Finding Hemingway Part Two

Trail Creek road

So there we were on a mountaintop road with barely enough room for one car and no cell service. On the right hand was a sharp drop off that if we were so unlucky to tumble down would ensue in a crash and explosion that would certainly rival any Hollywood film. So cautiously I coxed the car onward up the mountainside, my hands grasping tight around the wheel until my fingers turned white. The next morning would begin Idaho's hunting season and we encountered a few pickup trucks that were zooming along this precarious road. I would pull to the far side of an occasional small turn out in the road to allow these prepared motorists to fly past us leaving in their wake a wave of dust that would cause me to drive even slower and grasp my steering wheel even tighter. The boys in the backseat were oblivious to the danger, their old man had put them in, as they happily watched Teddy Ruxpin.
After thirty minutes of this white knuckle driving we crested the pass and began our decent; shortly arriving back on to the blessed blacktop. Charity's phone had picked up a signal.
"We're only a few miles out." She said as the blood slowly began to flow to my fingers.
"This place is just beautiful." I remarked taking in the sights.
I love the fall colors and honestly I haven't seen a more spectacular display of Fall foliage than in Sun Valley. Mixing in between the trees were old style homes and log cabins that added to the rustic flair of the area. It was like taking a step into another time.
When we reached the condo I called our hosts to let them know we had finally made it, an hour later than planned, and gave them a brief rundown of my mistaken turn and the trip over Trail Creek. Both laughed with me but Trish said that several people go that way to see the beautiful scenery while Suzan remarked that she avoids that road at all costs.
Our hosts had set up an amazing weekend of activities to do and fantastic places to eat but one of the things I was most looking forward to was finding Hemingway's home in Sun Valley. Like so many people my age I had been introduced to Ernest Hemingway's writing by assignment in an English class. In my American

Jonah and the Bear

Literature class I had a heap of reading assigned and was also required to choose one additional book from a list, read it, and write a six page paper about it. Being an excellent student I reviewed the list thoroughly in order to find which book contained the least number of pages. That great honor fell to Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea. To my pleasant surprise I enjoyed the novel and wanted to learn more about the man. When I found out about his life in Idaho I felt a deeper connection and filed it away in my mind. Even though I am not much of a Pilgrim, I thought since I was in the area anyway I should stop in to pay my respects.
The next morning we started out with a fantastic breakfast at The Kneadery where Jonah was accosted by a large bear when he refused to give the bear our table.
After breakfast we enjoyed biking through the miles of bike trails that had been converted from the old railroad tracks that crossed the valley. On our way into Sun Valley we had passed a sign directing people to the Hemingway memorial. It was too far to bike out there and back so we decided we would go there that evening before dinner.
With the sun just completing its' eleven hour work day we pulled into the gravel parking area of the Hemingway memorial. There was a small dirt trail that lead off into the weeds which we ambled along. It wound down a gentle hill to a stream that filled a small rock pool. On the opposite side of the pool was the bust of Papa Hemingway with the inscription that read:

me at the Hemingway memorial

Best of all he loved the Fall
the leaves yellow on the cottonwoods
leaves floating on the trout streams
and above the hills
The high blue wilderness skies
...Now he will be a part of them forever
Ernest Hemingway-Idaho-1939

When you look online there is very little exact information on the location of Hemingway's home in Sun Valley but behind the memorial there is another small dirt trail that meanders down the mountain. We hypothesized that his home might lie at the end of the trail. So in the darkness we bravely went forward to the bottom of the mountain. We could see at some distance a clearing with a sign before it. This seemed the obvious direction to take so we marched onward to what we hoped would be Hemingway's home. When we arrived at the sign with our little hungry boys in tow it read: Please do not walk onto golf course. Although we had not found Hemingway's home we did find a nice alternative way onto the greens. There would be time for more searching the next day.

Papa Hemingway's final resting place

That next morning we awoke to gray skies and the threat of rain. Charity had been able to find some vague directions online and after a fantastic brunch we set off again, first stopping at the Ketchum cemetery to pay our respects to Papa Hemingway and in some odd superstitious way perhaps gain some favor for my upcoming novel.
It took some time to finally find Papa Hemingway's tomb, among the beautiful headstones in this peaceful place, but when we did it was humbling to see the adoration and respect that people continue to pay to him. Coins of various values and countries cover the long gray slab of granite that marks Papa Hemingway's final resting place, while at the head are offerings of fine libations. As I was tossing a coin of my own onto the tombstone the dark clouds finally gave way and released the heavy rain that had been pulling them closer to earth. The thunder cracked and lighting split the sky. I silently hoped that I could ignore the superstitious overtones.
Charity and I dashed back to our car and continued on to where we hoped we would get a glimpse of Hemingway's home. I followed the directions Charity read off. We looked for a green house we could see from the road, but did not see one. She tried to find another set of directions. By following those we were in a dead end road overlooking the entire valley and although the view was marred by the dark clouds of rain it was still spectacular. Finally in a small article about a civil case involving the home she found an address, instead of a random assortment of useless directions. It took us ten minutes to cross the valley and finally arrive on the street. We had been down mountainsides, crossed residential areas, run through the rain, hiked in the dark and finally we had arrived.
I turned to Charity and we exchanged a look of accomplishment at a job well done. I looked back at my boys who were playing with legos.
"That is where Ernest Hemingway lived." I said with pride as if I had just uncovered some long lost tomb.
"Can we go back to the toy store?" Riley asked.
"Yeah!" Jonah chimed in.
Well, to each their own.

