RETIREMENT TRIP #7

Mountains of Clouds and Valleys of Sun
                                                 The mountains all got snow last night.  It was 39 degrees in Ketchum when we left town, but we were surprised to see all the surrounding peaks covered in white.

Mountains along Route #75 are
more than dusted with snow.

We headed toward Stanley.  “One of our trails is up there,” said Andy, pointing at a mountain.  “That’s more than a dusting if we see it that clearly.  They probably got two or three inches.”

Along Route #75, I hopped out for a few more pictures.  “The clerk in the motel said the pass through the Tetons was closed yesterday because they got dumped on,” I said.  “She told me that when I checked us out.”

Even near the road, the snow has accumulated.

“Once the sun comes out, this will melt,” said Andy.

I jumped out for more pictures.  “That may be, but in the meantime, it’s cold!”  I touched his cheek with icy fingers.  The next few shots I took from the moving car.

“I can stop!” protested Andy.

“No need!” I said, warming my bare fingers.  “I’ll put on gloves next time.”

Every bend in Route #75 brings new
panoramas to life.

I didn’t, because that next time came a minute down the road.  The snow had turned this tawny world into a magical white fairyland, accented in black ridges and green Douglas firs.

“But I know why no one lives in Stanley,” said Andy.  “The elevation is 6,260 feet, which makes it one of the coldest towns in Idaho.”

Snow decorates everything in this magical world of
Idaho high country. Boise reports 74 degrees.

Galena Pass had no snow at all.  “That’s really odd,” said Andy, “because this road—Route #75—closes down in the winter.  It gets snowed under.”

“Not this time,” I observed, even though Galena Lodge was closed for the season.

“I’m amazed and grateful,” said Andy.  “I guess Route #75 through Galena Pass closes intermittently during the winter, but it’s the only road from Sun Valley to Stanley.  Otherwise, we’d have to go all the way around—probably 150 miles.”

Without explanation, some peaks
collect more early snow than others.

The road wound treacherously around mountains that were over 8,500 feet.  Then it was 6% down for five miles.  There was just about no snow in the pass, but the peaks on the other side were totally white.

An overlook at the pass was dedicated to Bethine and Frank Church.  He was a Senator from Idaho who worked tirelessly to get the Sawtooth Mountains federally protected.  Nature enthusiasts, he and his family camped and rafted here at the mouth of the Salmon River.

I read the interpretive sign.  The country below me was tawny.

“The mountains to the west sucked up all the snow this time,” said Andy.

Here in the valley at the base of the Church Overlook, the
headwaters of the Salmon River originate. 

As the largest tributary of the Snake River, the Salmon River develops from a small winding stream right at the base of the overlook where we stood.  It develops into an awesome river that flows 425 miles through central Idaho and drains 14,000 square miles.  It drops 7,000 feet from here and is also called the River of No Return.  That’s because in 1805 its rough water and rugged canyons were impassible for the Lewis and Clark Expedition.

This is the birthing place for Chinook salmon that return from the Pacific after three or four years to spawn here.  Chinook is the largest of the three Pacific salmon species.  Chinook and sockeye salmon, which are now endangered, travel more than 900 miles to spawn here.

Through the pass, the headwaters of the Salmon River raced across the meadows in a brush-lined stream.  “I don’t know how many Chinook can make it this far,” said Andy, “with the dams and all.”

I got out near a turnoff for a historic ranger station to take pictures of the water.  What an unfathomable instinct those fish have to return to their pints of origin!

We drove all the way back up to the top.  This time we were actually IN the clouds, but there was more blue sky and sun in the valley.

“That’s a good sign,” said Andy.  “It means the fog is lifting.”

I think that was just hopeful thinking!

The Salmon River, here just a fast-moving stream, rushes
along at the base of the mountains where Vienna once stood. 

Lifting or not, the views changed moment by moment as crevices between peaks misted over and cleared out.  We parked and watched the vapors actually move right up the eastern side as we faced north.

“It could just hang in the valley,” said Andy. “We’ll give it ten minutes.”

A breeze would speed things up, but today was quiet.  “It’s like watching water boil,” I told hm.

We gave up and headed back down to the valley.

At the Vienna pullout, a sign said this area had been the town of Vienna in the late 1800’s.  It became a ghost town in 1900, but at that time there were more than 200 buildings here, including four hotels and a $200,000 twenty-stamp mill to crush gold ore.  Now there is nothing except a couple houses and the Smiley Creek Lodge, a mile down the road.

It all started in 1878, when Lei Smiley discovered gold on Smiley Creek.  A year or so later on June 4, 1879, E.M. Wilson found a richer lode eight miles away.  And the rush was on!

We turned into a side road at Alturas Lake and followed it past organized summer camps and Forest Service Campgrounds for four or five miles until it turned to gravel.  Snow flurries fell like raindrops on the water of Alturas Lake.  We could even hear the flakes hit the car, but none accumulated on the ground.  It was a sign of things to come.

I looked for black bear or moose or even deer, but all was quiet and the campgrounds were all gated.

At Redfish Lake we suspect a bear
has been visiting.

Back along the main road, it was readily apparent where the Salmon River flowed.  Rust, yellow and gold bushes lined both sides of the river bed.  Green in the summer due to the presence of a year-round supply of water, all the bushes displayed brilliant autumn colors against the dull grey sage and dry grass.

