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.