Intrepid Idahoans & Me

I captured the epitome of Idaho in serene Swan Valley.

There are three states in particular that turned out to be everything I dreamed they'd be, plus a whole lot more: Arizona, Montana and Idaho.

Idaho, the Gem State is rugged, natural beauty and endless outdoor opportunities. It's charming towns and small cities that favor mom-and-pop shops over big-name businesses. And it can turn even the most nature averse into a forever lover of the land. During my time there, I was compelled to engage in all kinds of activities I've never participated in, like kayaking, canoeing, fishing, camping, climbing trees, and hiking mountains. I was even tempted to put my actual body into an actual lake. I've done that maybe twice before, but not because I really wanted to. It probably just felt like "the right thing to do," and the minute I dipped myself in, I squealed and squirmed and dragged myself right out immediately. Mysterious, murky things brushed up against my legs and toes––or maybe I just imagined they did––either way, I disliked it. But Idaho's clear waters, Idaho's rolling hills…the place just brings out your inner adventurer and nature lover and makes you want to dive right in. It's a state that's so much more than its potatoes––although their spuds truly are top-notch.

So, try to cast aside any preconceived notions of this state (and all others, for that matter). You may imagine regions like the Midwest to meander on with more or less the same scenery, and states like Iowa and Kansas may mentally register as "flyover states," but in my book, not a single state should be just flown over because each one brings a uniqueness and a flavor all its own. For instance, South Dakota has a whole lot going on, and it's far windier than its northern counterpart. And even though Wyoming and Nebraska border it, their topographical differences are more perceptible than presumptions would have us believe.

When I drive around America, I imagine that the state lines were drawn to distinguish where there would be shifts in landscape and where you could expect to encounter different cultures as well. Crossing into South Carolina from North Carolina, I was taken back by how much more aggressive the drivers seemed. The highway grew windier and more challenging, the speed limit liberalized, and there was a sudden and significant shift in the behavior of the cars around me. It made me giggle and feel a little uneasy at the same time. Driving culture in Arizona is unlike anything I'd ever experienced back east. Passenger cars are quite courteous, waving you on and slowing down to let you merge. This is pretty much unheard of where I'm from.

Oklahoma drivers are as civilized as the Arizonans. The minute you enter the left lane, whoever's in front of you will gracefully drift (while signaling) to the right lane, maintaining a genuine, collective effort to dedicate the left lane to passers and faster travelers only. There's none of that in New York left lanes. New Yorkers have more of an "I was here first, and I'm gonna stay here and drive at whatever speed I want. Whaddayagonnadoaboudit? Fugeddaboudit!" sort of mentality. But Oklahomans…they'll let you pass them, then they'll scoot back into the left lane, never tailgating. Or many will just stay in the right lane giving permission to be passed. Drivers in many western states will wave to you as you pass them heading in the opposite direction on a desolate road. I find it charming.

And then there's Idaho. Driving in Idaho was not at all what I was expecting it to be. It is one of THE most enjoyable states to drive through…when you get on the backroads. The interstates are for daredevils and speed demons. Once you get the hang of them, they can be pretty fun to drive too. But when you first set wheels on 'em…as my coaches used to yell to me during softball games I didn't want to play…look alive!

I entered Idaho from empty, sleepy Eastern Oregon, where no one had been in front of or behind me for many, many miles. And the few cars I did encounter were locals turning off that lonesome stretch of pavement onto dusty, dirt roads that no doubt led to ranches and even more remote lands. I was cruisin' at a steady clip of about, oh, 70-75 when I easily could've been doing 90+, but I was mellow – my vibes were matching those of the nameless, faceless, non-existent towns I flew through. So when I crossed the border from rural, relaxed Oregon to busy, bustling Idaho, and inspiring US-20 transitioned to calamitous I-84, I suddenly felt like I was catapulted into the Indy 500. The intensity was turned up to an all-time high – it was like someone turned a nozzle and released a tap of caffeine in my bloodstream.

18-wheelers, pickup trucks, SUVs, and a few cars were all sporting those rare red, white and blue Idaho plates I barely caught a glimpse of as they flashed by at the speed of light. The speed limit was 80, but 80 wasn't even an acceptable speed to be driving on I-84. I went from feeling like I had a lazy river road all to myself to suddenly sharing a rushing river that raged with the force of a freshly shattered levy...that's what interstate driving in Southern Idaho feels like.

