Gems

The ten and half mile out n' back trail up Mount Coeur d'Alene climbed a little over 2000 feet and featured some wicked technical switch backs before proceeding into a heavily shrubbed ridge line trail. While traffic along this trail this time of year wasn't in short supply, the hiker's boots and mountain biker's tires weren't enough to bat away a lot of the foliage replete with defense chemicals that irritate the skin. 

Back at the Beaty Creek Campground where my car was parked, the trail running high was wearing off and the stinging plant's itch started to kick in. My forearms had a slight throb from the irritation, and I began to scratch and scratch, indulging in the strange relief that proceeds from hard nails on supple, salty skin. I looked down and noticed I'd broken skin, and a dot of fresh blood was revealed. And seconds later, I noticed something else that was far more worrisome.

I stopped. 

* * *

This July marks my third solo backcountry trip into the "Gem State" of Idaho. In my adult life, living on the other side of the country from the traditions of my youth, I've had to reinvent—and, indeed, come to more appreciate—my own traditions. I've never really been one to ceremonialize times of year per se, but the time spent doing so, even if the "sacred" elements have more to do with cathedrals made of pine and deciduous flora, have served as rewarding psychological anchors in my growth from year to year, like a palpable growing of a new ring on the trunk. And this year's ring, I think, marks a completeness of things. Of certain things. Of which things exactly, I have my guesses, but clear definition can only proceed from an initial gut feeling, not the other way round. 

For my third annual trip into the wilderness, my initial plan was to head back to the Tetons and start the backcountry portion from the Targhee side of the range on the West, instead of throwing myself into the fray of motorhome tourism, proceeding via the Jackson Hole side. But some plans ended up changing about two weeks out which led me to look at the trip a little differently. My new plan: explore as much new territory in Idaho as possible. 

And it was that decision which found me crouched below some evergreens, dressed in my summer cycling kit off the roadside atop Blue Mountain Pass, just north west of Sumpter, OR. 

The forecast called for a few scattered thunderstorms in the early afternoon but appeared to be all clear by the time I began. Clipping into my pedals for my first gravel ride of this adventure, I rolled past the historic dredge in Sumpter, that massive, ancient machine commissioned with the sole purpose of pulling gold from the ground. What was it about gold, anyway, that enraptured so many millions? For me, the gravel-covered avenues through the Oregon prairie and mountain land was enrapturing enough for the next four hours; with a route uploaded to my bike computer, I was off. 

Day one was going splendidly. After an initial serpentine climb, the descent into the farmland on the other side of the pass featured reddish roads padded with soft green pines. There was lots of visibility through the trees as underbrush was scarce and the sun's rays were evenly diffused across the lush grasses. 

Another hour of pedaling passed, and I came across a turkey in the middle of the road. The 21st century dinosaur started running away from me along the road. Our speeds were about matched and his efforts to pull away were met with little pay off. Sometimes just running keeps you in the same place, and one must run twice as fast as that just to get anywhere. Lacking the wherewithal to take a 90 degree turn to safety, we played this chasing game for another quarter mile until he finally decided to extend his big, clumsy wings and go airborne with all the grace of a cinder block on a parachute. 

Back on the paved road, now, I had 17 miles left to get back to my car. Up and up and up toward Blue Mountain Pass I went. It was still day one and I was in high spirits, but about five miles later, I found in my periphery an ominous foreshadowing. To the left and ahead, blue, mostly cloudy skies. To my right, a cell of dark clouds that appeared to be headed my way. 

I knew I had a big descent back into town coming. If I could just get over the pass before getting rained on, I'd be out of harm's way in no time. 

The duration of time between the flash and ka-room of the nearby lightening kept getting shorter and shorter. There was nothing for it. I needed to get home so just kept pedaling. I reminded myself that these mountain storms come as quickly as they go. Maybe I would get lucky and out ride it or it would skirt around a different peak. The first bounce of hail off my back and red helmet told me I would have no such luck. Two-hundred meters from the sign reading "Blue Mountain Pass, elevation: 5840ft" and the bottom dropped out. 

The voice of reason, which I so craftily shelve for the bulk of adventures such as these—would epic adventures be possible if reason were steering the ship?—finally shouted, "bro, this is stupid, get off the road."

