Posted in Today's File, Travel

Silver City, Idaho: a “Ghost Town” that Never Gave Up the Ghost

[Published in the Sep 2011 issue of Western Byways magazine… I thought I’d trot it out here as well.]

Perched in the Owyhee Mountains at the center of 250 once-active gold mines, Silver City is often referred to as a ghost town–but that’s not a description I recommend using within hearing of its residents. A determined handful, many of them descendants of original owners, still call the place home–though only a few of them year-round.  In fact, the town, though dwindled from its boom population of 2500, has never died–which is perhaps why it escapes the touristy feel of abandoned ghost towns, filled with husks of buildings and apparent set-piece props left over from history.  This town is still a live place–a place holding to a different way of living than most of us are accustomed to–and that in itself makes it worth a visit.

The road to Silver City remains impassable from November to June (those who dig in there during the winter make supply-runs by snow-machine), but for a summer trip by car it’s a mere 65 miles from Boise, roughly two hours’ drive-time with the rougher roads in the mountains.

Let me take a moment here to differentiate between drive-time and travel-time…  If you get into your vehicle in Boise and diligently follow the directions to Silver City, you’ll be there in a little under two hours.  That’s drive-time.  My husband and I, however, both suffered from previous experiences as road-trip hostages (get-in-the-car-we’re-not-stopping-till-you-have-to-pee-and-maybe-not-then)–so we prefer to Stop along the way.  We stop a LOT.  We turn the car around to investigate whatever eye-catcher we just passed, we pick up rocks, we hike up hillsides, sit on tractors, chat with people, take pictures, nose our way down side roads, find things to eat…  All in all, from the time we fuel up at our local Maverick (“Adventure’s first stop!”) until we pull into Silver City’s main road, we’ll probably spend seven or eight hours on inquisitive adventuring.  That’s travel-time.  We enjoy experiencing the places we travel. Best done, perhaps, on a motorcycle, with nothing between us and the road–but since we’re between bikes (my optimistic way of saying we don’t have one), a clunker car with windows rolled down serves perfectly well.

We’ve tossed our overnight bag in the back seat and we’re heading south from Nampa on Idaho 45–an open stretch of road bordered by farm-fields, some of them labeled (much to our amusement) with the names of their crops.  I’m an Idaho-girl, born and bred, but my husband Keoni hails from Hawai’i, so I tease him that this is an educational trip–he knows sugar cane, but here we have sugar beets.  As the highway slowly drops toward the plateaus lining the Snake River, we pass decorated ranch-gates, one of them topped by a metal silhouette of a cougar (he suggests that older, single women must work here), and a machinery workshop with a reader-board suggesting, “Honk if you love Jesus, text while driving if you want to see him soon.”  We also spot several of the yellow-diamond caution signs featuring tractors, which put me in mind of the “Travel Bingo” game my sister and I played as kids.  It was  a scavenger hunt of sorts, setting us to look for items in an ascending hierarchy of difficulty.  But the game must have been manufactured on the East Coast, because the easy level included things like a traffic clover-leaf (which we’d never laid eyes on), while the most difficult level included “covered wagon” and “outhouse”…  Not a game designed for Idaho, where a “tractor crossing” sign is commonplace.

Hawks soar over the Snake River crossing at Walter’s Ferry, and we get out of the car to admire the geological stories evidenced in the volcanic mesas bounding the river, and in the smaller stones underfoot. Keoni enthuses over a rock that shows “at least five different events,” and turns up the blade of an old hay knife in the process.  (We have a basket in the backseat which will gradually fill with his findings–he’s a delighted scavenger who sees treasure everywhere.)  In the meantime, I borrow his hunting knife to dislodge a few dozen goatheads from the bottom of my shoes; I like my sandals without added traction, thank you.

Just past the river, we turn left onto Idaho 78, past Hemingway Butte (literary tribute, now a trailhead for desert dirt bikes), and call another halt at Melba’s Blue Canoe, a steakhouse-and-seafood house open Friday through Sunday.  Painted boulders outline the gravel parking area with “petroglyphs” (hunters, animals, and of course paddlers) surrounding the blocky building with more merry petroglyph figures dancing against a cobalt-colored wall. The outside eating area–complete with family-style trestle tables, thatched shade, an outdoor grill and bar–puts me strangely in mind of the Florida Keys (I imagine Hemingway Butte moseying over for a taste of Key West), an impression compounded by a banner advertising the upcoming annual Crawdad Feed.  I only need one glance at the menu: I’ll be having “Crawdads in a Canoe” (cheese-filled potato skins topped with seasoned tails).

