Bloody, bloody Boise

Part 1: In which I become the turd in the punch bowl

BOISE, Idaho—It was a long drive from Stanley to Boise. We were hoping for a quick drive over the mountains. Instead, the breathtaking scenery of the backside of the Sawtooth Mountains and the Payette River rushing in the canyon bottom below compelled us to ease up on the gas pedal and meander our way toward our next destination.

An inviting back road lured us to a tiny lodge tucked on the banks of the Payette in the middle of nowhere, and we took mental notes that this rustic collection of ramshackle cabins would be a fabulous place to stay when we were old and grey. We made it back to the main road again after watching the Payette zoom beneath us on a rickety bridge. Birds chirped pleasently in the trees and Caroline provided color commentary on the region's history from one of our many guidebooks.

Despite being cramped again in the car, we were still feeling the after glow of Fisher Creek. The ride the day before had made us groggy and our legs were pleasantly tired, but we were both still blissed out after our experience. Moreover, with temperatures in Boise expected to rise above 100 degrees, we were in no hurry to exit the pleasant coolness of the mountains. So we slowly snaked our way back to civilization.

Despite being on vacation, we did have an appointment to keep. We were meeting two riders in Boise for a preview of some of the town's better trails. At just after 5 p.m. we met Dave and Al as promised in a parking lot at the base of Bogus Basin ski area. The blast-furnace heat got me to staggering when I exited the vehicle to shake the hands of our new guides. A two-pump handshake caused a torrent to pour from my brow.

We decided that in this heat, the higher the ride, the better off we'd be. So we saddled up and drove to the top of Bogus Basin.

Dave and Al are extremely affable fellows, and we were very chatty at the trail head in anticipation of the ride ahead. Dave looked like one of those cycling fanatics who finishes near the top during weekly club rides out in the park.

Al's legs were like mighty tree trunks. I recalled reading some bike magazine a while back that listed the Top 10 greatest myths about biking (the magazine was not Mountain Flyer, as we would never stoop so low as to waste paper on such inane drivel). One of those "myths" was that you could never use the size of a person's leg to judge their riding ability. See? Inane drivel! Clearly Al's legs were able to carry him places most people would fear.

Looking at Dave and Al and knowing that I still had not entirely shaken the Crippling Mystery Illness, I had no doubt in my mind I was going to get my ass handed to me on this ride. It didn't help my confidence much when I immediately had to change my tire tube after it had gone flat apparently without cause. The tire had ridden fine the day before, and Fisher Creek was free of pricklies for the most part.

As I changed the tire, Dave and Al explained that the Bogus Basin area holds some of Boise's best riding. On this day we chose the Eastside area to ride—a place that offered classic wilderness singletrack with just enough technical bits thrown in to keep you on your toes. Al would be riding it on a rigid singlespeed 29er.

We gleefully rode the narrow singletrack. The deep woods and late hour made things much cooler than downtown Boise had been. Dave an Al graciously put up with every request I threw out for photos, even if it happened to mess up the flow of ride. I was hoping to get the photos out of the way early on so we could concentrate on the trail. For the most part we did, and pretty soon I was feeling warmed up and looking forward to much more singletrack ahead.

Because both of our guides had played a heavy role in establishment and construction of the trails up at Bogus Basin and elsewhere in Boise, they were eager to show off the area, although both were extremely modest when it came to taking credit for their hard work.

I was starting to feel at my best as we made our way through a newly rerouted section of trail. The singletrack was steady, but extremely narrow. Nevertheless, I rode confidently, even managing to keep Caroline in sight for the most part.

Suddenly, my pedal caught the remnants of a sawed off stick on the downstroke—the only time it could have done anyone any harm. Fate had lined my crank arm up with a one-in-a-million chance of disaster, and I felt my back wheel start sliding out toward the outside of the heavily exposed section of trail. My brain went about making corrections for the skid just as my front wheel slammed against another small-diameter stump nubbin on the outside of the trail. Being the unwitting dweller in the middle of a perfect storm, I felt myself being viciously slammed to the ground. It happened so quickly that I had no time to land gracefuly. I was hurled to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes. By happenstance I managed to get a finger on my bike as it began its descent over the edge, saving it from a long fall.

A firey pain gripped my forearm and leg. I ventured a peek at my arm and saw the crimson reminder that mountain biking is an inherently dangerous sport.

