|
25 Reasons We Live in Sun Valley
New mom Sarah Heiden concurs. "The produce guy at Atkinsons’, the bank teller at D.L. Evans, the mailman and the neighbors all know my daughter’s name. They will watch out for her over the years. I feel secure letting her roam throughout our community as she grows, learning to explore with a sense of confidence and wonder." An unrivaled outdoor playground that can lure even the most addicted gamer from the couch, a quality of arts and culture usually reserved for large, crime-ridden cities, and a community that rallies around its citizens in times of need, the Wood River Valley offers little that leaves prospective parents cold. —Jennifer Tuohy, 2003
If you’re a fashion maven, you’ve probably seen him dressed as a Mad Hatter doppelganger, or in Viking horns, and wondered where he gets his wonderful headwear. If you’ve run for city council, mayor or County Commission in the past decade, there’s a good chance you’ve battled his wit and rhetoric. Whereas the typical image of a candidate for public office includes business attire and an effort to appeal to the broad masses, he eschews such pretensions, wearing his beliefs on his brightly colored sleeves and, more accurately, letting them loose in city hall. While he has yet to succeed in about half-a-dozen runs for public office, he continues to vociferously advocate for affordable housing, less government intervention and finding ways to make Ketchum thrive once again. Impossible to miss, the inveterate Mickey Garcia is a Technicolor example of the unique characters that call the Wood River Valley home. And despite the superficial observation that the Wood River Valley is diversity-deficient, Mickey is a larger-than-life reminder that no two individuals here are alike. The next time you catch a glimpse of Ananda on his short skis dancing gracefully through the bumps, or try to squeeze past Sherry Daech’s cherry-red Hummer-go-cart, remember that, while these might be some of the more visible examples, every resident has an interesting story to tell. All you have to do is ask. —Jon Duval, 2006
Daily life is enriched by seeing a little red fox trotting through downtown Ketchum. Passing a moose on the bike path is a memory for life. In west Ketchum, a man walked out of his bedroom one night to see a black bear lumbering into his kitchen. The bear took a gallon of ice cream from the freezer and retired to the den to consume it. (I wondered if he could work the remote.) And who can forget the famous bear from the gone-but-not-forgotten Warm Springs Ranch Restaurant? "He opened the screen door, opened the freezer, grabbed a mud pie and walked out," said manager Bob Dunn. Mountain lions are more unsettling. Last summer an Elkhorn couple saved their little white dog, Piglet, from the jaws of a trespassing big cat. One evening last winter, I heard what sounded like the howls of wolves echoing around the Elkhorn hills. That’s impossible, I thought; it must be someone’s dogs. But no, wolves had followed an elk herd to its grazing area above Ketchum, and as the eco-drama played out above us, parked cars lined the roads as people set up spotting scopes. It was Yellowstone in our backyard. For many nights following, I listened to the wolves’ eerie howls, as well as the usual yipping of coyotes and the barking of foxes. In the fall, it’s the elk bugling. While I normally value a solid night’s sleep, I don’t mind being awakened by the wild creatures that share our valley. —Greg Moore, 1976
Lefty’s in Ketchum serves Monkeys, a basket of crunchy, spicy potato discs. Across Main Street at the Rustic Moose, a pile of potatoes, veggies, eggs and cheese are Moose Chips. And at some local institutions, the off-menu vernacular can feel like code, like a speakeasy password. (Apple’s veterans ask for an "Ashtray.") In this closed culture, a nativist conceit can warp our perceptions; people start thinking we invented things that we didn’t. The Mahoney’s Juicy-Lucy is a clever burger with a molten center, but it was born outside Bellevue. (A small turf war in the Minneapolis suburbs has yet to put the origination issue to rest). Or take Dotty Sarchett’s Wrapcity, the former Warm Springs skiers’ hangout that in 2005 moved to splashier uptown digs. Wrapcity’s culinary genius—enclosing lunch in a handy carbohydrate vessel—may have been anticipated by Greek, Mexican, Arab, Jewish and Cantonese cultures, among others. But one bite into the colorful cornucopia of a freshly wrapped Cobb (pictured here) or into the reassuring heft of a Chinese Chicken Salad, and I’m ready to plant a flag on Main Street, marking the spot as the cradle of lunchtime civilization—with or without a "hot strip." —Michael Ames, 2002
