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.
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