I tried to be good natured as I picked myself up and continued the ride, but, truth be told, the crash hurt like a bitch, so it didn't take long before my normally good-natured side retreated away from the forefront of my consciousness. I rode in silence at the back of the pack. I felt terrible for Al and Dave, who undoubtedly felt terrible for me.

About the time the adrenaline from the crash started to wear off—when the pain really starts to set in—we began the long climb out of the canyon. Rides in this area are bowl-like, and most begin and end with climbs. The firey burn of plants rubbing the raw area of my scraped and bloody leg gave way to a new pain: the annoying stitch of a cracked or bruised rib. The dire new pain hit just as we passed the carcass of an elk that reportedly had been eaten by a wolf that haunts the area.

"Great, I'm wounded and bleeding and at the back of the pack," I thought to myself. I started to go over my wolf defense strategies in my mind as I made the long ascent.

Needless to say, the excitement back at the trail head was missing when I finally grunted my way up and over the final push to the car. Here I was, the ride casualty for the day, the turd in the punchbowl, if you will. It is an uncomfortable position to be in—even with people you know well. I weakly apologized to my gracious hosts. The warm looks on their faces let me know that no apologies were necessary.

Half an hour later, at the bottom of Bogus Basin, a delicious glass of stout and a hearty helping of spicy chicken wings helped me feel almost normal again, and we enjoyed talking to Dave for much longer than he probably expected.

Not only are Boise's trails awesome, but so are its people. It is a friendly, friendly town. I'm hoping my scabs dry out soon so I can do some more riding around here. Only time will tell.

See you on down the road, and if I happen to meet you on the trail, I'll be sure to give you a wide berth. Hasta la Vista, babies.

Diggin' Stanley

STANLEY, Idaho—We wound our way north out of Sun Valley up a narrow mountain road toward the mountains. Above us, gathering gray rain clouds made the ascent seem a little foreboding as we headed toward Stanley, Idaho, a less civilized destination compared to the comfortable opulence of Sun Valley. The skies sagged with a thick measure of moisture and we braced for the coming onslaught, regretting that we hadn't brought anything to cover the saddles of our bikes.

About halfway up Galena pass, we hit the first rain—a steady drizzle that made it seem like the monsoon season had started early here in Idaho. But just minutes later the shower ended and the clouds began to thin. Soon enough the air was dry again. The rain we had experienced seemed like nothing more than a brief mirage in the oppressive heat that had settled over the region.

We stopped briefly at the Galena Lodge for a cup of coffee and to drop off a few copies of Mountain Flyer to the little bike shop/sporting goods niche that had been created at one end of the establishment. Lodge owners have carved an impressive array of trails into the thick woods up here. On July 26th, mountain bike racers from all over the region will compete in the sixth-annual Galena Grinder, part of the region's Knobby Tire Series. The Grinder includes a cross country race and a marathon on the gnarly trails near the top of the pass. Some $2,000 in prize money is at stake for the race, which seems to get bigger each year.

Unfortunately for us, our schedule didn't permit us to sample Galena's singletrack.

Over the top of the pass we could see Stanley in the valley below. The tiny community sits quietly in the shadow of the Sawtooth Mountains along the cold, churning waters of the Salmon River. While it would be easy to brand the area as an outdoors paradise this time of year, one look at the Sawtooth peaks to the west—with their still-generous packing of winter snow—betrays the area's arduous winters.

Only about 90 people call the area home year 'round. Winters in Stanley are some of the coldest in the nation, and mountains of snow paralyze the community in a state of suspended animation all winter long. The worst winters close the passes in and out of Stanley, leaving residents to fend for themselves in the biting cold sometimes for weeks at a time.

But on this day Stanley was dressed as a fetching summer maiden. Colorful wildflowers punctuated her lush green meadows with shocks of purple, yellow, red and blue. These florets flooded the valley with an inescapable aroma so sweet and pure that you could almost hear it as a high-pitched buzz—as odd and unlikely as that may seem.

We settled into the wonderfully comfortable Valley Creek Motel and RV park, a strange little paradise in a town so tiny. We thought because of its size, Stanley would be home to rundown "rustic" cabins or unsettling little murder motels, but the Valley Creek was a clean, spacious sanctuary that offered a quaint kitchenette and stunning views of the Sawtooth mountains.

After a restful night of sleep in the cold mountain air (morning temperatures were in the high 30s), we were saddened to watch the morning skies darken as dense rains moved in from every direction. Soon the entire valley was drenched. We wrote off the possibilities of riding for the day and dejectedly searched through the tiny general store for a deck of cards after eating an outstanding breakfast at the Sawtooth Bakery.