The desert can seem deceptively empty–the Blue Canoe seems to stand all alone overlooking the river, but just a few minutes down the highway we’re pulling into Murphy, where we find the Owyhee County historical museum.  It’s not a grandiose affair, but I’m a sucker for any bookstore with locally-authored histories, and there’s a certain romantic kitsch (if you discount the chicken-wire enclosure) to the yard full of rusted old-time farm implements. (The whetstones catch Keoni’s eye; I think he’d like to use one after I used his knife to dig around in my rubber sandal-soles.)

Once we leave Murphy behind, we won’t see another town until Silver City, so the Murphy General Store is a good stop to restock our drink cooler.  Across the road, a single strip of asphalt comprises the Murphy Airport, where a large sign cautions against driving cars on the runway (an admonishment which brings to mind a similar sign at the airstrip in St. Andrews, Scotland–that one forbids driving golf balls on the runway)…

South of Murphy we turn off the state highway onto Ridge Road, which leads to a wonderfully-named network of rutted dirt roads (Ruby Junction, New York Summit, Old Stage Road, and of course Silver City Road).  Gaining elevation, the landscape begins to jut out in stacked rock formations (some of which I can’t resist climbing up–and one of which challenges me to climb down its sheer backside on a retrieval operation after I discover my hiking-hat needs a chin-strap).  Looking back across the Snake River plain, water-carved crevices wend downward; today’s backdrop to the river is a spread of distant smoke plumes, probably grass fires from last night’s lightning storm.

We haven’t gone too far up the mountain when we encounter another cautionary road sign, this one informing us that if we travel beyond this point, we are responsible for the cost of any search-and-rescue operation we might incur.  They mean business; the sign cites the applicable section of Idaho code.  A word here about vehicles–some guides insist that this road should only be attempted by four-wheel-drive, and indeed, a 4WD would do handily.  Speaking for myself, though, I know Idaho roads and I know the limitations of my own vehicle, held together as it is in places with duct tape (classier than it sounds, I assure you–I found leopard-print duct tape at Target).  I don’t mess around with the things that could get a person killed on a remote road (we have water, and granola bars, and a full tank of gas, and the array of tools we use regularly to coax the clunker back to action when it sulks), but from my perspective this isn’t a road that poses a threat–at least in summer.

We quickly learn to roll up the windows when a vehicle approaches from the other direction, in order to avoid choking on clouds of dust, and we validate our long-standing joke that our car’s color should be called “Idaho Dirt;” now completely caked with dry dust, it hasn’t changed color by a shade.  The driver of a pilot car coming downhill rolls down her window to let us know how many trucks we can expect behind her (from the Silver Falcon Mine–the only remaining mine in operation), and goes on her way with a cheery wave.  Game trails weave through the sagebrush on either side, as well as fun-and-games-trails posted for ATVers.  We stop at a bridge to watch some modern-day gold-panners at work (using Tupperware!) where the streambed literally glitters with flakes of micah and reflected sunlight.

I called yesterday to see about a room at the Idaho Hotel, but we don’t actually know where we’re headed when we pass the sign welcoming us to Silver City and instructing us to report in with the watchman.  Happily, it’s not difficult to find anything in Silver City, so a moment later we’re parking in front of the flag-bedecked white porch of the old hotel.  The hotel opened in 1863, with additional sections added over the next few decades.  Its tidy three-story clapboard front contrasts starkly with its backside view–dark weathered wood teetering five stories (built on a hill, the street-level front entrance opens onto a middle floor) with a crazed roofline of cobbled-together converging ridges.  Pushing open the front door, we wander through a large wood-paneled foyer crowded with relics of earlier days and into an even larger dining-room-and-bar. There, framed by the heavy saloon mirror behind him, we find Roger, who owns and operates the hotel and “lives under the stairs” (not quite like Harry Potter).

Roger finds our reservation jotted in a notebook and steps over his dog Kodiak to show us upstairs to our room.  The hotel is unapologetically old–not “decorated in period decor,” but furnished with pieces that have served here for a century and a half.  It has boasted indoor plumbing (pumped-in spring water) since 1868; the shared bathroom down the hall now features the pump-flush toilet I’m accustomed to using on sailboats, and there’s a separate shower-room with guest towels folded on the shelves.  No room key–unlike the enclosed and self-contained units we expect in modern motels, this hotel retains the feel of a European inn, where we are simply guests of the house.

