantile. They had everything a camper could want, and a really friendly woman behind the counter who sold Marty and me a frozen gin melon cocktail and a honeydew popsicle which she said was indescribably delicious. She was right. Matt treated us all to frozen treats. Back at camp, we had leftover brownies, and then it was time for guac and homemade chips. That night, because of a corona ejection, which is not beer but something to do with the sun, we stayed up very late, hoping to witness the northern lights.
No northern lights. But the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia through midnight were worth it. The folks with red lights or no lights, all up late and hopeful and quiet. Silently sharing the moment, separately.
7/16
Sunday morning. I’m in a bind and I’m way behind. All my bags are packed. I’m ready to go. I’m in the basement in Portland. 50inthefifties is done. On the final day in the final state, we had a perfect oh say eight- mile ride at the Sno Park with some climbs that proved impossible at altitude and some that didn’t and a descent that revealed more confidence than terror and a final mud puddle to soak us and a final salad and a final beer and a final sausage and a walk through a town with wooden sidewalks and a conversation with a sheriff sitting on a bench with a cigarette dangling from his lip. A long drive. Matt and I singing Bob Seger together. What song? Against the Wind: Like the ride on the dirt road. Like the drive west that caused the rattle at 80 miles an hour. Heading for the purple mountain, in its majesty, despite the bugs on the windshield.
And on our last day, we went to the movies and saw Indiana Jones together. Sharing his adventure, after one of our own. He’s old, I’m old. But Tessa is young, and she reached for my hand. And we walked, together.
If it wasn’t for Megan, Matt, Tessa, and Marty, this epic conclusion to a middle-aged woman’s personal quest would never have been possible. My deepest thanks to all of them, and to everyone who accompanied me, or cheered me on state after state after state.
At the airport, over the PA system, Paul Simon reminded me that we’ve all come to look for America. I, for one, have found some snippet of her in each of her fifty states. Together, they have gifted me a scrapbook of memories. Closing the book on the blog, I’ll leave you with Johnny Cash…
What’s next? If we get another rainy day, perhaps I’ll open the book on the Book.