A while later we happened upon a pair of young mountain bikers in one of the local stores. We gave them a couple of copies of Mountain Flyer and asked them about rides in the area. Because of the rains, we thought we'd have to ride Fisher Creek—Stanley's signature trail—the next morning, which would have created a time pinch for us, particularly since my riding skills are still pathetically weak as I continue to slowly recover from the Crippling Mystery Illness

The bike dudes looked at the drying skies and encouraged us to ride the trail that day. As dry as it had been, the rains would not create any mud and actually would firm up the trails nicely, they said. Not only that, but the cool air would make the nine-mile climb almost palatable.

We changed our plans on the spot and soon we found ourselves at the trailhead and ready to ride.

If you've never ridden Fisher Creek, I believe it really is one of those epic rides that everyone should do at least once in their lives. Although everyone says it's a downhill ride, you shouldn't go into it half cocked. The first part of the trail is a nine-mile climb up a fire road. Your efforts are instantly rewarded with a swooping plunge down some tight singletrack through an area that was severely burned in 2005. Brightly colored flowers are a stark contrast to the blackened sticks that remain in the burned area. It's a strange juxtoposition of life and death that is inspiring and humbling.

Most people don't talk about it, but after the first descent you have to climb again for quite a while until you reach the epic ride down that makes the trail famous. There are not many places to ride that offer an uninterrupted three miles of swooping downhill through nice dark forest (this part wasn't burned). The ride just keeps going and going and going, and pretty soon it almost seems as if you're asleep and dreaming of ripping down an amazing singletrack fantasy land. Simply amazing is all I can say.

The descent spits you out in a meadow, where you have to make a short climb before the last mile of super-fun downhill back to the trailhead. This is the type of singletrack that God dreamed of when he was creating humans who would ride bikes. Or something like that.

Because the sun doesn't set up here until outrageously late in the day, we had plenty of daylight left to goof off in around the area before dark.

Once twilight arrived, slumber was easy and fast, particularly after our ride at Fisher Creek.

One good thing about Idaho's undercurrent of geologic turmoil is that there are plenty of hot springs. There are several in the Stanley area alone. The next morning, with the valley socked in under a cold fog, we decided to give our legs a treat by visiting one of the more convenient ones at the crack of dawn.

Just off the highway in lower Stanley, someone has taken an old oak barrel and plopped it at the edge of the Salmon River. A pipe out of the rocks pumps scalding water into the tub, and here you can soak away your troubles with little effort.

We found the waters luxurious, if not a little too hot. But with the air temperature outside hovering just below 40 degrees, the tub was an incredible treat. Partway through our soak, a mink ventured toward us, only to be driven away by the sight of my man-boobies. Thanks to them we've found a lot of solitude this trip, although I am hesitant to brandish them unless absolutely necessary.

See you on down the road.

Where gas prices don't matter

SUN VALLEY, Idaho—The feel of the road changed from blue collar to blue nosed as we made our way closer to Sun Valley, the nation's first destination ski resort. This land is not populated by potato farmers or nuclear scientists and technicians, but by movie stars and jet setters and America's richest one percent.

Raw real estate costs a half million dollars an acre, while fishing cabins can be had for a cool $1 million. Modest homes range $2.5 million, and luxury lots on multiple acres with river access capture $10 million. Unlike the rest of the nation, the real estate market seemed unaffected by the current housing bust. This is a place where shop items have no price tags; if you have to ask how much it costs, you probably can't afford it.

Understandably, the price of gas rose proportionately the closer we got to Sun Valley. To the affluent visitors here, petrol is simply another necessity, like milk or bread. And like everything else here, the Sun Valley Sinclair station did not advertise its prices from the road.

Like most people in town, we were here for leisure. But instead of spending our days in the $250-a-night comfort of the Sun Valley Lodge, we holed up in more modest accommodations down the road in Ketchum. From our base camp we had access to the excellent mountain biking trails that are as ubiquitous in Sun Valley as American Express gold cards.

We enjoyed two good days of riding on swooping singletrack. The terrible illness that had kept me bed ridden for nearly two weeks had taken its toll, and I found myself anemic and weak, foundering on every climb. Of course, Caroline skipped lightly up the trails like a two-wheeled pixie, cheerfully goading me ahead.

I kept reminding myself with each painful revolution of the cranks that I would be rewarded with some sweet fast downhill later on. On this day everything I needed to know I really had learned in kindergarten: "I think I can, I think I can" was my mental mantra.