We probably have half an hour left before the sun drops behind the mountain (the “first sunset,” Roger calls it, followed by several hours of ambient pre-dusk without direct sunlight), so we decide to stroll the streets around the hotel.  Our Lady of Tears Catholic Church, a striking white in the low-angle light, perches on a rocky outcrop above us, closed until Father Gerald returns for its next monthly Mass.  Just below it stands the schoolhouse, complete with bell, a notice on its door for the next meeting of the town’s planning & zoning committee.  Orange-framed “no trespassing” signs on cabins and cottages serve as a reminder to daytrippers that these are not movie-set pieces, but people’s homes.  Despite the neon notes and scattered ATVs (preferred in-town transport for residents navigating near-vertical streets), we note and appreciate the utter absence of power lines and phone lines.

When we return to the dining room, it has gained a few patrons–a couple from Oregon (staying in the room next to ours), a fellow stopping in for a drink after building a shed across the street, and a local EMT, who also drives the town’s brush-fire truck when campfires get out of hand at the campground up the hill.  He enjoys wines but says he doesn’t know how to pick them, so he entrusts that job to Roger’s wife when she visits wineries for the hotel, and he stops here in the evenings to enjoy a glass of whatever she’s picked for him.  Roger reappears with our hamburgers (plain fare, but tasty enough) and joins the conversation, which centers on the upcoming meeting of the town planning committee.  He’s having trouble getting approval for his proposed paint job, and bemoans the difficulties of matching paint that’s 120 years old.

An hour later we excuse ourselves and climb the steep stairs to plunk ourselves down on the cushioned bench of the second-floor balcony, overlooking the main street and the steep mountainside opposite.  Roger told us to watch for the deer that come down the mountain after dusk (particularly a cocky rascal of a four-point buck who doesn’t seem afraid of anyone), but unfortunately for us, wildlife don’t do “command performances,” and we don’t catch a glimpse of them.

The full moon, on the other hand, holds to its schedule and appears in all its solemn brilliance above the mountain several hours later.  Silver City under the moon is more of a ghost town–not in the sense of seeming eerie or abandoned, but because its character of 150 years ago seems now to spring to the forefront.  The mountain by moonlight is not a negligible bit of scenery, but a very solid presence, the stars undimmed by street lamps or any hint of electric light.  The year 2011 and even the shadow-lumps which (before sunset) were cars and ATVs now take on the role of “ghost,” while Silver City itself, old and largely unchanged, stands revealed.  Each cabin, rising from its clump of woods up the mountainside, endures serenely, having held its ground here for a century and a half.  It’s the people and their trappings (motorized or otherwise) who are the transient ghosts here.  People have built this, and maintained it, lived in it, loved it, restored it–but the place itself has a strength of its own.

We wake early, to the chill of a mountain morning where nothing in the world sounds better than a hot cup of coffee, so we bundle into our sweatshirts and venture into the dining room to see if anyone is stirring.  Sure enough, the Oregon guest is building a fire in the wood stove, and Roger has just started the coffee perking.

Although Silver City was among the earliest towns in Idaho to benefit from electricity (via Swan Falls Dam), its only power sources since the 1940s have been generators or kerosene or (in the case of the hotel) solar power, so the guest rooms here are outfitted with a single-bulb electric light each.  Last night when we settled down to read in bed, I teased Keoni that he (with his paperback book) was at a disadvantage with regard to lighting.  I travel with iPad (all-in-one maps, navigator, notebook, recorder, backup camera, and of course a few novels), conveniently backlit for reading in dim light–but he retorted (noting the absence of electrical outlets) that at least his book wouldn’t need to be recharged in the morning.  Touche!

This morning our biscuits & gravy take a while to appear, but placated by the hot mugs of coffee in hand, we take the time to browse the walls–a veritable library of historical photos, news clippings, and Silver City trivia.  One loaded bookshelf hosts a collection of books (also for sale)–first-hand accounts of Silver City in its heyday–and reprinted copies of the Avalanche, a high-profile newsrag in its day, with offices just down the street.

We take a table by the window to eat breakfast, fascinated by the battalion of hummingbirds feeding a few inches away on the other side of the warped glass pane.  And then the sun makes its appearance, infusing the room with a whole new character.  The lace curtains glow cheerfully, the scarred wood gleams, the bottles behind the bar glint in a subdued rainbow–and we lean back to enjoy a third cup of coffee.

When I poke my head into the kitchen to ask Roger about settling our bill, I get sidetracked exclaiming over his magnificent cast-iron cook-stove (which probably weighs more than our car, and which I can’t imagine hauling up the mountain by wagon).  He proudly clears it of home-made pies so I can photograph it, then (like a small boy with a secret) tells me mysteriously to meet him at the bottom of the stairs, and promptly disappears around a corner.  I’m intrigued–he has been pleasant and accommodating, but not talkative, perhaps a little shy behind his tidy white beard–so we dutifully circle around to the staircase, brimming with curiosity.  Roger pops out of a closed doorway like the White Rabbit, swings it wide, and ushers us into his parlor.

