A trip cut short. Part 2: Hot water and winter in Idaho

We were packed and ready to go when the sun was still hiding behind the mountains: since it was the weekend we might well find the hot springs busier than last year, and the earlier we got there the better it would likely be. The $4 breakfast gave us a good foundation for the hike, and by 8:45 we were on the road.

The drive along Hwy. 93, following the course of the Salmon in the narrow valley, is special for me every time we come here, and since traffic was very light we could enjoy the beauty of this rugged landscape. The turnoff to the hot springs is still not marked with a sign, but we knew the highway marker and had no trouble finding it—nor, it soon became clear, had several other people. We found maybe seven cars in the small parking lot already, which meant that we certainly wouldn’t be alone up at  the hot springs. 

Not much snow remained on the flanks of the hills, as far as we could see from where we parked, and the steep switchbacks at the start of the trail didn’t seem to require crampons. We took our walking sticks, however, and soon were on the way. I remembered how, three years ago at our first visit, I had almost given up before I started because the switchbacks weren’t even recognizable under the snow, and I was scared I’d slide down the steep hill, even more scared about the way back. Without Johann’s insistence that I should try, at least, I don’t think I would have persevered, and in the end it proved to be far less difficult than I had anticipated. This time I had no such qualms, and once we had gained the top of this first hill the hike was as pleasant as ever. The trail was mostly dry (or still frozen a bit at this time of day), only higher up in the steep part there was a bit more snow. 

Several groups of young people passed us, faster than us and eager to soak in the hot water. Most often they called over a friendly greeting, sometimes we exchanged a few more words. It soon became clear that they were pretty much exclusively students from the Mormon university in Rexburg, about three hours away. Some must have had a very early start, because when we reached the top after about an hour we found the main pool occupied by quite a few young people already, and some had taken up spots in the pools further down or higher up which are, depending on location, colder or hotter than the ideally tempered biggest ones. We managed to secure a good place and, as at our other visits, enjoyed the warm water and magnificent view out to the valley. The students were nice kids, and we learned a bit about growing up Mormon, about the rules and commitments, and the joys, too. We remarked that, had this been any other kind of college kids, beer and likely weed would have been part of the gathering. None of that here, and yet they all had fun and were quite lively. 

After an hour and a half or so of soaking we got dressed, had our picnic lunch and started the hike back. The pools were almost empty by the time we left, but on the way down we encountered several groups of students again: the next wave was on its way. Some set up tents and spend the night, which is allowed as long as they are put up at a certain distance to the pools.

Cars were parked quite a ways along the quiet side road, attesting to the popularity of the place. When we come again we’ll try to avoid the weekend for a quieter experience. 

It took us the better part of the afternoon to reach Arco, our chosen destination for the night. The drive continued to be spectacular, along another one of the scenic drives in Idaho. This time it was the ‘Peaks to Craters’ scenic byway, which led us through canyons and foothills, high mountains almost within reach. We had contemplated changing our route from the year before and taking a detour through the Sawtooth National Forest, leaving Hwy. 93 in Challis and following Hwy 75, which is supposed to be a beautiful area. We might have done some hiking then and would have ended up in Twin Falls instead of Arco. The forecast was still calling for snow, however, and over the mountains dark clouds were drawing close, threatening poor weather in those high elevations—better to be gone when that happened. It would have to wait for another time. 

We had driven through Arco twice before, though we never stopped here before, and strangely enough we had never noticed the most prominent feature of this small town, while this time we saw it right away when we drove by: ‘Number Hill’. For nearly a hundred years the graduating class of the local high school has been painting the number of their graduation year on the face of the mountain at whose foot Arco lies. The earliest we could see was 25.

We easily found a room at the Arco Inn Motel: we were the only guests. Craters of the Moon is the nearby attraction most visitors are interested in, and this time of year when it’s covered in snow is not the best time to go there. That night, only our third night in the US, we decided to turn back. I had felt increasingly uncomfortable at the thought of disruptions caused by the slowly (at that time) spreading corona virus measures. Being stuck somewhere south of the border was not a pleasant thought. Things were changing quickly and more and more drastically. As far as getting infected we were less fearful: we had been in such remote places, seen so few people, not been in any crowds—with or without justification it wasn’t really a topic there yet. Until that day we had still contemplated driving to at least ‘our’ next hot springs south of Salt Lake City, but if we were going to turn around and cut our trip short anyway, if I was not enjoying it anymore (and thus diminishing Johann’s enjoyment as well), we might as well go home right from where we were. There went our hopes to escape winter and come back to spring, to hike in the desert and watch the awakening of the desert bloom, to camp at and soak in Ringbolt hot springs, to explore the magnificent landscape of Utah National Parks and Monuments. It was sad, but in these uncertain times home was the best place to be.

