Earlier in the month, I traveled back to my former home of Idaho to revisit some of the wilderness spots that I enjoyed in my almost 7 years of residence there.

While driving into Stanley on a hot Sunday afternoon, I was reminded of just how jaw dropping the Sawtooth Mountains can be. They tend to be spaced in such a way that each one has a distinct and dominant profile. The Wasatch Mountains in my new home obviously eat up the horizon as well, but various peaks and canyons tend to run into eachother as one menacing front, not the individualistic eruption of pink rock and jagged stone that bumps and pushes along the 50 mile Sawtooth Valley. For the first time ever, I approached the range from the west on ID-21 and right past the turn-off for Grandjean, there was a perfectly opened window into the heart of the range. I stopped and tried to identify the summits, but without much bearing, they were just sophisticated wild ass guesses.

In actuality, I hadn't planned on spending anytime in the Sawtooths this trip. My plan was to ride Fisher Creek which is on the east side of the Sawtooth Valley, (technically part of the White Cloud Range) then make my way south to the Pioneer mountains and a third attempt at climbing Hyndman Peak, the 12,009' mountain that can be gained in one long day of hiking. However, that afternoon on Fisher Creek I began to reconsider leaving the valley that night.

In early September of last year, the Valley Road fire burned about 41,000 acres in and around Fisher Creek. [For info on this fire, I found a great article at http://www.forwolves.org/ralph/valley-road-forestfire.htm] I knew this, (I was actually hiking up to Alice Lake with a friend on the opposite side of the valley and saw the plume of smoke build throughout the day) but as I rode the gravel jeep road that leads back to the downhill portion of the trail, I saw little evidence of the fire. They had fought hard to protect this area since there were about a dozen cabins within the first few miles of riding, but about 2 miles from the highway, I began to see patches of burnt land and black naked trees. Then, about 6 miles from the valley, the full force of the fire was evident. In this section, nothing escaped, and as I reached the top of the first climb, and got a perspective of the surroundings, I saw used matchsticks poking up over countless hills and drainages. Views that were normally limited due to thick folliage were now almost clear. Washington, Blackman and other peaks of the White Clouds were easily visible through the barcode forest. The threat of rain and the fact that I have countless pictures of Fisher Creek were reasons why I left the camera in the car. But after seeing this devistation, I felt like I was visiting this place for the first time.

The best I can describe the first mile and a half of descent is frightening. You could see where you were in relation to the landscape for the first time. All of the drainages and low levels of the trail were visible. The intrusion of being in the wreckage made me feel guilty. I could barely focus on my ride. I could see all the contours of the land and the consequences of slipping off the narrow, side hill trail that weaved and wound around the tops of these sandy and rocky hills. I felt like a tourist going to a crash site, taking a bus tour of Katrina devestated New Orleans. I questioned wether I should be there? Am I doing more damage to the trail? I finished that first section of descent feeling pretty bummed. It was my first time riding the trail since I crashed and tore up my knee in June of '05. 2005 was the first time since 2000 that I hadn't ridden Fisher Creek during a season. I wanted to blame the fire for my cautiousness, but I knew the texture of the trail was always loose and dicey. I began to feel the effects of bonking during the middle climb section, 2 miles through a meadow and gradual single track climbing. This is where I would usually turn it on, a good section of grinding before the tastiest 3 miles of descent you will find anywhere, but I was feeling burnt, like everything around me. It was depressing to ride in this. I ate a granola bar at the top of a short pitch right before you drop into the roller coaster and felt a little better. As I began the descent, the adrenaline got to me, the trail was more forgiving here and as I left the burnt areas, the forest began to look familiar again. I realized I had to come back and ride this again, not in the near future, but in the next few days. The trail sent me a message through the destruction that the "path" was still here, and I could find my way through it even though everything around me seemed so drastically different. My bike, my legs, my mountain bike chi seemed to just begin warming up and it seemed like a shame to piss that away now. As dissapointing as this man made fire was to me and the pride I felt in what I thought was one of the best trails you will ride anywhere, it was a reminder of "annica", the Buddhist term for change. I had changed in the last year, drastically, when the "Melon Valley Incident" sat me on my ass for most of the summer and took me closer to death than I had ever been. I fancied myself a good, (not great), but pretty good recreational cyclist before that crash. But since then, I didn't have the balls, the legs or even the drive to rack mile after mile in the saddle. That was somewhat depressing, but not necessarily bad. I came through it all right, just like Fisher Creek came through the Valley Road Fire all right.

When I started that days ride by heading down ID 75 to Fisher Creek road, I passed the old, non-operative Chevron / International Real Estate buildings that were the sole structures of "Obsidian". Had it not been for the sign declaring it, you wouldn't have known this was actually a town. The dilapitated buildings always made me laugh because the thought that there was anything "International" about this one room log cabin real estate office seemed rediculous. It looked like it had been built when mining was still a valid means of income here. The gas station never was open in my memory, and the tiny lodge near it seemed like a relic from the past like in the same category as the mining ghost towns in the area. Yet, I was shocked to see the buildings refurbished without losing their original charm and a few out-of-towners actually parked and staying at the 3 or 4 room lodge. There were even pay-showers outside the gas station. It was about time I figured. A service station within 1 mile of the best mountain biking trailhead in Idaho seemed like a no-brainer now. Stanley was still 15 miles to the north, and for those driving up from Ketchum to the south, it made more sense to stop here, rinse the salt off and grab a cold six for the night than make the journey out of the way to Stanley or to Smiley Creek Lodge just before Galena Pass. I gladly took a $2.25 shower, which was much nicer than the bacteria laden stalls at Redfish Lake Campground and bought an $8.99 six of Ruby Mountain (it's still WAY off the beaten path, so everything is "resort priced") and made my way to Alturas Lake, at the south end of the Sawtooths. Redfish is "the" destination for most campers, and even though it was a weekday, I doubted I could find anything. Alturas was my first cmaping experience in the Sawtooths, back in '99 during a cold night in September with some friends with work. After that, I began spending more and more vacation time in this valley, which was easy when I lived 150 miles away, but now that it was 400 miles away, I was going to take advantage while I could.