Any museum curator would be jealous, truly.  And so would any storyteller–Roger is a regular raconteur now that he’s got the bit in his teeth.  When people left Silver City, it was often because they didn’t have the funds to stay–and consequently didn’t have the resources to ship things back down the mountain–so most of the furnishings that have arrived in Silver City over the last 150 years have stayed here.  This is the story of his elegant piano, and the intricately carved poker table (complete with a cash-slot in its green felt top, and a safe built-in underneath).  He tells stories about the town’s characters, pulling out old photos from a pile on the sideboard, and shows us some treasures he’s added to the collection himself.  “I’m an eBay addict,” he confesses, handing me a tiny silver spoon bearing an etched engraving of his hotel.

And the oddly-shaped horseshoes leaning against the hallway wall?  “Snow cleats for the horses.”

Walking around town, we try to match the existing buildings with the period photos we saw in the hotel.  Some still bear the signage of their last use (the meat market, the barber shop, the brewing vat, the Silver Slipper Saloon, the stone wall of the jail with its iron-barred window), but we haven’t figured out which might be the assay office, the Chinese laundry, the bath house…  Many of these buildings still have original furnishings inside, and the drug store, it turns out, also belongs to Roger–he wonders if we’d like him to unlock it for us.  With all respect to Father Gerald–is the Pope Catholic?

He bought the drug store contents-and-all, and it’s another museum-in-the-making.  (“I’m a sucker for old things,” he grins.  Pointing my thumb at Keoni, who has 20 years on me, I say “Me too.”)  I’m astounded by what has been left behind here–a well-worn dentist’s chair, a prototype asthma inhaler, x-ray machine, a full array of medical instruments, a glass-front cabinet full of unopened medicines (“The newest one in there is 1903,” he tells me) wooden crates from Anheiser Busch and a Pacific Coast Tea Garden, glass bottles and kerosene lamps and advertising posters for McDonald Chocolate and Bromo-Seltzer (a sedative tonic removed from American markets in the 1900s due to its toxicity)…

We make one last stop at the cemetery, a poignant snapshot of Silver City’s life cycle.  The number of marble headstones bear testament to the success of the mountain’s mines–and the number of denizens whose lives are measured in days or months bear witness to the hard realities of trying to survive here.

Always interested in a new road, we head out of town toward Jordan Valley rather than retracing our route to Murphy.  Along the rutted road we spy occasional campers–not REI gearheads, but archers and gold-panners and ATVers with leather rifle-cases strapped behind.  Slag heaps mar the mountain at intervals–avalanches of white rock against the dark volcanic reds and browns, as if the mountain had bled profusely down its side.  Eventually the landscape opens up into wider panoramas–cattle and fields and farms with stone outbuildings.  The town of Jordan Valley (named for Mike Jordan, the “trail-finder of the Owyhees”) dealt for decades in sheep, and its population of Basque sheepherders has left its mark on the community.  The graceful stone Catholic Church was largely Basque-built, and you can still eat family-style at the Old Basque Inn.

The last leg of our drive could rival a day at the Farmer’s Market.  Idaho 55 takes us by the Ste. Chapelle and Fujishin wineries, and farmers are selling sweet corn out of their front yards along the road.  One hand-written sign advertises “Fresh Corn and Elotes,” so of course we stop to find out what elotes are.  Corn-on-the-cob, as it turns out–boiled in the husk and served with salt, chili, butter, and seasoned sour cream.  Fresh fruit stands abound along the roadside, and as the fragrance of mint fields wafts us toward town, we realize our picnic basket is fuller than when we left home.  Which leaves us with just one question–where shall we go next?  We have a lot of Idaho highway left to explore…

Posted in Travel

Byways & Bygones: Idaho’s “Old Oregon Trail Byway”

Engine idling in the middle of the desert, we contemplate the pockmarked metal sign in front of us. Military Range, it declares, adding the instruction that civilian vehicles are to keep to the main road. Which leaves us with a question–what is the definition, out here, of a “main road”? Off to the side, a double hump of volcano-pokey-up-things (“cinder cones,” my husband Keoni helpfully supplied, when I described them thus) stand out from the flat plain like a pair of breast implants, and the road winding around to the top is the one we’re itching to turn onto. “Well…” Keoni reasons aloud, “it’s just da one road up, yeah?” I nod. “So… I t’ink dat’s da main road, brah.” With a wink and a wicked grin, he puts the car back in gear.