The next morning we woke up to a changed world. The snow had followed us down from the mountains and now was falling fast, in big wet flakes. Everything was very quiet, and it looked beautiful. It was warm enough that the roads shouldn’t pose a problem, especially since we could afford to wait until snowploughs had gone through. We walked across town to the ‘Pickle’s Place’ restaurant for a substantial breakfast and encountered almost nobody on the way.

Since the snow on the sidewalks was too high to walk comfortably we mostly stayed on the roads and hardly had to worry about traffic. The whole town seemed asleep, apart from snow removing equipment. Church services had been cancelled due to the snow, we heard at the restaurant; at that point only the LDS churches had moved to online services because of the corona virus.

It's a little hard to see, but the street sign  shows 'Water Street', quite appropriately

 As expected the roads were a bit slushy but mostly clear when we left around noon, and the sun had come out behind the clouds. We had a very nice drive, stopped briefly for fuel in Helena and were in Great Falls before dark—though darkness had set in by the time we finally found the motel we had chosen for that night. At least we got a good look at historic Great Falls during our search, which, under other circumstances, we likely would have enjoyed more.

One more stop in Montana, for breakfast in the little town of Dutton, where Johann spent half a year in 1973 working on a farm, and early in the afternoon we joined the growing line-up of cars and trucks at the border waiting to enter Canada. Snowbirds had started to return, many likely ahead of schedule, and there would be many more to come in the coming week or two. The border agent asked the usual questions regarding alcohol, tobacco and marihuana and then inquired if we felt healthy before waving us through. No other measures were taken, which seems like an important opportunity lost to catch returning travellers who were sick. I don’t imagine anyone who has come that far would admit to being sick, but testing for elevated temperature would be easily possible. This was March 16, and the number ofCovid-19 cases was rising quickly.

After another long day of driving we arrived home while it was still a bit light. Cold temperatures had accompanied us since Montana, and we were back to winter. Yet it felt good to be back, and Leo, who had no idea how long we would have been gone and how lucky he was, greeted us as happily as he always does, no matter if we have been away hours or weeks.

Today, it more than ever looks as if winter is here to stay: a snowfall warning promises 10 to 20 centimetres, a dismal prospect when there were still at least 30cm of old snow left. Temperatures are way below average, at -10 as a high and about -20 as a low for the next three days.

 We will keep skiing, then, and enjoy the beautiful trails at Tawatinaw. Spring will come eventually. It always does. 

A trip cut short. Part 1: Making our slow way to Salmon, Idaho

It’s been a long winter, not with as long a cold spell as the last one, but with very cold temperatures for a while: in January temperatures dipped to the -40s, in some places as low as -48, which, with the wind chill factor added, amounted to somewhere in the -50s. The coldest temperature we recorded here was -39—cold enough. There has been plenty of snow, too, and still is. The fields are still covered in a knee-deep blanket of snow, with not the smallest patch of bare ground showing. We all long for spring to arrive, but there is no rapid warming/melting trend in sight yet. 

What better way to shorten the waiting time than to take a trip south to the desert, where it is possible to walk in hiking shoes or even sandals instead of felt-lined winter boots? We had hoped to do just that, leave things to take their course here and return to more spring-like conditions the week before Easter. There was the corona virus outbreak in China, that’s true, followed by other countries far from ours, but it didn’t seem threatening for us yet. Thus we packed our car with hiking boots and backpacks, sleeping bags, the tent, a few provisions, and were on our slow way south on March 10. The first two nights we planned to stay in Alberta with friends along the way before crossing the border two days later. The weather was cool but the roads were good, the sun was shining, and we were happy to see our friends at Tullichewan Ranch near Black Diamond in the foothills south of Calgary. We hadn't been there since the bike trip last July. Now, the lushness of the summer pastures had given way to snow, the landscape beautiful in every season.

On Thursday we continued along the ‘Cycleforward’ route, marvelling once again at the long inclines the cyclists had mastered in the summer. We passed Bar U Ranch National Historic Site, closed now as well as Chain Lakes Provincial Campground, where we spent a night with the bike group. 