These climbs would have been trivial undertakings for me under normal circumstances. But now, with the toxins of a million malevolent microorganisms coursing through my veins, my heart rate had reached the red line and my legs were quivering like a puppy in the throes of distemper. A black haze circled my vision as I reached the summit and for a moment I felt like I had fallen from the saddle.

Seconds later we found ourselves zipping through an ocean of flowers on sticky singletrack that had been tuned up by afternoon rains the previous day. I had died and my toil had been rewarded by the Gods, and now I was maneuvering through the Elysian Fields on pure quicksilver.

Back at the trailhead I realized that my journey was not as heroic as it had seemed. The dust on my shins and sweat on my brow confirmed that I was a mere mortal. There are worse things than that, I realized, and I drank in one last view of where we had been. I can't wait to see where we'll go.

We enjoyed a swell shake with a shot of espresso at Tully's coffee house in the heart of Sun Valley. I felt as rich as the others in the street, larger than life, so I indulged myself by sitting in the biggest chair I could find—a gigantic wooden affair festooned with red cowboy boots. I rode that bull like a Western pro despite the wrinkled noses and askance looks I received from the well-bred passersby.

See you on down the road.

The Devil's playground

CRATERS OF THE MOON, Idaho—Imagine heading out in a Conestoga wagon along the Oregon Trail, moving painfully across the wilds of Idaho, and suddenly encountering an impassable stretch of jagged blackened rock stretching out across the prairie as far as the eye could see.

If you were a God-fearing soul, you'd probably say your prayers and tuck tail and backtrack to greener pastures. But here in Godless America, we've turned the area into a national monument.

Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve is an unexpected treat bridging Idaho's formidable Nuclear Corridor with the wild lands to the north. If you've never visited, it's certainly worth a short detour from your travels. A seven-mile loop road through the monument puts you up close and personal with what must have been an impressive volcanic display dating back to just before the birth of Christ.

At Craters of the Moon you'll experience a little glimpse into Hell. Most people who visited were hesitant to leave their vehicles to romp among the grotesque spatter cones and shards of ancient lava and volcanic ash. But not us!

And on this 90-degree day, while the sun was high and bright, we chose to hike several trails in the monument, including an arduous trek straight up the top of two huge mounds of cinders, gaining hundreds of feet of elevation and providing us with a front row seat to a spectacular 360-degree view of the expansive valleys beyond the edge of the flow.

Our trek up the cinder cone was not without its price, however. The heat that bores into a human skull while trudging up a coal black mountain of sharp cinders wearing only sandals and no sunscreen can drive a man to madness.

Halfway up the hill I watched rivulets of sweat pouring off my body like the summer rains off a shiny tin roof. I stuck my tongue out in vain, trying desperately to catch a few precious drops of moisture. An extra sharp cinder lodged under the ball of my foot and I crumpled to the ground in agony.

"Leave me here and go get help!" I shouted at Caroline. I don't know why, but shouting seemed appropriate under such duress. "I'll stay here! I can drink my own urine if necessary!"

I watched Caroline continue to trudge her way toward the vast black summit above, so I stood up and brushed myself off and followed her.

But of course, once at the top, with the heat boring down into her brain and the blast furnace heat reflecting off of the hellish black earth, even strong Caroline cracked like an egg. In her madness she dove from a rock and started swimming across the broiling surface like a crippled salamander.

Hah-hah! We were both doomed!

Somehow we survived and returned to the (recently repaired) air-conditioned comfort of our vehicle. We drank deeply from the jugs of strange-tasting water we had acquired back in potato country.

A while later, after the water had seeped back into our cells and restored our sanity, we trudged through another area of the park. There we marveled at the tenacity of life. Patches of wildflowers had sprung up among the blackness, and at one point, in the shadow of a hillside, we watched a giant mouse-looking creature dart from rock to rock, foraging for tender plant chutes. It was the first time either of us had seen a pika—a strange creature known for its high-pitched squeak and ability to forage on its own feces for nutrition.

Yep. Hell comes in all kinds of manifestations and we're enjoying them all.

See you on down the road!

Meeting our long-lost radioactive cousin

ATOMIC CITY, Idaho—Our illusion that Idaho was nothing more than an inviting pastoral womb responsible for a never-ending supply of huge, tasty potatoes was shattered some 20 miles northwest of Blackfoot, home of the Idaho Potato Museum.