From trophy trout to crying cranes, practically every species of Idaho critter crawls, hops, strolls or slithers its way in and around the 883 acres surrounding the pristine water that flows at the base of the Picabo Hills. A high-desert oasis, Silver Creek is a natural playground for all ages. This is Idaho’s version of a theme park, minus the crowds and commercialism. Be it bird watching, hiking, hunting, canoeing or fly-fishing, rarely will a snapshooting visitor leave without a cherished new memory, trapped for posterity in a digital domain. When the daily grind starts to wear you down, travel the short distance south, leave the tarmac behind and take a moment to breathe in the brilliance and beauty of nature in the raw. —Jennifer Tuohy, 2003
They are human. They are about town, but the entourage stays at home. Celebrities here aren’t a news story; their presence amounts to little more than an offhand anecdote. The Sun Valley Suns lineup might include a famous director (Bobby Farrelly), or a rock ‘n’ roller could show up at Grumpy’s to tend bar (Bruce Springsteen). They return to Sun Valley because no paparazzi annoy them—or us. Celebrities don’t cause a stir when they watch their kids in a play (Bruce Willis), shop at Iconoclast Books (Jamie Lee Curtis) or at vintage clothing store Déjà Vu (Demi Moore). Their thrill is to be incognito. Scott Glenn (last seen as Donald Rumsfeld in Oliver Stone’s W) goes about virtually unrecognized, and then there was that day not long ago when a tall, marvelous-looking man was spied walking on Leadville Avenue. It was Clint Eastwood. —Dana DuGan, 1993 Eighteen Sharing an alpine meal with fellow adventurers is one of mountaineering’s most pleasurable perks. If you prefer the quiet of a solo tour, you may yet find a wolf track in the spring snow or catch a glimpse of a mountain goat on a rocky ravine. Munching on some fresh figs as you trek, you are reminded that you are never truly alone. Even when wildlife is scarce, a spot of mustard with summer sausage spices up any vista. Whether it’s Baron, Braxton or Williams peaks in the Sawtooths, Lorenzo in the Boulders, Borah (Idaho’s highest at 12,662 feet) in the Lost River Range, or Old Hyndman in the Pioneer triumvirate, a peak picnic is a disproportionate pleasure. As you cast an eye on the craggy horizon, there is no better feeling than knowing you are treating your mind and body right. Of course, even the best-laid plans don’t always preclude an epic misadventure (from broken boot laces to a sudden lightning storm). But for the active foodie, lunching al fresco is something to write home about. And what flatlander wouldn’t enjoy an Idaho postcard that says leftover spätzle was the featured fare atop the Salzburger Spitzl? —Matt Furber, 2003
The last quarter mile before topping out at the summit of the eight-mile Pioneer Cabin loop provides few hints at what’s over the other side. The wind-twisted shapes of sturdy whitebark pine trees and the deafening silence clued me in, but these didn’t predict the panorama that stretches east. On that perfect autumn day, I took a final step and crested out. With a sudden lightness unexpectedly returning to my legs, I savored the full sweep of the Pioneer Mountains. Front and center were Handwerk and Duncan peaks, where only sure-footed mountain goats and altitude-inclined climbers dare roam. The late afternoon sun hid behind Handwerk’s needle-like spire and cast a long shadow across a distant alpine basin. Clustered groves of stunted conifers and bright green tundra meadows cooled in the shade. Above them, a steep scree slope bathed in the afternoon’s golden light. It looked like a great spot to linger, maybe even to go and smell the wildflowers. But with darkness marching across that distant cirque, I held off. The mountain scene alone would have made my day. But what truly topped it off was the thought that flew unbidden into my head. Well, that’s a lie, I actually read it. Scrawled in gleaming white letters on the corrugated metal roof of Pioneer Cabin were the words "The higher you get, the higher you get." That’s the kind of truth you can’t argue with. —Jason D. B. Kauffman, 2005 Twenty There is something ultimately relaxing about a fugue-filled cool-down. As the sun sets behind the eponymous Sun Peak, the August air cools and you lose yourself in a cloud of classical masterpieces. There is also a good chance your better-dressed and better-prepared neighbor will proffer an extra wine glass and some cheese and crackers to share—there’s nothing like free cocktail hour with friends. And after all that exercise, you know you deserve it. —Della Sentilles, 2007
|