I don't often feel intimidated on or by the road. I can't even recall one other time it's happened. I could be wedged between two tractor-trailers on a narrow suspension bridge, and I'll feel cozy. Or maybe I'm slinking past parallel parked cars barricaded by double-parked cars on the slender streets of the East Village, and it's a rush and a challenge I'll accept and ace every time. Even driving undisclosed speeds through Montana's pick-your-own-speed-limit districts** doesn't do anything but get me giddy. But when I was pushing 90-95 just to keep up with these leadfoot Idahoans as they were flying on and off and all around the highway every which way like India meets the Autobahn, I'll admit, I felt just a tad out of my league. I can recall sweating, laughing maniacally, and gripping the wheel like it was trying to get away from me.

**Montana doesn't have pick-your-own-speed-limit districts, but it almost feels like they do where no speed limits are posted, and there are no cars or even cows around to crash into.

Since I was thrown into the deep end wearing bricks and chains after a leisurely dip wearing floaties in the kiddie pool, I decided to stop immediately at the Idaho Welcome Center to amp myself up for more motorway mayhem. Love a good welcome center stop anyway, plus I needed to dry my damp palms. The place was packed with cars and plenty of people – ample bathroom traffic, but not many folks were stopping to peruse the brochure room like I was. A whole room dedicated to tourism brochures! Its existence was like a personal invitation to me. But most folks were bypassing it and making a beeline for the bathrooms. They were likely out-of-staters, and it was probably their first-time taking a spin on an Idaho freeway, so it was totally understandable how that might ignite the urge to use the restroom instantly upon arrival.

I entered the brochure room, which consisted of a seven-foot-long stand that held a wide range of Gem State literature. It was in the center of a space surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking a green and yellow pasture. Just beautiful. A visitor center volunteer was waiting by the stand to greet me with a warm smile. He was probably in his late 60s – bright white hair, quite tan skin, and he wore classic khaki pants and a vibrantly-colored polo shirt that really made his tan pop. I pegged him for a retiree and a regular at an Idaho golf club.

"Welcome, welcome. And how is Idaho treating you so far?" he asked so genuinely interested as to how I was liking it there. I sensed a, "What brings you out here" question coming next. Thinking about it from a different perspective now, his was a job I'd probably love to have someday. Asking people where they're from and where they're going…giving them tips on what to see and do in any given area. Sounds like a blast!

I read his name tag, "Well, Tom, I've only been in the state about 15 minutes, but I'm pretty excited to be here in Idaho. I must say, though, I'm blown away by how fast everyone drives here." Tom laughed, "Oh yea, our freeways are not for the faint of heart. You've gotta really commit to merging, and you've really got to floor it to beat whoever's coming. Where are you from?" He made me laugh! "Oh, I'm from slow-driving, you' re-lucky-if-you-see-a-speed-limit-higher-than-55 New York State." 

He didn't do the obligatory "Ooo, aaah New York" thing, he just dove back in with, "Oh well, you are a world away from New York out here, miss!" We both giggled. Then Tom took me by surprise, "I hope you don't mind my saying this…but your skin…it's…well, it's awfully pale. Don't you go outside much?" A swift uptick of aggravation was initiated, and a knee-jerk shift into defensive-but-not-quite-bitchy mode took over, "Well, Tom, I hate the heat, so in the summertime, no, I don't get out much." My own response kicked up my inner rage, just a few more notches, Emeril style. But Tom somehow hadn't picked up on my irritation because he was still smiling and in awe of my complexion, "I mean you are WHITE. Very white. I've never seen––hey, you make sure you stay good and sunscreened up out there. Wouldn't want you turning into a lobster!" he said with a please-join-me-in-laughing laugh.

Steam was spewing from my ears, my eyes were no doubt red and turning black, teeth forming into fangs, but Tom was too blinded by my porcelain skin to notice. He was so taken back by my skin tone, he couldn't contain himself. It was as though he'd just met an aqua blue person and just couldn't resist asking why they were aqua blue.

I somehow resisted the urge to give him a piece of my New York mouth and mind by asking what kind of tanning bed he'd recommend, but I chose not to eliminate all edge from my response, "Yes. Yes, I am, very fair, and I always have been, so I'm well-versed in best sunscreen practices, so don't you worry, Tom." 

Still smiling, "Oh, I hope I didn't offend! Tell me, what've you got planned for Idaho? Our state's got a whole lot in store for you." I continued to engage while collecting every brochure and magazine that jumped out at me. That'll fix you, old man, I'm taking all the pamphlets you've got to offer. I didn't really hold onto any bitterness though – just accepted him as a no-filter fella who'd given me a good story to tell later on. 