So, there I was, crouched below some pines which offered scant shelter from the thunderhail, getting soaked to the bone by the temporary torrent, saying a little prayer, and initiating some Wim Hof breathing to get my internal warming systems back online. I had to smile, as I relished the realization of just how far away from home I was, how a rescue operation might take some time to get here, how the lightening seemed to find me at literally the highest point in my ride, at the worst possible time. Three hours and 45 minutes of ride time, the storm had to strike me within a two-minute time span that marked my passage over the peak of Blue Mountain. 

I begin to wonder whether such timing is truly "chance." I think not. But only in my gut. 

* * *

My soul still felt a little cold the next morning as I rose from my sleeping bag at my campsite. Day two would see me progress past Anthony Lakes ski resort which I had no idea existed before this trip, slotted into a mountain range in the Northeast corner of the state in the Umatilla National Forest, then down into Baker City. The resort was at over 7000 feet; I wasn't sure what I expected, but I was hoping some kind of coffee shop would be open there, where I might find some comfort in a cup and courage for my legs to go on a high-altitude trail run. But by then, my soul was still only half way warm and my mind was content to take those mountains in as visual souvenirs rather than another notch on a Strava segment. 

It was the fourth of July and en route to my starting point for my second gravel ride of the week, I passed through the pasture town of Haines, OR on the east side of the mountains. On trips like this, I try to keep an open mind about stopping and seeing local attractions, checking out random road side historic sites and so on, but more often, my drive to get to the next planned landmark keeps the cruise control on. The destination-focused ego dies hard.

However, as I rolled through Haines, lo, a fourth of July parade was just about to get started, and, lo, the town was also boasting a cowboy pancake breakfast.

Indulging in both, my soul was now well warmed. 

After another gorgeous ride through some local national forest service roads, with only blue skies this time, I found an off-the-grid campground in an armpit of Hells Canyon right on the boarder of Idaho, just north of an alleged "town" called Oxbow. I guess the existence of a Post Office is all it takes to constitute a town. If one can communicate with one, it therefore exists. The route to tomorrow's destination of McCall was certainly of the scenic variety. Earlier that day, I decided to opt for the wet noodle-shaped road instead of the straighter highways. The ego had been tamed for now. 

The Payette Lake, host to the bustling, tourist town of McCall, featured all the trappings of lake life I grew up with in the South, but there was a very different vibration here. The lake was sat a mile high above sea level; very few people who enjoyed the sea-doos and paddle boards lived anywhere near by; and the skyline was all off, at least in relation to Lake Martin, Alabama, a lake decidedly closer to sea level than 5280 feet above. So while it was a lake, and while it's true that life is better by such a body of water, as so many local trinkets at the shops remind you, it felt disingenuous to place it in the same category. 

In any case, the following morning, I started my backcountry adventure. With my Arc'tryx pack fully loaded, I headed south from the Lake Fork trailhead. 

After a mile and a half of hiking, the trail split and I took the one less traveled, as evidenced by the mind-numbing number of fallen trees across the trail. The difference, Mr. Frost, is that it's advisable to bring a chainsaw. 

By the time I finally made it to Louie Lake, I'd climbed from 5500 feet, up and over a 7500 foot pass, and settled into my campsite about 500 feet below. It was some of the toughest 10 miles I'd ever put on my legs. Up to that point, anyway. The journey home the next morning was almost as tough, even with a net descent. 

I had a lot of time alone at my campsite. I brought my camping hammock this time round, which was one of the best decisions of the trip, and strung it up on a hillside that overlooked McCall in the distance. I probably spent five hours just swinging there, in and out of consciousness. In previous backcountry journeys, I had some existential angst about something that I was seeking to resolve. I was looking for answers in the vast unknown, in the fertile middle ground of the liminal wilderness space. This trip, I had no such quandaries. 

Instead, the intent was to just let the slow cooker of the mind meld all its thoughts in its own time, in its own way, in an environment most conducive to do its work. There is a time to find ingredients and a time to simmer. 