As a final note, I would just like to publicly thank the families of the Blaine County Republican Women who made this trip possible for my family. Thank you and bless you all.
-Clark  

Finding Hemingway Part One

This past weekend was so fantastic. Truly one of the best weekends that I can remember. I spent it with my wife and two sons in the beautiful town of Ketchum Idaho. It wasn't the easiest of trips to begin with but before I get to the tale of woe I want to publicly thank the Blaine County Republican Women, especially Suzan and Trish for the support they gave to me and my fellow soldiers in Iraq this past year and for the amazing warmth and hospitality that they showed to my family this weekend, thank you.

In planning the route to take on a trip it usually comes down to one of two things: first, the distance and second, the scenery. However our route was planned by our dog Maggie. You see we weren't able to take her with us so we set up plans to have someone in our home town of Idaho Falls watch her but at the last minute those plans fell through and so I called my parents to see if they would do it. I actually knew that they would, they love Maggie but that is also the reason they weren't my first choice because I have a secret fear that one day they will snatch her and take her to Mexico or some other country where dognapping extradition laws are vague. At any rate Maggie was going up to the folks house and I had two choices: take Maggie up the night before or the morning of. Neither option seemed that exciting as it would add 60 extra miles on to my trip. So I sat and thought about it and it hit me that we could drive Maggie up, get lunch in Rexburg, and then go across the desert and see some of those pretty places we've never been to.

In retrospect I wonder if that is how the Donner Party started out, I can just imagine the conversation.
"Hey babe, why don't we take the Hastings cut off? We have to go that way anyway to drop the mining supplies off at your sisters."
"I don't know isn't it a bit dangerous this time of the year?"
"Oh we'll be fine. And besides it has great scenery. Maybe we can even grab a bite on the way."

With Maggie dropped off, lunch secured and iPhone map in hand we set off toward Arco via Mud Lake. It was a gorgeous day, the sun was bright and there were no clouds in the sky. We passed through Mud Lake and I commented that it would make the perfect setting for a good serial killer story. My oldest son wanted to know why it was called Mud Lake and being a good father I made up the best answer that I could think of.
"It's because there was a lake and now it is just filled with mud. In fact they only use it for mud wrestling and making mud pies."
Being the good son he is he immidiatly asked my wife if that was true and she just shook her head.
"He's just teasing you."
"Dad!"
As we crossed the desert my passengers began to be absorbed in their iPhones and Game Boys. I had small tinge of envy wishing they would put some form of video entertainment in the steering wheel so I would have something to do while I drove.
Our first stop would be in Arco. Before the end of the Cold War the US Navy trained its sailors on nuclear submarine engines in the Idaho desert near Arco and to commemorate that past, the town of Arco received the sail from the decommissioned USS Hawkbill. I had read about it in the local paper a few years ago and always wanted to go out and see Satan's Submarine, but just had never had the time to go.

Jonah, Riley and Charity in front of Satan's Submarine in Arco Idaho.

From Arco we would be traveling to the Craters of the Moon national monument where my budding scientist Jonah could learn about the area's lava flows, my wild child Riley could run off his energy and the rest of us would enjoy some scenery. This route would continue taking us along the very flat part of the Idaho desert. But as I drove this route the odd thing I kept noticing was the large mountains with just a touch of the first snow and the beautiful leaves that were showing their fall colors in the big clumps of trees. This did not seem right but I kept seeing the signs saying "Peaks to Craters Scenic Byway" so I continued to assume I was on the right road. It was when I hit the town of Mackay and needed to stop for gas that I knew I had gone the wrong way.

"Babe I really messed up and I missed our turn." I confessed to Charity.

"I thought you were just taking another way, see you can still get to Ketchum from here." She showed me the map on her iPhone. There was a small blue colored route that cut across the mountains just a few miles out of town. The map program said it would be an hour and a half drive but it was only 45 miles and we assumed that the program was just being cautious.

Finally making the turn onto Trail Creek, after I once again missed the turn, we found that Trail Creek was a lovely two lane paved road with a 55 mile an hour speed limit. The mountains were craggy, dotted with aspen trees that were displaying bright yellows and reds and the road passed over a score of mountain streams. To put it simply it was beautiful.

"This isn't bad at all." I said confidently.

We passed a small wooden sign that said "Chilly Cemetery." We looked off into the distance and saw at the end of a washboard road a small fenced off cemetery nestled at the foot of a mountain.

"We're not taking this way back, we should go see it." Charity said.

I gladly turned the car in and slowly trundled along the bumpy road. Both Charity and I enjoy, in a very normal unghoulish way, roaming through cemeteries. There is something about seeing the names, especially those that have died too young, that resonates with me and my own loss. And there is also a wonderful art in the memorializing of a person and their deeds in stone.

Chilly Cemetery off of Trail Creek road

It was remarkable to both of us how, this final resting place that was so far off the beaten path, was so well kept. There was also a surprising mix of very old and sadly recent headstones. Not only were these people buried in a place of beauty their loved ones cared enough to make the trek on a regular basis for the upkeep.

We took several photos and finally loaded back into the car and headed down Trail Creek road. We were making excellent time until we came down the side of one of the many sloping hills to see a sign I had been worried that might crop up; "Pavement Ends." Our 55 MPH highway turned into a 35 MPH back-road littered with rocks of various sizes and jagged edges waiting with hungry eyes to take a bite out of our tires. Not only was our little Toyota Matrix already feeling very out of place, up ahead loomed a small one lane mountain road that we would have to take in order to reach Ketchum and find Papa Hemingway's house.

It didn't look good, but it could be worse.

"Babe, we just lost cell service." Charity said.

That's all the time for Write Now but come back soon for part two.