For some people, taking a scenic byway IS going “off the main road”–but we’ve found that even a Byway is a road from which we’re going to wander. Take this desert detour, for example–today’s purported destination is the Old U.S. Highway 30 (now quaintly called the Oregon Trail Byway), but before we even hit the jumping-off point (a mere forty freeway-miles from home) we found a roadside marker that sent us tripping off on this tangent. We’ll get to US 30 when we get to it. And praise the Lord and Apple Apps for the half-dozen map-apps on my iPad, which allow us to take a look at what roads we’re on–since that situation so seldom synchs with what roads we expected to traverse.

We were chatting on that first bit of freeway-drive about the laudable improvement to Idaho rest stops (at least the ones along the interstate–elsewhere you might still find outhouses), so although our morning coffee hadn’t yet hit, we pulled into the first rest stop for an evaluative look. Cheery blue-roofed building, green grassy picnic space (an oasis, truly, in the desert here), historical information, and sparkling facilities–in some neighborhoods you couldn’t find a park this pleasant. It was the Oregon Trail historical marker there that tipped us off our planned route–a mention of a view the wagon trains witnessed “just a mile beyond this point” (though of course it didn’t say in which direction).

"Prairie schooner" covered wagon

So we pulled into the Boise Stage Stop at the next exit–indeed, the modern-day version of a stage-stop, where dozens upon dozens of semi trucks line up in the evening, sleeping beasts gathering for the next day’s assault on the interstate. The historical stopping point for the Overland Stage Line stood a few miles south, but beneath its flashing reader-board the Boise Stage Stop does boast some picturesque relics–a covered wagon (“Prairie Schooner” decked full-sail in canvas, and entirely vintage–except, perhaps for metal grommets in the canvas cover) and a manure spreader (perhaps on loan from our uber-Republican State Legislature).

I was forcibly struck by the narrowness of the wagon bed–a paltry four feet across, maybe a dozen feet in length–and tried to imagine cramming this small space with all the tools necessary to begin a new life in an unknown place. Farming implements, tools for building a homestead (and repairing a wagon in transit), dry goods to last for months, iron cookware and metal dishes, rifles and traps, water barrels, perhaps an heirloom piece of furniture, schoolbooks for children… I packed more shit than this four-by-twelve space when I left for college, and the campus was right across town from my parents’ house (not to mention WalMart and Pizza Hut). In my gradeschool days (growing up a handful of miles off the Oregon Trail in Eastern Idaho), I churned out reams of wagon-train drawings, and I realize now that I’d always imagined the wagons to be bigger. I’m sure I was abetted in that error by the wide-framed farm wagons I saw on “Little House on the Prairie” (the one TV show I was allowed to watch once I graduated from “Sesame Street”), but as I consider the challenges of crossing an unpaved continent, I imagine this narrow little number might have been necessary in places.

Oregon Short Line Railroad
Oregon Short Line Railroad

Instead of getting back onto the freeway, we headed south on the Mayfield-Orchard road, wending our way between sunflower-studded wheat fields and military signage, stopping to gather a rainbow of broken glass along the roadside. Evidently the remains of the Corder Station stage stop are somewhere out there, crumbling into a pasture among the cricket-percussion rattling the dry brush, but it’s the Oregon Shortline Railroad (which eventually rendered the stage lines obsolete) which we found instead. Keoni prowled the tracks picking up rusted railroad spikes while I circled the steam-engine water tower, still shining proud despite its splintering roof. A huge white-visaged barn owl launched itself from under the tower, dipped its wings at us as if in salute, and scattered an explosion of pigeons from the roof before sailing out of sight.

A word here about naaumakua… Most cultures (perhaps barring the skeptical-secular American) enjoy relationships with protector-spirits. Names vary–totem, guardian, ancestor, angel; in Hawai’ian culture the protective ancestor-spirit is the ‘aumakua, a word which could be translated to mean “personal- or family-god.” A Hawai’ian family will have its own ‘aumakua, manifest in the form of an animal of the islands–Keoni’s family belongs to Mano, the shark. As his tutu pa (grandfather) Kamuela told him when he was small, “When you see Mano, dat mean one good t’ing or one bad t’ing gonna happen.” Keoni’s irreverent response (which earned him a cuff on the ear): “Well, Tutu Pa, dat depends wheddah you on top da watah or underneat‘!”

In addition to the family’s ‘aumakua, an individual may have a personal ‘aumakua. You don’t go looking for one, and you don’t choose one–the ‘aumakua makes itself known to you, and if you’re the kind of person who pays attention to things, you might recognize the relationship. (Not unlike prayer, I find–God sends us all kinds of notes, and we only recognize his answers if we’re paying attention.) Feeling myself comfortably under the protection of Mano, by virtue now of being part of the Ka’anapu-Kanai-Tyler family and honoring their traditions, I hadn’t thought to look further–but pue’o, the owl, came unexpectedly tapping for me, and any owl-encounter now is significant punctuation in a journey.

