Kathryn Elgee//U of Idaho
Sun Valley Weekend
Getaway on a $100 Budget
(1,553 words)
“Define
too expensive,” I argued from my end of the phone line in Sun
Valley, Idaho, sitting feet-up on a backyard patio and watching the sun
sink behind a meadow of aspen and sagebrush.
“Well, let’s see, I just got my paycheck from REI, so we are looking at…
$150 max. For the whole weekend.” Cory said it with a stubborn finality
in his voice. “Actually, make that $100. I forgot I have to buy a
bag.”
I
had been trying to get Cory, my longtime friend and fellow
hiker/biker/skier/angler, to visit me in Sun Valley for close to two
years. But he had adamantly refused, citing the infiltration of the
Hollywood celebrities and “dirty tourist money” into what was once an
outdoor playground for nature-lovers and retired Olympic athletes. He
had a point. Nowadays in Sun Valley, it is not uncommon to glimpse an
unnaturally blonde woman clicking down the sidewalk in a fur coat and
matching ear muffs, dangling the keys to her Mercedes in one hand and
squawking on a cell phone in an unmistakable California drawl with the
other. Next to her car, you might find a shiny black Lexus belonging to
a “nature-seeking” CEO, contrasting paradoxically with the Sawtooth
Mountain range whose spiky, snow-covered peaks stab 7,000 vertical feet
into the sky at one end of the valley.
Since its “discovery” by Union Pacific Railroad chairman Averell
Harriman in the 1930s, Sun Valley has been industriously marketed as a
place where the spa-treated, gondola-loving, sleigh-riding men and women
in sparkling watches and oversized sunglasses could come enjoy the
outdoors without having to get their hands dirty – what Harriman called
“roughing it in style.” This paved the way for the Clark Gables and
Arnold Schwarzeneggers, and a slew of other Hollywood celebrities, to
swarm what was once an untapped wilderness, a paradise for the
thrill-seeking outdoorsman.
But this contrast is also what creates the crosscurrent of life here –
the one that I have grown up in since I was six years old – of gnarled
and die-hard ski bums who work two jobs and bartend twice a week, tune
skis and fix mountain bike tires, drive a rattling ’87 Volkswagen, and
live here for the next adrenaline-junked journey down white water rapids
or the vertical descent on skis after a backcountry hike. This, I try
to explain to Cory, is the town’s real pulse.
“I
still think that place was given over to the yuppies a long time ago.
But, whatever. I’ll show.”
“That’s all I ask.” And we hang up.
Cory did in fact show a week later, but he arrived with nothing but his
Chaco sandals, a ratty Bob Marley t-shirt, and his Mountain Hardwear
windbreaker in his backpack. He had $100 cash in his pocket and no
wallet, convinced I would not be able to show him a good time.
“A
hundred dollars which,” he reminded me as he threw his backpack in the
trunk of my forest green Subaru, “includes the $18 in gas it cost to get
here.” He had driven only 95 miles from Boise, but the road winds and
curves through more than one mountain pass and enough cow pastures to
make him feel it was already not quite worth the drive.
“Well good thing they are having a seasonal discount at the Elkhorn
Condominiums –only $579 a night, as opposed to $650!” I joked. He
narrowed his eyes at me but didn’t respond. “Come on, they have a
glass-encased heated pool and massage tables. And on weekends, they
provide helicopter rides to day spas.”
“I
accidentally forgot my cucumbers,” he replied but was not amused.
Our accommodations actually consisted of a campsite located 8 miles
north of Ketchum in the Sawtooth National Forest. We stopped by the
SNRA (Sawtooth National Recreation Area) headquarters off of Highway 75
to hear about availability and/or possible flooding from the nearby
rivers. The rangers told us about their “dispersal” policy, meaning we
could camp outside designated areas but preferably in places that people
had already camped before, and explained the definition of good “camping
etiquette,” eyeing us up and down from underneath straight-brimmed brown
hats as they tried to determine whether or not we would leave beer
bottles by the creek bed. Their inquisitive gaze kept coming to rest on
Cory’s henna necklace and “I’m an Activist” t-shirt, but eventually let
us pay the $10 fee for the night and nodded goodnight.
We
drove for about 4 miles up a dirt road, past a wooden sign that had
“Bear Country” carved into its surface, before we found a spot Cory
found suitable – off the road a few hundred yards, right next to a
creek, and no visible campers within earshot or eyesight. There were
many hiking trails veined throughout the surrounding mountains,
including the 19.4 mile Harriman Trail (aptly-named) which was foot,
horse, and mountain-bike friendly. There was also no shortage of
streams for fishing the swollen-bellied rainbow trout and over 1,000
lakes for playing on a pebbly beach for the day with wife and kids.
