Sun Valley Symphony

The austerity of the scene bent toward a troubling monotony. I attempted to drag myself away from cynicism by focusing on the accelerating horns, the swell of the string section and blur of piano. In Sun Valley Idaho the scene at the symphony is one of brie cheese and wine, picnic baskets, sun hats, Sun Valley sweatshirts and all the trappings of tourists who live partially here. After two scheduled events for our public outreach program, that despite press releases, postering and all manner of advertising, managed to be entirely ignored, I was feeling a bit salty.

On the horrifically green turf of the pavilion lawn, the lavish scene spread out. Dogs, children and parents lay in the sterile grass, staring at the threatening clouds that bulged and descended like a group of gray scabs. Trout Friendly Lawn? Child Friendly Lawn? Not a chance. While the second movement skipped through festive moments I looked for any sign of a weed. I found near my feet the forelorn leaves of a young dandelion that had somehow survived the last round of 24-D, Sun Valley's agent orange. Irony echoed from under the canvass big top as the introduction speaker mentioned that as part of their "greening" effort, all unused programs should be returned to event staff rather than thrown out. OK. Fair enough. But while people handed their booklets away they sat on a turf, that like much of the valley, had been bathed in a soup of chemicals, some of which probably degraded in some vague way, some of which would make its way down to the aquifer, and the rest simply washing away to the river.

I couldn't help, watching over the crowd so enthralled by high society, thinking back to knocking on Portland doors, that one woman cradling her toddler, saying distantly as she shut the door - "I don't care."

Most people have no idea what is put on their lawns, or that the water they spray at varying intervals comes directly from an over allocated river, or that below Magic dam you can walk on a dry avenue of stones called the Big Wood River. So the bubble here seems complete, coddling the collective consciousness like a cocoon. And still I ride around town on my bike, giving presentations or attempting to lead the landscaping community down a road that promises business under the banner of green. My phone rings, my calendar is illegible. Yet I ride the Hwy. 75 stretch, sun cooking the ribs of browned rock, passing tanker trucks spraying some foul smelling liquid under the spruce trees and a parade of lexuses that have somewhere to be.

JJ Ranch South of Stanley ID

Standing in the Salmon River, it was hard to believe that the sun would not be setting on a longer undammed river in the nation. The salmon slides in a hush behind JJ Ranch in the Sawtooth Valley. Despite the state road running north to south, the valley retains a wild western character. My first time through pronghorn antelope loped through roadside sage brush and from where are small fire was in front of JJ Ranch's cabin we could see two hefty mule deer bucks on the ridge, the spread of their racks revealed through binoculars. By the time I crawled into my sleeping bag the temp. was surely in the low forties, I had my winter hat on the first time since being in Duluth, and through the tent screen the milky way stretched from each horizon, so bright in spots it seemed a cloud had slipped in front of the moon. I met Ben, the ranch caretaker, in a bar in Stanley while waiting for Ben from Portland to arrive in town. Turns out the two Bens knew one another and we found ourselves roasting marshmallows, playing harmonica and paying homage to the Maker's Mark.

Fall Creek Trail

In the Pioneer Mountains beyond the summit of Trail Creek, finding other backcountry travelers is anything but common. Sure the trail is used, but on a random Sunday in July I never met a soul. Not only was the area a little out there but I chose the alternate trail. The road less traveled turned out to be a three mile bushwhack through lodgepole pine and rocky sandbars as I followed Fall Creek. Here and there an elk trail materialized and I could have a several yards of easy going. My destination was Moose Lake, reached by a series of swithbacks that stole my breath before thunder and lightning forced me to abandon the effort. The hike was not without its views though.

The View from Hailey Idaho

They've bloomed unnaturally in the high desert sun, a second spring of yellow ribbons along main street holding fast in the canyon winds. Bright yellow signs have appeared in store front windows like reflections off main street reading "Bring Bowe Home" or "Get Bowe Back." This time it wasn't the descension of the uber elite, or a frenzy of fans suffocating Lebron James, but a small town guy plucked by the Taliban that parked the satellite trucks in town.

I write in the coffee shop now as if seeking shelter from a storm. Framed in the plate glass window of Zaney's coffee house are cameras, tripods, microphones, extension cords and reflective flash shields, as if it were picture day at a high school. The familiar boredom of a story in limbo surrounds the press folk, milling about their humming trucks, sucking down coffee, one foot in the passenger side one on the dirt.