In the beams supporting the water tower we spotted our owl’s launching-point, an oversized nest built of thumb-thick twigs, nestled against an upright. I wondered aloud about climbing up with the camera (not dignified, given the summer dress I’m wearing today, but not difficult either), but the backside of the structure sported a “No Trespassing” sign. Keoni must have seen the speculative gleam still in my eye–he reminded me that I won’t be off probation for 10 more days and should probably behave myself, Wise Spoilsport that he is.

We drove for a while alongside the tracks (definitely off-map–even our most detailed diagram didn’t show a road there) admiring the multicolored glass insulators decorating the aging wooden power poles. “I always wanted to find one of those,” Keoni remarked, just moments before slowing at the side of the road and asking me to open my door. There it was, green and bell-shaped and humming with the history of transmitted telegraph messages and (that other outdated technology) telephone lines. A Union Pacific engine (diesel now, of course, rather than steam) passed us pulling a string of colorfully graffitied cargo cars–modern petroglyphs, we joked.

Cinder Butte
Cinder Butte

On this flat volcanic plain the cinder cones were an easy and irresistible landmark–we angled toward them along unmarked roads, and (having made our determination about the permissibility of the road upward), we’re now climbing in low gear, to the soundtrack of tinny-crunchy cinder under the tires and the scrape of sage brushing the undercarriage. The sun has been flirting with us all morning behind scudding clouds, painting the landscape in dramatic swaths of sunlight and shadow. From the top of Cinder Butte, the plain stretches around us in all directions–black and burned-looking, mostly, but punctuated with Irridescent greens of irrigated fields. An 1866 trail-traveler, Julius Merrill, journaled here, at about this same time of year: “We again come in sight of Snake River Valley and that black desolate plain. Our road now strikes the Salt Lake Stage Road. On every little creek where there is sufficient water for irrigation there are ranches, most taken up this season, and a few vegetables are raised.” His post-script, a celebration of communication lines: “At a stage station [Corder, just below us] we first heard of the fall of Atlanta and Fort Morgan, and that General Morgan had been killed. It has been a long time since we heard any war news and, as might be expected, were quite jolly over such good news.” The radio towers perched atop the butte beside us carry news of different civil and world wars, but–along with the weather-worn posts lining the rail-tracks–bear testament to the human need to “stay in touch,” by whatever means the human mind invents.

Cinder Butte
Cinder Butte

Since our earlier owl didn’t offer to deliver post (no doubt it hasn’t yet read Harry Potter), I feel moved to borrow a different bird, and Tweet my editor with a field report: “Today’s expedition: Old US 30. On the road 4 hrs, not yet to Mtn Home, LOL. Friggin’ AWESOME out here!” Theoretically, Mountain Home is 40 minutes from our doorstep, but The Editor is well aware of our propensity to sidetrack–maybe he’ll have a chuckle while he’s glued to magazine proofs. (I have the best end of this deal, do I not?)

Mountain Home’s Air Force Base seems to extend its influence even to civilian life–on the way into town we see a daycare facility billed as a “Child Training Center.” Start ’em young, I guess. We also pass “Easy Street”–I used to wonder how to find that mythical locale, but didn’t expect to find it in rural Idaho… Here we pick up our planned path, turning onto Old US 30 (commemorated locally by the “Highway 30 Drive-In” burger joint) and cross over the interstate.

I’m fussing with my map, having gotten befuddled by the last road-marker, which pointed three different directions for “US 30,” “US 30,” and “Old Oregon Trail”–but I finally put it aside and simply take in the bigger picture. This path has had so many incarnations, and so many names.

Oregon Trail Byway
Oregon Trail Byway

I once had a picture-book of Rome, each photograph of a majestic ruin coupled with a clear sheet whose illustration, when overlaid on the photo, showed how the original had looked all those centuries ago. I’m thinking of this road in a similar way, trying to see not only what’s here now, but what has been here… The Shoshone-Bannock tribes (“Snake” Indians from whom the river takes its name) traveled here–among the earlier-mounted Native Nations, they traveled with horses to gather on the Great Camas Prairie and harvest their staple root; hunted buffalo to the south and east; and traded with other tribes, leaving petroglyph records of their commerce, and rock-chiseled maps of the Snake River Plain.

