Idaho Honeymoon

I awaken to a steady pattering against the fly. Before I can process the sound, it shifts. Now it’s a light, irregular tapping, like someone is throwing confetti over our tent.

I open my eyes. Riggins is snuggled against me, submerged beneath a mountain of blankets. I reach for the tent zipper and tug it open just enough for a peek at the gray morning. Yup, rain and snow. Slush slides down the outside of the fly. I zip the tent closed and roll toward Riggins, curling into his furry warmth.

Aaron’s already up with our other dog, Firnspiegel. I hear the stove thrumming as the water comes to a boil, then quieting as Aaron shuts it off. Yes. Coffee. Soon. I close my eyes again. The precipitation soon tapers off. Here’s my opportunity to move, to pack up the gear, make breakfast, and change into some ski gear. The coffee’s ready and we have a weather window.

It’s time to rally.

We’re on day 7 of a nine-day road trip through Central Idaho. We’ve been lucky so far, with a week’s worth of sunshine. It’s cold. All of our food, including seven gallons of water, and tomatoes, bananas, and onions froze solid on the first night. But cold is doable. We have every variety of puffy things — jackets, sleeping bags, blankets, pants, booties — as well as the means to make hot drinks and two furry dogs to keep us warm. We can manage. We’ve done it before. And we’re on our honeymoon.

Aaron and I met in my Level 1 avalanche course. He was one of my instructors. After a few conventional dates, we began ski touring together. Within a month, we were planning our first road trip, The Volcano Tour, with the goal of skiing seven Pacific Northwest volcanoes, from California to Washington, in nine days.

The idea of spending nine days living out of my 1999 Honda Accord was a little daunting. Afterward, I figured, we’d either politely go our separate ways, or we’d make a meaningful commitment. Fortunately, it was the latter. In the years that followed, we continued our road trips, often skiing, other times climbing or backpacking. Our day-to-day lives in Bend, OR, are busy, but we always seem to be able to deepen our connection on these excursions. Adventures, and the occasional misadventure, seem to bring out the best in us.

Riggins is reluctant to emerge from the warmth of his blanket-mountain, so I begin organizing our gear while Aaron brews a second round of coffee. Eventually, I nudge Riggs from the tent, shake it out, and together Aaron and I stack everything in the back of the truck, carefully placing the wet stuff away from our sleeping bags and pillows. This has become a daily ritual, something we do morning and night. Pulling gear out to sleep; putting it back in to get to our next ski destination. Now a week in, we’ve got our system down.

The sky is still gray and heavy, and the Sawtooths are socked in storm clouds. Knowing that the weather could turn at any moment, we forgo breakfast in order to get to the trailhead. There’ll be time to eat during the next weather window. But it’s all a gamble with these springtime snow squalls, and we arrive at the trailhead amidst dumping snow. It’s all good, though. It means we’ll be skiing fresh powder.

It’s these unexpected moments that really make these trips memorable. On our original Volcano Tour, after skiing corn on Mt. McLoughlin, we got hit with a snowstorm just as we were sitting down to dinner. In a matter of minutes, we were tossing our gear into the car, wolfing down our spaghetti, and driving away in a whiteout. On our trip to the Tetons, we found ourselves setting up our tent at 3 a.m. in pouring rain. On a New Year’s Eve trip to Eastern Oregon, we popped a bottle of Champagne only to discover it was frozen solid. Even on our wedding day, in October 2019, we were gifted with a light dusting of snow, adding to the joy of the occasion.

In March 2020, we were planning to forego the road trip and instead travel by plane to Chamonix, trading in our tent for the huts along the Haute Route, subsisting on baguettes, wine, and cheese. That’s when the global pandemic hit.

As we navigated the ups and downs of the COVID-challenged year, the idea of another road trip began to percolate. With France on hold, we began to plan for Idaho. The good news was that we’d be able to take the dogs, sleep out of the truck, and explore new sights. And so here we are again in the mountains, with our little family. And I realize now that it doesn’t really matter where we go, as long as we go together. (And take our skis.)