My Kind of Place
Ketchum, ID
February 25, 2022
Given what it attempted on Earth, it’s no surprise that the Soviet Union would have a natural interest in a “Red” planet.
After launching Sputnik in 1957, the Soviets sent several forays toward Mars. None were successful. But the effort spurred others, including the NASA Mariner 3 expedition, which also fell short.
After a series of false-starts, fly-bys, and photographs throughout the 60s, an earthen craft finally made contact with the Martian surface. When it did, the ambient temperature was 80 degrees below zero.
I think that was the forecast high here yesterday. But at least it’s a dry cold. And it hasn’t bothered us a bit.
The Wood River Valley includes the hamlets of Hailey, Ketchum, and Sun Valley. Despite the northern latitude and mountainous terrain, winter in the region is usually relatively mild.
That was part of the appeal when this site was selected as America’s first winter resort. Abundant sun, reasonable elevation, and minimal wind make winters more comfortable than most might assume.
February features deep blue skies, occasional soft snow, and temperatures in the thirties or forties. That’s what we enjoyed earlier this week.
Temperatures then leaked a little lower each day, till a freak cold snap took us to the teens yesterday afternoon, and single digits this morning. But with ample preparation, lots of sun, light snow, and little wind, conditions this week were perfect. We made the most of them…after the usual preliminaries.
The worst part of a ski trip is renting the boots. The second-worst part is wearing them.
To ensure we are able to walk away from a week on skis, these re-purposed Medieval torture devices constrict ankles and inhibit mobility. Used correctly, they force the wearer into a stilted march, like a zombie from The Night of the Living Dead. When worn wrong, they feel like something “intelligence“ agencies might use to extract confessions.
But at high-end resorts in the Rocky Mountain West, people pay good money to endure them.
And it’s worth it. After four years not subjecting ourselves to this ordeal, we couldn’t wait to do it again. We re-adapted quickly to our boots, and to being on skis. What caught us off-guard was the spectacular beauty of this idyllic place.
David said several of his friends were surprised he was coming here to ski. Because east of the Mississippi Idaho is known primarily for the potato, many people are apparently under the impression its topography is more that of eastern Washington than western Montana. Gem State resorts also lack the contemporary cachet of the Wasatch and Rocky Mountain slopes to the south and east.
Good. All to the benefit of those of us who now know better.
For whatever reason, this state has had a reputation as the West Virginia of the Northwest: beautiful, but backward. I’ve been to Idaho several times, and loved each visit. I’d as soon the sophisticates continue to underrate it, and to stay away.
But alas, the fashionable set is dropping its pretensions, and moving in. The urge to leave the lunacy of large cities is bringing interstate immigrants bearing laptops, lattes, and expensive real estate to Boise, Coeur d’Alene…and Sun Valley.
Over lunch at the River Run lodge Wednesday afternoon, we overheard a woman talking to a man she’d just met. She was complimenting the Beaver Creek logo on his high-end wardrobe.
“Oh, my. Does that say Beaver Creek? I love Beaver Creek. We were there two weeks ago.”
“I love it too”, replied the man. “The slopes are so well-groomed.”
“I know. Just lovely. Deer Valley too. We were there in December. So nice that they valet your skis.”
“Isn’t it? We’ll be in Deer Valley next month. Much nicer than Aspen in our opinion.”
“Isn’t it true, tho’? It’s gotten sooo crowded. Vail too.”
At this point, I had to interject.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help overhearing. I agree Deer Valley and Beaver Creek are wonderful. But have you been to Blowing Rock?”
“No…I don’t think I have”, the perplexed woman replied. “Is that in Colorado?”
“No. North Carolina. The skiing’s not great…all ice and plenty of rocks…but the tubing is terrific. My brother and I once went so fast and far that we ended up in an icy creek and almost died. It’s near Beech Mountain, which is…”
“Excuse me”, interrupted the woman, “I need to find my husband.”
