White Bird Battle. Thursday morning we headed down White Bird hill en route to Pittsburg Landing in Hells Canyon. Part way down the hill a historical marker beckoned and we pulled off.
It's an oft-repeated story in the West. The indigenous Indians had been promised land when white settlers started moving in, but when gold, or oil, or whatever was discovered on their land, the Indians were squeezed into smaller reservations or moved off their homelands completely. Up here it was the
Nez Perce (pronounced nez pars) tribe. They had played a key role in supplying Lewis and Clark and guiding them across this part of the country, but that was of no credit when gold was found on their land. They were told to move into an area of only 10% of what they had been promised. They resisted, under leadership of Chief Joseph. White Bird canyon was the site of the first battle - and the Nez Perce won handily. For details, see this
history.
While we were at this roadside stop a bicyclist pulled in. Susie recognized him from the day before - distinctive long gray pony tail - and started talking to him. A group of around 15 riders, all or many our age, were riding across the country. They started in Georgia, so this was not a straight-across trip. A second rider soon stopped to talk. He said we call this (pony-tailed) guy Miracle Man. He's the organizer of this ride and in Kentucky he tangled with a dog, broke his collar bone, and had other serious injuries. We almost canceled the ride, but he had his wife come out and follow us in their pick-up while he recovered and recuperated enough to ride again. Rob was reminded of his serious bicycling days and admitted he sometimes gets the "itch" to bicycle long distances. Susie will satisfy her "itch" by following in Tuzigoot.
Pittsburg Landing. The road to Hells Canyon is not paved with gold, but it is a good, hard-packed dirt and gravel road - 17 miles - narrow, winding, with steep drop-offs. It goes from the Salmon River valley at 1500 ft. elevation, up over a ridge that tops out at 4300 ft., then down to the Snake River at 1200 ft. Here are a few scenes.
They were working on the road doing dust abatement: spreading water and a magnesium mix, we were told, on the road to reduce the dust kicked up by traffic. The various operators who do Hells Canyon river trips use this road and there are several homes and farms along the first half of the road. Here comes the work crew.
Going in we had about a 30-minute wait, but that gave us a chance to talk to the flagger. She and her husband have a ranch on this road and he's the foreman in charge of maintaining this road. When needed, she works on his projects. She likes getting out of the house, working with hubby, and the extra cash. I envisioned her as a mail-order bride: Wanted: strong woman who loves the great outdoors to marry Idaho rancher and work on his road crew. Cheerful, positive attitude desired. Or, just to avoid any accusations of sexism, let me say that maybe it was the other way around: Woman who loves the outdoors desires to meet Idaho rancher, preferably unmarried.
We asked about snow days. She says her husband gets up at 3am to plow and spread gravel on the road so the school bus can get up the road.
We asked about forest fires -- as you can see above, there was considerable evidence of previous fires. She said three years ago they had to evacuate and a neighbor lost their house to fire, but theirs was spared.
She gave us special treatment. We were first in line and it was quite a while before another vehicle showed up, so she let us move across the road to the shade while we waited and advised us to wash that magnesium gunk off our car when we got back to G'ville.
When we left the RV park Susie said, Shall I pack a lunch? Nah, I said. We'll be back from Hells Canyon in time for lunch at White Bird. Well, with the road delays, that was a bad decision. Nice flagger lady told us there were no concessions at Pittsburg Landing -- not even a vending machine! This must be how the pioneers felt.
Hells Canyon is North America's deepest river gorge. It doesn't have the vertical walls of the Grand Canyon, but the mountain ranges through which the river flows have peaks high enough that the elevation difference from top to bottom is greater here than there. Here's the view from Pittsburg Landing, looking south, which is upstream.
Got back to White Bird, the village, about 1:30. Stopped at first place to eat that we saw: Silver Dollar Restaurant and Bar. From the parking lot you could smell the cigarette smoke, so we said, Let's see what else there is. Answer: Nothing. Back to Silver Dollar, we went in and found that the bar was at the front, restaurant was in the back, well-separated so we didn't get second hand smoke so we went in. From this exterior shot you can probably imagine the interior.
There were a handful of customers: a married couple, a friend, and an elderly woman, who may have been under the care of the wife, but seated separately. We sat down at a table and had just about figured out that we needed to go over to the counter and order when one of the customers brought us menus. Then, his wife came over and took our orders, and delivered our sandwiches when they were ready. Meanwhile they were having their own lunches. Very friendly place. I had the house specialty, a grilled crab and swiss cheese sandwich. The crab was the fake crab lumps of white seafood you can buy. Can't say I ever saw this sandwich on a menu before, but it worked for me.
Cook took a break and went to the post office to get mail. Couple who had served us said they'd cover for her and keep whatever money they took in.
When the cook came back she sat down and read a letter out loud. It was addressed to "Box 2 or Box 31, White Bird, Idaho," and was from an inmate at the Corcoran State Prison in California. Handwritten letter, difficult to read, but we all got the gist of the letter. I don't think she knew the guy, or could quite place him. Probably had lunch there while on the lam and remembered the friendly atmosphere and wanted to come visit or hide out when he was released or when he broke out. We thought we were on the set of a situation comedy, having to keep a straight face.
As we left, Susie said, We've never been to a friendlier place, or a filthier place. I didn't mention that restaurant also doubled as a video store and there were stacks of videos around, covered with dust -- probably years since a video had been rented. Susie: Once in a while I have to put in my two cents in these blogs. There is no way that this eating establishment could be adequately described, or at best, pass the health inspection if indeed the state inspector ever came to White Bird. From the cracked linoleum to the curled linoleum to the missing squares of linoleum to the dirty carpet in the entry way to the "busted bagless vaccum" lying in a prone position under one of the tables to the dust covered coffee maker and stained glass coffee pots to the poor elderly woman trying to keep her eggs on her fork to her shakily handling a coffee mug equaling her size and weight to the loudly choppily read "letter from the pen" to the
"thanks for coming in" salutation from Miss Kitty the barmaid.....the only other comment from me is that Rob really knows how to treat a woman to a mighty fine lunch!
The bar scene was priceless, too. About a half dozen very diverse regulars, all raptly watching a Gunsmoke episode. Mister Dillon, Mister Dillon! We got to the car, laughing like fools, and wondering how long it takes for food poisoning to set in-----which, surprise, surprise....never happened.
White Bird Hill. A sign described the old 95 route up the hill thusly:"many torturous curves and switchbacks - which, if placed together, made 37 complete circles - let the old road climb 2900 feet in 14 miles." A new U.S. 95 route replaced it in 1975. Here's what part of old 95 looked like on the GPS.
It was a fun drive, great views in all directions (unblocked by trees). At the top, back on new 95, there was a young family lining up at a scenic overlook to take a family picture using their camera's timer. We stopped and I took their picture and the wife took ours.
So long, White Bird. We'll remember you fondly.
Grangeville. That evening we found that it really was the
Glenn Miller Orchestra, without Glenn - he's dead, you know. The emcee said, You guys sound pretty good for being about a hundred years old by now. Big crowd on lawn chairs, great music, kids playing on the park swings in the background, teenagers flirting. Several Norman Rockwell paintings being played out all at once in Grangeville, ID on a pleasant summer night. It was great!
Cheers,
Susie and Rob
Update: Wanted to show you some pictures of the farm and ranchland around Grangeville.
This is Tolo Lake where, when it was dredged several years ago, mammoth bones were found.
Next stop: Coeur d'Alene.
