Our Sun Valley Serenade - February 13, 2016

I listened to Hamilton on the way out here, it takes up over half of the flight from Boston to Denver, and now I will never be able to say AL-ex-and-er HAM-il-ton the same way again. 

Here’s how you know you are not in Cambridge, Massachusetts anymore:  when the announcement at the airport about where to collect skis and off-size baggage ends with a note that firearms and assistive devices will be sent out last.  If you want a rootin-tootin, gun-totin’ vacation, Idaho’s the place for you. 

This year’s Laskin family ski (not shooting) adventure is travelling far afield, to the historic Sun Valley resort in Ketchum, Idaho.  Known better by some as the home of the deeply dysfunctional Hemingway clan, Ketchum was chosen by rail magnate Averell Harriman as the site of his resort way back in the olden days of the 1930s.  I guess when you own the railroad, you can build a resort anywhere you damn please.  Anyway, Sun Valley was The Place to Be in the mid-20^th c.  Things quieted down in the 70s and 80s, but then western tech moguls started coming to this year-round wilderness paradise (there’s a lot of fishing and hiking and that shooting business) and they’ve spiffed up the old Lodge, so while it has lost some of its pre-WW2 glamour, it remains a classic ski destination for those craving a touch of glamour along with their faux alpine and elk tenderloin.

They may call Lambeau Field the Frozen Tundra, but I am here to tell you that Idaho can also claim that title pretty neatly.  Once you leave the barren surround of Boise (“The Tree City!” is proclaimed at the airport.  We dub it Boisé.), you climb a bit and then all of a sudden are in an almost-lunar landscape of flats and hills and no trees and white white white.  It is as close to the arctic as I’ll likely ever come.

Nobody lives here in the Magic Valley.  The sign said that Fairfield, a “town” through which we passed, had a population of 416.  Maybe when the cows come home.  Or perhaps everyone lives in the grain elevators. 

Although we do see evidence of winter sports enthusiasm.  The hills are criss-crossed with snowmobile trails, and in the distance we see things that look like fingernail clippings floating around in the sky.  Turns out they are a kind of para-boarder, folks on snow boards, with skinny, crescent-shaped parachutes coming off their backs.  They float around on the wind that blows through this broad flat Magic Valley, and skid along the snow.  It looks like fun!

Anyway, after about 80 straight miles you make a left turn to drive into the Wood River Valley and all of sudden fancy ranches and prosperous-looking houses appear, then the local airport with its parking lot full of private jets.  You’ve arrived!

Some additional first impressions of Idaho:

We stop at a historical marker about 40 miles outside of Boisé, and read briefly about the stagecoach stop/intersection with the Oregon Trail that it marked.  Then we ponder the presence of a Desert Storm-era tank at the same marker, which simply says “Honoring Those Who Serve.”  Maybe the idea is that if they’d had that tank back in the olden days, they’d not have had any trouble with stagecoach robbers.

Idaho’s state motto is:  “Great Potatoes.  Tasty Destinations.”  Really.

They say that the name Idaho may come from ee-da-how, a Shoshone Indian word that means something like, the Sun is Beautiful on the Mountains.  They also say that some canny 19^th c. developer came up with that, and that no one really knows how the territory got its name.  The thing is that other than here in Ketchum, as far as we can tell, there aren’t really many people in the whole damn state of Ee-da-how to ask about it.   

In our condo there is a little placard with excessively detailed instructions of what do with your car should it snow and plowing be required.  I don’t get the snow removal protocol here at all.  Basically, if it is snowing hard you have to keep moving your car so they can plow where the cars go, which makes theoretical sense but if they are plowing everywhere where are you supposed to put your car?

Finally, heard from Izzy while walking home after dinner:  “Why doesn’t it have a better name?  I mean, it’s just called The Moon.  That’s pretty unimaginative.”