Hailey's reaction has been one of solidarity, awe, and measured response. For a town used to shrugging its shoulders at the antics of Sun Valley, the wealthy cousin to the North, you would be tempted to think attentions might last as long as the roar of a private jet coming in for the Allentown meeting. But this is a home town boy, held captive in a land that may as well be Mars. Seeing the ribbons trembling in a mirage of heat, I wonder what can you do? Do we march on Afghanistan? Do we create a stir, turn ourselves into a caricature of the small town pleading for the return of its sons and daughters? No. Instead the family of Bowe has taken a track revealing they're no stranger to the news. They've decided to remain unidentified, releasing no comments, no video pleas, no CNN interviews. They've opted out of anything that may confound the matter. How can you blame them? The people of Hailey know there's a much bigger world beyond the sagebrush hills, a world tough to affect. In a nation that has seen it all before, reacted with every aspect of outrage and grief, maybe keeping quiet, letting yellow do the talking, is the latest weapon in an increasingly tired fight.

The Sawtooth Mountains

Bodacious and abrasive, the Sawtooth range erupts in a chaotic splash of glaciated rock well above the Salmon River. Flats of lodgepole pine climb gently to the foot of granite cliffs , sheared to knife edged ridges and ragged spires. My climb to Sawtooth lake was a popular one for good reason. A ten mile round trip was perfect in this range.











Sawtooth Lake is the post card image you'll sweat for. Although the mosquitoes at the lake during lunch were phenomenally bad, the view held it all in check. This is the biggest lake in the mountain range and the central peak is framed by bulky peaks my camera couldn't capture.

Trail Creek Canyon

Saturday evening, after tabling for the Ketchum Garden Tour, where well to do folks oggle a string of gardens on a planned route, I headed for Trail Creek canyon for a short hike. Possibly more impressive than the hike was the drive up the long canyon on a sinuous, washboarded road, dropping to impressive depths, laughing at the thought of guardrails.

High Country

Finally the weekend arrived free of rain on the heels of a week and a half of gleaming sun. We could finally try for the mountains that had long been under feet of snow. Our first attempt were the Norton Lakes in the seldom visited and little known Smoky Mountains of Idaho. At the trailhead were several cars - packed for Idaho. But as we made our way up the canyon and to the first of the lakes we found the end of the trail for most everyone else.










A coin toss was made at the second lake. Heads we skirt a low ridge to make a short loop of the hike - tails we climb another 15oo feet, reach a high scree bound ridge and climb south to Big Lost Lake which we should be able to see some distance below. Tails it was. Our reward consisted of 360 degree views of the mountains, lakes and sky.


On Sunday, Kyung and Dan, pictured above, headed north to the Sawtooth mountains to climb. I opted for a version (there are many) of the Pioneer Cabin loop, a "classic" says my guidebook. The first five miles were a grueling slog straight up Long gulch. But I faced the below image most of the way, easing the burden.
Just at the moment of releif I dropped into the above valley and had to climb another 1000+ feet to a low saddle where the Pioneer Mountains stood in awesome formation.


Hyndman Peak, the tallest in the Pioneers.The cabin is a relic from the days when nordic skiers would use it as a base camp. I cannot think of any better placement.

Church Farm Conservation Easement

Evening at Silver Creek

I did not take long for me to realize the folly of traveling to one of the biggest wetlands in the region after the wettest June in recent memory. As soon as I stepped out of the truck I heard the undulating, roaring buzz of untold millions of mosquitoes bouncing around in their swarms like clouds of ricocheting particles. It was hot but I threw on a sweater anyway and sank in between 8ft tall sagebrush. Silver Creek is a Nature Conservancy Preserve, chock full of trophy trout I could actually see hovering in the clear pools. Kathryn's husband is a world class fly fishing guide which is pretty standard for this part of the world, in that rather than just guide in the best waters of North America, he also dabbles in the outer Mongolian guide scene. Kind of like the uber-local food restaurant manager who holds some record for a 220 mile hang glide, or the kids on the ski hill some of which fly up from L.A. and are on the Olympic Development Ski Team. Anyway, Kathryn's husband refers to Silver Creek as the "Grad School of fly fishing." I'm thinking of applying.