Near Cold Creek a herd of pronghorn antelope grazed peacefully.  The male kept close watch when we stopped, but the females in his harem were more intent on eating.

So far the closest we’ve come to a bear is a cage at Redfish Lake tent campground that looked very much like a bear cage.

Redfish Lake Lodge in Redfish Lake is a beautiful rustic resort.  A few bundled people walked along the beach and boat dock, and a motor boat zoomed in from the center of the lake, but most visitors scrunched their shoulders in chill.

From the Sawtooth Ranger Station one of the jagged peaks poked through.  I grabbed the camera, but the white was too much.  It was hard to decipher peak from clouds.

Nestled in the mountains, Stanley is remote but beautiful.

And then we were in Stanley, population 63.  Every building in town was sealed knotty pine, like beautiful log cabins.  Giant jagged peaks soared above the quaint cottages and rambling Western-style hotel.  Just below, the Salmon River and its colorful bush-lined banks cut across the valley in crooked little turns and twists.

Ten miles away Sunbeam Hot Springs by the Challis National Forest had a bath house that was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Depression in the 1930’s.

“The river is really flowing here,” said Andy, “and it’s the dry season.  It looks like it goes up eight feet in the spring.”

In the Challis National Forest, the
Sunbeam Hot Springs puff away from
the side of the gravel embankment.

The bath house was a tourist stop for a natural hot spring across the road.  Completed in 1937, it fell into disrepair due to lack of maintenance funds and personnel during the War.  Hot water was uniquely diverted from the hot spring through a pipe to the Salmon River.  The cold river cooled the hot water in the pipe and ingenuously sent it back to the bath house.

Here a cabin in the early 1900’s was heated by hot spring water piped into barrels under the floor.

Barzilla Clark, caretaker of the Sunbeam Dam, tried to raise chickens here.  He failed at that, but later he became mayor of Idaho Falls and Governor of Idaho.

In 1870, the first prospectors filed claims at the junction of Jordan Creek and Yankee Fork River.  Several boom periods followed until the rush permanently ended in 1910.



The remains of the dam from days long gone by
still block part of the Salmon River.

It was nine miles into the ghost town that Andy had chosen as his final Thursday destination.  We set out climbing into the mountains in a steep incline.  But about four miles in, the road turned to wet-pack mud.  Signs suggested work was being done to improve conditions for fish, and dredging had been done on both sides to create ponds.  But our clean little Ford Fiesta wasn’t going five more miles on slippery dirt.  It might have been okay if it had not snowed.  We turned around.

At the turnoff for Sunbeam was an information overview of the Salmon River.  We stopped to eat our apples, read the history and take pictures of the dam.  Built to provide power to the mines and the community of Sunbeam, it was breached to allow for fish migration up the Salmon River.  It was the only dam ever built on the Salmon.

Clouds lift somewhat as we enter Lower Stanley.

Towns like Bonanza and Custer sprang up with large mills like General Custer, Charles Dickens, Lucky Boy and Sunbeam, built to process rich ore.

Gold dredging was active from 1940 to 1952, when as estimated 1.8 million was mined here.

A little farther down, before the road was closed for repairs, we stopped to read about “coyotting” on the Salmon.  A sign explained the dangerous mining technique, but apparently the lust for wealth drove some to extremes.

For two million years the Salmon River changed course, leaving older channels high and dry.  Gold, eroded from surrounding mountains was often deposited in these gravels of ancient river beds.



Back in Stanley we take advantage of breaks in the clouds
to photograph the spectacular surroundings.

Near this bank in the river, German-born Herman Centaurus used the risky method of “drift” mining or “coyoting.”  He dug into old river gravels, located a rich paystreak running parallel to the river, and then drove a shaft or “drift” along the paystreak.  It was dangerous because of the frequent cave-ins.  Many miners died in the process. 

Heading back through Lower Stanley, the clouds cleared some of the higher Sawtooth peaks to give us glimpses of the snow-capped ruggedness.

“It’s too bad the blue sky is off to one side and not right behind the mountains,” mused Andy.

But we still had had a taste of this wild Idaho world.  And it was magnificent.

Sun highlights the snow-capped mountain peaks in Stanley.

When the sun popped out for a minute on the peaks and a patch of blue showed up, we looked for a high point in Stanley to shoot the mountains.  Who would have thought the dead end side street would have old wagons and even a Conestoga.

We headed back to Redfish.  “There’s an archaeological highlight there,” said Andy.  “It’s on my 30-year old map, so we may not find it.”

Andy checks out the vandalism notice
at an archeological site outside of
Stanley. Ancient people lived here.

At the first pullout, a sign marked the bridge over the Redfish Lake Creek.  There was an unmarked trail on the other side of a clearing.  The trail led to a large granite outcropping, but it was taped off.

“Closed due to vandalism.  Fine of $5,000, per individual, and not more than $10,000 for coming within ten feet of cave.”

We couldn’t see any vandalism, but there was evidence of fire nearby.  Sadly, vandalism had apparently damaged an ancient relic.  The Redfish Lake Creek Rock Shelter had been home to ancient peoples.  Artifacts that dated back 10,000 years had been found there.

In the late afternoon sun under the shadow of
snow-capped peaks, Redfish Lake sparkles.

We drove back in to Redfish Lake Lodge.  The sun was out, and the crystal clear water of the lake sparkled in the afternoon brilliance.

Stanley was our home for the night.

This place was Paradise!  But I wouldn’t want to live here.