I told Tom I was headed to Boise for the night, then hitting Craters of the Moon on my way to Idaho Falls for the next night. He raved about all three. I told him I wouldn't have time to make my way down to the Thousand Springs waterfalls near Bliss, ID like I was hoping to, but I wanted to try to find some great falls between Idaho Falls and the Tetons. He pointed me to the best brochures for Eastern Idaho attractions and asked me where to after the Tetons. "Well, I'm on a big, 3,000+ mile road trip through the Pacific Northwest. I'll go as far east as Western Wyoming, and as far north as Glacier National Park, then wrap back around to Seattle in a little over a week from now." I told him how I'd come down from Seattle in my rental beast, and I'd hit Mount Rainier, Crater Lake, cut across to Burns, Oregon. "Burns?! What brought you to Burns?!"

That was the reaction I'd gotten from everyone all throughout Oregon. "Well, I was spending the night at a hotel I'm going to write about. Plus, it seemed like a good stopping point before heading to Boise. That's why I'll stay in Idaho Falls too. I tend to keep my daily driving times under 6 hours––" "6 hours?!" he cut me off. I thought he was going to react how most others react when I tell them I'm bouncing from town to town never spending more than one night in a place…that "are you nuts?" reaction. But nope! Tom's dagger tongue struck again, "Wow, really taking your time with it, huh? That's nice – I've got to try that someday too…I'm always so ambitious with my drives, but taking it slow might be a nice change of pace."

Shots fired! Ego wounded! Poking fun at my pasty skin was one thing, but accusing a die-hard road warrior of "taking it easy" crossed the line. You might as well tell the queen she's not much of a queen. I inhaled sharply with my face in a half-pout, half-smile that meant, "Dude, are you kidding me? I'm a road-tripper...a road warrior! I haul ass on highways, byways, and everything in between…taking it slow? I don't even know what it means to take it slow." On the exhale, I reflected in an instant, "Why did this just feel like an attack on your character? It's not. It doesn't take away from your level of ambition or the awesome you infuse into every expedition." But then on the inhale again, "Yea, but it was almost like saying to someone who's double-majoring in chemistry and physics, 'Oh, that sounds like a walk in the park…I wish I could take a lighter course-load too, but I'm just too ambitious.'" Ok, time to respond thoughtfully.

"I don't know, six hours in the car feels pretty ambitious to me. And honestly, anything more than that just isn't as enjoyable to me. I like to break up my drives with scenic viewpoints and quirky roadside attractions. I like when the trip's about the journey…not so much a race to the finish line." Nice, Laur! I felt good about my response. I was true to me, and I didn't use words to make either of us feel smaller.

Tom went on to describe an eight-hour journey he embarked on to go from someplace to some other place, and I began daydreaming about hopping back on the Indy 500, aka I-84. Maybe my opposite-of-a-pep-talk with Tom was just the fuel I needed to bolt back onto the freeway. He certainly prompted me to want to change my cool Creedence Clearwater Revival playlist to straight-up Ice Cube.

Without being rude, I let him wrap up his story, then I told him I'd better be getting back on my way. "Oh, yes, of course! But first, you've got to see our osprey nest! It's just right out back." Tom showed me the way to the back entrance that overlooked a gorgeous landscape, unlike any I'd ever seen before. It was Idaho. Gorgeous, glorious Idaho. And breathing it in through my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth brought me back to me, back to where I wanted to be—a brand new state with miles and miles of undiscovered-by-me lands.

I floored it back on the highway – no Ice Cube needed. I was a natural within seconds, loving the pace so much more now that I was mentally prepared for it. A few days later, after falling in love with Boise, Craters of the Moon National Monument, and a spectacular hotel in Idaho Falls called the Destinations Inn, I found myself in a part of Idaho I'd set out to visit long, long ago. Long before I ever planned or booked anything for the trip I was on. I'd kind of forgotten to research it and add it to my Idaho adventure list for that first PNW trip, but there I was, in stunning Swan Valley, specifically Fall Creek Falls.

I was just dying to see some more shimmering streams and waterfalls before I left Idaho, and I found this one without a functioning GPS or a map. I knew which dirt road I had to turn off of because I'd studied the map in advance, in anticipation of losing GPS signal, and once I was on that dusty brown road, I knew I'd either pass it or I wouldn't. Believe it or not, I actually found this one by listening to nature. Sometimes waterfalls are easier to find with your ears than your eyes. I followed my ears through a narrow path covered with dense vegetation and buzzing bees to a cliff's edge, where other nature lovers frolicked and photographed. The sound of rushing, swishing waters over boulders...I was so close to it – the sound was like the loudest faucet I'd ever heard. It was beautiful. Magical.

I'd like to say that Tom's purpose was to help me find that waterfall, but truthfully, I'm not sure he did. I never ended up opening a single brochure I got that day, though I still have each and every one of them buried in a box somewhere. But maybe Tom's purpose could be a reminder that I don't need anyone to see me for who I am to know who I am, and that I can take me where I want to go. Yes, that's what it is, I'll stick with that, and I'll stick with 6-hour daily driving caps on road trips.