Then came the trappers and mountain men, following close on the heels of Lewis and Clark’s arduous journey–and behind them those prairie pilgrims, the wagon trains of settlers moving in to stay. In places along their trail you can see the deep rut, wagon-wide and probably shoulder-high to an ox, worn away by the single file of thousands, and a geography professor once told me that in satellite photos the Oregon trail is visible as a swath of non-native plant life, inadvertently seeded by the pioneers passing through. As outposts of “civilization” began to dot the western map, stage lines moved in, followed by railroad tracks laid along the same pathways. Little does the passing freeway-driver know how much the trappers of old affected his current drive-route; the interstate parallels the railroad, which overlaid the stage lines, which co-opted the Oregon trail, which grew from paths scouted by the mountain men.

Oregon Trail Byway
Oregon Trail Byway

August colors here run to golds and purples–ripe wheat, starburst of sunflowers, violet shadows below the rims of volcanic bluffs and mesas, and the deeper shades of mountains along the north rim of the Snake River Plain. Besides wheat, the “crop” most in evidence along this road is an invisible one; side-by-side with hundred-year-old farmhouses stand rows of white windmills, their blades rotating in concert like the arms of synchronized swimmers. We imagine the harvest here is a good one, a guess based on our own extremely windblown state; Keoni’s tangled mane just broke our plastic hairbrush in two. I’ve given up on mine entirely, focusing instead on the challenge of tilting at windmills, a la Don Quixote, armed with a telephoto lens.

Idaho wind farm

A brush fire has charred one hillside along the road, and we stop to read the historical marker at its base. We’re diverted, though, by the discovery of four coyote skeletons, maybe killed and skinned by a local farmer and left here–the pads and fur of the paws are intact (though scorched), but the rest of the bones have been picked (or burned) clean, spinal columns measuring their segmented lengths against the ashy ground, carnassials and canines gleaming white in empty skulls. After adding a coyote skull to the glass collection in Keoni’s “scavenging basket,” we pause to read the sign for which we’d originally pulled over. It features another journal-entry by an 1845 pioneer, and I’m struck by the universality of the urge to document travels. Before telegraph or phone lines, before blogs and tweets and travel magazines, these hardy tourists detailed their journeys without any expectation of an audience. Yet here we are today, standing beside the road and reading this “blog” from the past.

The Byway crosses back to the south side of the freeway at Glenn’s Ferry, a town named for Gus Glenn, a Union soldier who emigrated to Idaho in 1863, building and operating the ferry which hauled the continuous procession of wagons and freighters and stagecoaches across this wide stretch of the Snake River. Main Street (now named Idaho Avenue) is a one-sided affair facing the railroad track with a colorful line-up of painted brick storefronts. A red livery barn (painted with a mural of horses-and-buggy) has been in business for over a hundred years, and even newer businesses occupy historic retail space.

Glenn's Ferry, ID

We adhere to a set of Magic Road-Rules when we travel, a list begun in fun and which, like Captain Barbossa’s take on the Pirate Code, “be more like guidelines than actual rules.” Since it’s well past lunch-hour, though, it’s time to put #5 into action: always eat at a locally-owned restaurant. Preferably the type where you might end up chatting with the owner while you eat. We hit the jackpot at Fudge Factory Grill & Ice Cream with an order of Huckleberry Joe (a sloppy-joe style sandwich with huckleberry BBQ sauce), sweet potato fries, and the best potato salad I’ve ever eaten away from home. You can just tell when potato salad is homemade instead of scooped from a pre-ordered bucket, and our server (who does, indeed, turn out to be the owner) confirms that it’s her great-grandmother’s recipe. The clean, bright, and blessedly air-conditioned interior is hung with rodeo photos of her wrangler-grandfather, and she sells huckleberry ice cream, huckleberry honey, and huckleberry BBQ sauce from behind the counter.

Carmela Winery
Carmela Winery

South of the railroad tracks, we follow signs down a road running along the river-bluff to the Carmela winery, its vineyards sprawling around a cheery stone building which can only be described as an architectural mish-mash of “French chateau” and “Italian villa.” Since both of us are recovering alcoholics, we skip the tasting-room and wander instead through the vines and stacked wine-barrels to the flagstone patio overlooking the river. For those who can safely indulge, an umbrella-shaded iron table here looks like the perfect setting to enjoy a chilled glass of Carmela’s white “River’s Mist.”

A little further down the same road lies Three Island Crossing State Park, located at the site where wagons attempted the river before Gus Glenn’s ferry opened for business. Floating the wagons and swimming the livestock, though all too often at the cost of lives and goods when a wagon swamped, gave travelers a promise of a shorter journey than the route continuing along the south bank, as well as more water and better feed for the livestock. Every August the local community re-enacts the crossing here–horses, oxen, wagons, 19th-century clothing and all–in a three day celebration which includes mountain man competitions (tomahawk-tossing & tall tales), chili cook-offs, and a rifle raffle.