* * *

The four hour drive to Coeur d'Alene served as a reminder of just how little of the world is out of my conscious awareness. That's one thing I love about visiting small, far flung towns, miles from my routine. It allows me to see just how many other human lives are operating with absolutely no regard to my problems, my thoughts, my cares. They have all their own to see to. My experience is like my little handful of sand on the beach of all human experience.  In a few, fleeting moments, a few of my grains intersect, even if only imperceptibly, with theirs, momentarily pulling me from my solipsism. 

A hotel was on the itinerary for tonight, my treat to myself for four nights in a row at campsites. I even splurged and opted for two nights, using some points I had on a credit card account to pay for one of the nights. 

For one day, I elected to partake in some type 1 fun, and, for the first time in I think over 10 years, went to a theme park with roller coasters. Such moments from adolescence are so ingrained, the memory of them seems within such short reach, but on reflection, prove chronologically distant. Silverwood was just the right size park, and the crowds weren't bad at all. After a shower and a good night's rest, I spent the day loop-de-looping and water sliding, followed by a good meal downtown. As much fun as the coasters were, strolling around the park gave me an answer I didn't know I was looking for. The mind produced a ladle full of soup from the slow cooker. 

Almost everyone here was enjoying the park with their families. Because of course they were. The enjoyment was had at least by how much the adults were enjoying the rides as them watching their kid's engraining a life-long memory becoming engraved in real time. The reward—so I'm told—for all the snot rags, poopy diapers, and spilled Cheerios is seeing things through the eyes of a child once again, remembering what the purest human experience has to offer. No ego. Only warms souls and water slides. 

* * *

By now, I was about ready to aim my little Focus back south toward home. There's a curious threshold where too much routine over too long lends itself to a deep urge to break away. But then once the break is made, a longing for the familiar isn't far away. Like an exhale begets the desire for its opposite when held long enough, and vis versa. 

I had one last night in the hotel and wanted to get in one last big trail run for the road. My healing achilles had been an absolute champ this trip and was ready to tackle Mount Coeur d'Alene. 

After two hours of sailing over some of the best single track North Idaho had to offer, all that was left was to unlock my car, take a shower to wash the spot of blood off my forearm, and head home, where I could once again get back to inhaling with renewed gumption. 

I just had to unlock my car...now where is that key? 

It was just in this Camelbak pocket which is now...wide open and empty. A little hydra popped up its head; the key was gone. There was a 5.3 mile stretch of trail, covered in its summer coat of greens, and anywhere along that route, the key could be. 

I searched for another two hours; nothing. I even went on a bike ride the next day, another four hours of pedal time back up the mountain in its pursuit. Goose egg. It was gone forever. I talked to half a dozen other trail users. None of them had seen it. 

The next 48 hours consisted of chopping the hydra in two, which turned to four, which turned to eight, and the amount of energy (and money) I spent trying to lick this thing was growing out of proportion, like Micky with his magic brooms. This trip became a tale of two journeys, the second of which started the moment my mind lapsed and failed to close one small zipper. The loss of a two-inch plastic device with a tiny circuit board served as the doorway to another long, annoying enterprise. 

It's too easy to disregard the details. There's too many of them anyway to keep them all in conscious awareness, so perhaps some grace is in order when we fail to properly separate the vital few from the trivial many. We have to constantly filter the sand down to only the grains we can fit in our hand, and the highest quality grains at that. When you punch the cruise control button on your car, there are a thousand other processes that made that happen that you can take for granted; the process of getting fuel in your car; the plastic molds that made the button; the magical process of internal combustion engines; all of it can be disregarded as sand on the beach instead of sand in the hand. Until the hydra appears, anyway, and one must almost completely alter the composition of today's sand in the hand. 

The thing about hyrdas, though, is that if the hero can manage to vanquish them, he finds that the creature was protecting a chest of treasure. 

* * *

If my last decade of life were to be divided up as growth rings on a tree, at the end of my life, one might examine the rings of 2020-2022 and come to the conclusion that these told a tale of a historical period. The former of the rings being narrow and tight, when the tree was stressed and diverted its resources into strengthening its cell walls, while the latter showed abundant outward growth. 

And the shape of the rings beyond that would be forever influenced by those three years marked by finding so many unexpected gems.