The snowy mountains in the west showed up clearly against the deep blue sky, and even though clouds started to roll in we were quite confident that we’d get through Crowsnest Pass before the onset of bad weather predicted for the day, or days, ahead. The forecast looked better for where we were headed. At about two in the afternoon we reached Fernie and stopped, like last year, at the visitor centre parking lot on the edge of town to have a picnic lunch. Like last year, too, puddles had formed from melting snow banks, and it felt a bit like spring.

We found this 'wild man of the mountains' at the visitor centre in Fernie

We crossed the border at small and quiet Roosville mid-afternoon, with no hassle at all, in fact, the border agents were extremely friendly. We had noticed that at our last crossing there already. One of them, seeing our German passports, told us he had spent several years in Germany as a child. It turned out that his family lived at the army base in the small town where Johann grew up—small world, once again. 
Only about an hour and a half later we reached Kalispell, our destination for the night. Here, as well as on the drive, there seemed to be less snow than the year before. Gulls screeched from lamp posts at the Walmart parking lot where we stopped to pick up wine and cheese, and several geese winged their way north: spring was tangible here, even if it hadn’t arrived quite yet. 

The next day took us through some of my favourite country. We chose the road along the west shore of Flathead Lake, the biggest natural freshwater lake by surface in the contiguous United States west of the source of the Missouri River, about 44 km long and up to 25 km wide. I read that it is also one of the cleanest freshwater lakes in the populated world for its type and size. It certainly is beautiful scenery, I can attest to that! The lake, mostly free of ice, glittered in the morning sun. While this road—Hwy. 93—offers a more open view of the lake I think I still prefer Hwy. 35, which skirts the eastern shore, the route we took last year. There, the road dips and rises and curves along cherry orchards, which must be a special treat in late spring when the trees are in bloom. 

We stopped briefly for gas in Missoula and soon were on our way again, headed for the night’s destination: Salmon, Idaho. 

The Bitterroot Mountains to our right, crossing the Bitterroot River a few times, we slowly climbed towards Lost Trail Pass, at 7,014 feet (about 2133m) not quite as high as nearby Chief Joseph Pass. The roads were dry, but massive snow banks along the sides were proof that travel here can be treacherous in the winter and into spring. We were lucky, and as always the descent along the North Fork, then the Salmon River was spectacular. All the way down snow was still abundant, and the landscape, almost suggesting spring further north, had changed back to winter. While the narrow North Fork River appeared only here and there from the snow the Salmon was running freely.

We stopped at a parking lot near Red Rock in the Salmon River canyon, watched ducks dive in the icy waters and listened to the soft twitter of spring birds in the shrubs along the river bank.

In Salmon, we easily found our way to the Sacajawea Inn: this was the third time we stayed there. Few rooms were occupied, which is likely not unusual at this time of year in this area, and of the themed rooms we were assigned the ‘Cowboy’ room, small, but containing everything we needed.

No toilet paper shortage here(yet?)

We had spent too many hours driving and were in dire need of a good walk, so once we had settled in we set off along Hwy 93, in the direction we’d also take the next morning to get to Goldbug Hotsprings. There was still snow in the ditches, but we had to skirt puddles on the dirt path beside the highway. Shortly after the town sign, which depicts Sacajawea, who was born near present-day Salmon, and two men I assume to be Lewis and Clark, we turned onto a paved, quiet side road leading to the town cemetery, according to a sign. It was lined with gnarled old cottonwood trees, and the ditches were filled with melt water here. Starlings fluttered in the branches, and the sweet, familiar song of red-winged blackbirds sounded in the early evening air. Every thirty or fifty metres a male boldly proclaimed his territory from the fuzzy head of a cattail. This was what I had hoped to find above all else: the sure knowledge that spring was on its way. The road split and rose slightly, and we took the left one which hugged the perimeter of the cemetery, head stones sticking out of the snow, the main paths plowed so that people could at least get to the vicinity of graves. 

 

Below us was a horse farm, in the distance the snow-covered hills surrounding Salmon, further back even higher mountains, the azure sky stretching above. A couple of blue herons flew overhead with slow, measured wingbeat. We basked in the almost-warmth of the late sun, the light warm and rosy on the hillsides, and walked on for a bit longer just past the last farm. 

We turned around then, anticipating the moment when the sun disappeared behind the canyon walls and it would get cool very quickly. One more surprise awaited: two wistful wood sprites gazed out at us from the trunk of one of the cottonwoods at the entrance to a farm driveway, soon after yet one more. They were very quiet; no wonder I hadn’t discovered them when we passed them on the way out. Somebody in Salmon must be a talented wood carver.