Three Island Crossing, Oregon Trail
Three Island Crossing, Oregon Trail

Today, though, the park is quiet. We browse our way through the onsite History & Education Center and walk down to the water’s edge, where a handful of tiny cabins dot a wide lawn sloping down to the riverbank. Having spent six hours in an un-cooled car along dusty roads, we take one look at the glassy green water and resolve to add “swimsuits” to our outing-checklist. The park has considerately chosen this time of day to water, however, so we gleefully stand in the sprinklers until our clothes are drenched and our dusty feet have resumed their usual color.

Thoroughly refreshed, we retrace our steps to Glenn’s Ferry (noting, in passing, the Academy of Equine Dentistry, the log cabin which is Main Street’s garage, and the retired school bus which now serves as a walk-in taco shop) to pick up our US 30 route once again. The highway and railroad curve side-by-side in the space between the river and a pale cliff of siltstone, its layers the color and general appearance of egg-carton cardboard until they crumble under a touch. In the rubble of at the cliff’s foot we squeeze a few fist-sized rocks with our hands, shattering their layers to reveal fossilized outlines of embedded plant-seeds. Add another sheet to the layered-history-map; even river plants from ancient floods can evidently send a pictogram to the future.

Keoni & his roasting-rocks

The Bonneville flood of fifteen thousand years ago swept through the Snake River Plain when a gigantic inland sea (the dregs of which are now Salt Lake) suddenly burst its bank, sending water roiling across southern Idaho at 15 million cubic feet per second. The flood left behind rounded basalt boulders, which still pebble the landscape like black goosebumps, and whose little brothers Keoni hopes to pick up on this trip for his imu, or barbecue pit. He goes rock-stalking up a hillside beneath a railroad bridge and starts tossing rocks into piles along the road, where I pick them up and play hot-potato with them until I can drop them in the trunk. (Note to self: after “swimsuit,” add “work gloves” to the daytrip-list.) I can see why these are perfect for retaining enough heat to cook a pig, given how hot they are just sitting in the sun.

The community of King Hill, an unincorporated town of a few hundred souls, nestles between the river and the hills, featuring a small post office, an irrigation hub, and a couple intriguingly signed businesses (The Counting Club, with stained-glass puffins on the door, and the Beatnik-evoking Casady Corner) which are sadly closed, leaving our curiosity unsatisfied. We leave King Hill with no more clues about its economy than the numerous haystacks along the road, spray-painted with batch numbers, and the fact that “Git R Done” bull semen is now available from the local 101 Ranch. As we head down US 30 to its next meet-up with the interstate, a roadside billboard standing in a field of basalt boulders reads: “Petrified watermelons! Take one to your mother-in-law.” We’ve read a number of historical markers today; this is our first hysterical marker.

irregation aqueduct
irregation aqueduct

Despite the fact that we’re less than 100 miles from home, we’ve been on the road for ten hours and figure it’s time to get on the freeway and head back. Of course, that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes us to arrive at Paradise Valley exit, where we wonder if we can reach the edge of the river-gorge via the frontage road we see running beside us. (Post-it note: remember to download a topo map onto the iPad. All my roadmaps are NO help on this question.)

Off we go, and though a “Dead End” sign greets us almost as soon as we hit the frontage road, we figure we’ll at least see it through before we turn around. The road dips below the level of the interstate, and we park the car under a trestle supporting a wooden culvert, constructed like a super-long barrel cut in half. A lonely pair of horses insist on kissing me while I try to photograph it, and when Keoni is done laughing at me, he notices some small puddles beneath the conduit. We had assumed, from its obvious antiquity, that this was no longer part of a working system, but we clamber up the nearby hill to peer into the channel and discover that sure enough, there’s water flowing through at a good clip, and papyrus growing along the banks.

The road right-angles here and disappears into a large drain-pipe. At first glance I’m not even sure it will fit a car, but we drive through without trouble and find ourselves on the other side of the interstate, passing roadsigns that match my map–which leads us to ponder the definition of “dead end” out here. Maybe it’s short-hand code meaning “Cityfolk, don’t come whining if you get your car stuck in a drainpipe.”

Paradise Valley merits its name this evening. Irrigation wheel-lines span the green fields, their sprinklers juggling rainbows in the low-angle light. We’re just on the verge of deciding that this is too lovely an evening to drive on the freeway when a text-message from our teenager rings in, wondering if we’ve gotten lost. He probably wants supper. And for that worthy cause we’re willing to steer onto the fast-track home. He should be glad we’re not relying on telegraph anymore.

all photographs (c) Kana & Keoni Tyler