When we woke the next morning to the sun peaking through a gap in the
tent, I made my way about half a mile east to the Easly Hot Spring
swimming pool. They have hot showers that are available for a fee
(which Cory adamantly refused to pay earlier that morning as we stood
sipping coffee, jeans rolled up, with our feet in the stream: “Since
when does fucking water running over your body cost money? You have
water running over your toes right now for free. And you’re going to
pay for it?”).
Since there was a fee to park your car at most of the trail heads, we
decided to head back into town to hike Mount Baldy. During the winter
months, the mountain’s snowy slopes are congested with skiers and
snowboarders, but in the summer, its many tree-covered trails are
abandoned to the squirrels and swallows and the occasional crunch of a
hiking boot.
I
took Cory straight up the face in the beginning, mostly to get him
winded enough so that he would stop making snide comments about the
people riding the chairlift above our heads, who had paid $20 for the
lift ticket ride to the top. Soon, we were out of sight of the lift and
lost in the cool and shady folds of the canyons, hiking through hot
desert sagebrush and finding relief under shade of the lodge pole
pines. When we reached the top 3,400 vertical feet later, puffing
red-faced and shirtless, we came upon a family of six that had just
hopped off the chairlift, pulling their pastel-yellow sweaters tighter
around their shoulders and shivering in the cool breeze – tennis shoes
glowing unnaturally white in the sun. As I studied them, I awaited
Cory’s witticisms about “martinis being so dry at this elevation,” but
when I turned around, I found him standing with his hands laced silently
behind his head, facing south down the valley. The Big Wood River
ribboned and sparkled south through forests of aspens and river willow,
the mountains multiplying in every direction, becoming more toothed and
jagged the farther away from town our eyes wandered, eventually carving
into the snow-capped spikes of the Seven Devils 100 miles away to the
east.
We
sat on a rock pile, dug our feet in the dirt, and pulled out the wraps
we had picked up at a little local breakfast/lunch spot on Main St. just
south of town – $6.50 he later admitted was very well-spent. Cory
nodded with his chin towards the family of six that was stumbling away
over a ridge, complaining of burned hairlines. He wondered where they
were going. I told him through a mouthful of lettuce and bacon and
ranch that they were probably headed to Seattle Ridge Lodge, a behemoth
structure of wood and glass situated on the next ridge over. “They have
soup and salad for $21.95 if you’re interested.”
He glanced down at the wrap that he had to hold in two hands,
overflowing with fresh curried chicken and vegetables, rice, and
peanuts, and smiled wide.
“Alright….” he said, looking back towards the view down the valley and
nodding approvingly. “Alright.”
Later that night, after we had jumped off some cliffs into the river to
cool off (right next to the skate park as you’re heading out Warm
Springs Road.) where we found a mixture of sweating skateboarders in
nothing but boxers, squealing children with thirsty dogs, and
gray-haired fly-fishermen, I took Cory to Lefty’s Bar and Grill. A
bluegrass band played on the deck while the sun sank below Bald Mountain
in the background. We ate burgers and hot sandwiches for under $6 and
sipped on chilled beer to ease our aching muscles, chatting with the
locals who had just won the co-ed soccer league championship and had
rolled in their own keg to celebrate. The faint sound of violins in the
distance (from the outdoor Sun Valley Summer Symphony) echoed off the
canyon walls, but was for the most part unheard by Cory or me.
That night he did in fact spend over his $100 limit; he found an
Argentine couple who was backpacking through America and would not stop
buying them shots while begging them to teach him more about American
imperialism in South America. Thankfully, out of tipsy appreciation,
they offered us some sleeping bags and sweatshirts back at their
friend’s camper so we wouldn’t have to make the 8-mile drive back to
camp. That night, we slept under the stars which Cory said he had never
seen without the veil from the Boise smog and light pollution. “Here,”
he said, “they look like you could reach out and slice your finger on
one.” It was the last thing he said before he began to snore.
The next morning, Cory clanked away in his white Honda, hand shot out
the rolled-down window waving goodbye. He didn’t seem to mind that he
would have to spend another $18 over his limit on gas to get home,
making his grand total for the weekend $123. He never actually told me
he had a good time. All he said was that he was getting paid in another
two weeks, and he would be back as soon as his paycheck hit the bank.