Out on this god-forsaken stretch of Highway 26, a high-desert climate and formidable stretches of ancient lava flows have turned the landscape into a portrait of hardscrabble despair. Sage brush and wisps of struggling native grasses poke out of the jagged landscape, which, understandably, is largely devoid of human population. In some areas the remnants of former civilization sit windblown and abandoned. Weathered shotgun shacks and crumbling stone hovels stand as trophies marking a victory for a landscape that has handily defeated the encroachment of humanity. For the most part.

During the industrious zeal of post-World-War-II America, when the nation was at the height of the Atomic Age, bureaucrats and scientists found the area suitable for a noble purpose: harnessing the atom. In this geologically unstable area, the United States Government established what is now the Idaho National Laboratory, one of several national laboratories operated for the U.S. Department of Energy.

Some 50 nuclear reactors have been built on the barren plains west of Idaho Falls during the last 50 years as scientists raced to prove that the awesome power of the Atom was good for something besides bombs. As part of the bargain, INL also became a dumping ground for spent nuclear reactor cores. But since the laboratory has been responsible for the relative prosperity in some areas, most folks around here don't say much about what goes on behind the security fences of INL.

Not every place profited from the atom, however. Some communities fell by the wayside as the veneer of World-War-II victory gave way to a general suspicion of all things atomic.

Witness tiny Atomic City, Idaho. Once a bustling little burg halfway between INL and Blackfoot, the town is mostly shuttered now. A couple of occupied houses and a row of squatters in mobile homes stand among the ruins of what was once a home to many residents. The community's only functioning business is the Atomic City Bar, located in the hollowed out ruins of an old Texaco station.

According to the barkeep, the establishment does a pretty brisk business as INL workers stop in to snag what she said is the coldest beer in the region. And in the oppressive heat of southwest Idaho, a cold beer is definitely worth a short jaunt off the main road. Interestingly enough, the barkeep did not know the origin of the community's name. Why it became "Atomic City" was a mystery to her.

The rest of Atomic City has been converted into a car racing track, and here on a late weekend afternoon, there was nary a left-over space for trailers hauling in the souped up vehicles that race for cash and bragging rights on the dirt track.

A few miles north, just out of earshot of the buzz of the Atomic City Raceway, the goings on at INL are protected by a row of ominous yellow signs warning that trespassers can be arrested and prosecuted under the Atomic Energy Act.

But not every part of INL is off limits. The world's first power-producing nuclear reactor, known as Experimental Breeder Reactor 1 (EBR-1), is now a national historic site. Though parts of the building are too radioactive for tours, much of the original reactor building is open to the public.

Despite the signs beckoning travelers in for a visit, the government employees in charge of the place do not share the same zest for visitors as the signs might suggest. We found them itching to close up shop and get on the road, perhaps for a cold one at the Atomic City Bar, some 15 minutes before the last tour time. I kept reminding myself that this was the government, not a small-town Chamber of Commerce, so the lack of customer service was not surprising, though it was still disappointing nevertheless.

Oh well, the road heals all wounds, and a short hop away we found our final destination in our ad-hoc Atomic Tour of Idaho.

The town of Arco got its claim to fame on July 15, 1955, when the Boiling Water Reactor 3 at INL delivered atomic power to the community for a few hours on that monumentous summer day. A strange little cafe at the edge of town offers "Atomic Burgers," but strangely enough, the rest of the community doesn't seem to call much attention to the town's auspicious atomic roots.

Instead, more conspicuous than the little sign on a city building announcing Arco's nuclear past, the hillside north of town is peppered with whitewash graffiti commemorating each high school graduating year since the 1930s. Even the older numbers look fresh, and the 2008 label had been lovingly written on craggy stone above town, despite the otherwise abandoned look of the community.

We breathed a sigh of relief as we sped north and away from Idaho's nuclear corridor, not because of a fear of the atom, but because the area seemed tired and worn out. The whiz-bang excitement of the Atomic Age—with its ray guns and robots and giant Hollywood tarantulas—is a bizarre anachronism in an age where people aren't curious about how technology works, but rather that it simply does work.

An appreciation for science left this nation a long time ago, giving way to instant text messages and tiny televisions that show Disney DVDs in the back of family minivans and SUVs. Americans apparently are too busy to learn about what makes us tick.

But that is too heavy to contemplate out here on the road, where long stretches of empty highway and wayward hours between destinations cause us to sing the songs of our past. A fifth chorus of "Brick House," only done in the guise of Porky Pig, causes the laughter to flow like the lava once did across this breathtaking landscape.

See you on down the road.