OK. I made up the part about joining their pretentious conversation (which really did happen) – altho’ the hypothermic tubing experience Brett and I survived was real.
In early 1982, my parents’ friends Mike and Julie Shea invited us to their family home in Blowing Rock. One afternoon, my mother and Julie dropped Jerry, Mike, Brett, and me at the top of a ridge for an afternoon of tubing. Then they took the car, and went shopping (actually, I don’t remember where they went. But in stereotypically male fashion, I reflexively accept the stereotype that when women go out, it is always to go “shopping”).
For several hours, Jerry and Mike pushed Brett and me down the slope. As the shadows lengthened and temperatures fell, Jerry and Mike decided to enliven their dull duty.
At the base on the hill, far in the distance, was a mountain stream. As the surface snow turned to ice, Jerry and Mike created a contest for themselves to see who could get these two boys closest to the creek.
They both won.
For what ended up being the final push of the day, they gave all they had…and Brett and I dropped into the creek like two olives in a martini glass. Suddenly realizing what they’d done, Jerry and Mike high-fived each other, pointed at us, and laughed.
Then they remembered the women would eventually be back, and that it’d probably be best if Brett and I weren’t dead. They ran down the hill, fished us out, and waited with the two drenched kids in sub-arctic conditions till my mother and Julie returned (what seemed to be about 16 hours later) to something they didn’t expect.
They quickly drove us to the house, where we thawed in hot baths and by warm fires. In retrospect, that event was pretty funny. But I got the last laugh. To this day, and this week, I am still wearing Jerry’s old winter jacket when I ski.
It’s lack of logos would horrify the hotsy-totsy woman at the lodge, but it holds plenty of value to me. And it boosted my credentials with the local crowd.
After skiing Wednesday, we joined a father and son for drinks in the lodge. They told us they can always tell which skiers are from here, because they’re not packaged in designer wrapping.
For that reason, among others, this place is more my speed. The lift lines are too. Even on Sunday and Monday, a holiday weekend with wonderful weather, there essentially weren’t any.
At the popular resorts in Colorado or Utah, the logos pack cheek to jowl in lift lines that move as quickly as a snail moving forward atop a turtle moving backward. Here, we were in constant motion…down the mountain, up the lift, and back on the slope. No delays at all.
It was wonderful. But as with all such things, it must come to an end. David and I finished our final run yesterday afternoon, left our skis on the rack, and settled in the lodge for a goodbye beverage.
We then trudged out, grabbed the skis, drove back to Hailey, and returned them to the rental shop. The attendant scanned in both pair of boots and David’s skis. But he was having trouble with mine.
“That’s weird”, he said to himself several times as I waited for him to finish. After three or four attempts, he looked up at me.
“Did you rent size 186?”, he asked.
“I guess so. It’s whatever it says on the ski”, I said impatiently. ”And, my name is on it too. See right there. It says…
… ‘Jennifer Cue’.”
Oh great. My son’s detail-oriented dad had grabbed the wrong skis.
“That’s OK”, the man said. “We’re closing in a few minutes, but you can return them in the morning. No extra charge.”
Feeling like a fool, I dropped David at the hotel and drove back to Sun Valley. When I arrived, there was no sign of my skis. I checked with the woman at the lodge, who’d not seen them either.
“I’m sure this happens all the time, right?”, I asked hopefully, feeling like Chevy Chase talking to the Arizona auto mechanics in Vacation, and expecting a similar response.
“No, never”, she joked.
“Yes”, she continued, “this happens all the time. Just leave those skis with me and we’ll track Jennifer down. I know people at the rental place. Just call them and say you talked to me, and it should be fine.”
I did, and it was.
“Don’t worry”, the guy said when I called. “We’ll get ‘em back. I’ll call you when we do. But we won’t charge you for anything. This happens a lot. I’m just glad you were able to enjoy them while you were here, and your time in Sun Valley.”
We did. Very much.
JD
