Crossed into Mountain Time

If I was a poet, I'd offer up stanzas about the desolate beauty of the Whitebird Grade and its steep, sweeping curves leading down into Hell's Canyon along the Salmon River, and Lapwai, the land of butterflies, which sounds much prettier than it is because it's on the Nez Perce reservation and they obviously got the short end of the stick, living in hideous trailers and selling beadwork and fry bread.

But I'm no poet, and there are few things worse than someone's amateur attempts at being Walt Whitman.

We had a grand thunderstorm in Pullman last night, and a lovely, cool morning. But Hell's Canyon lives up to its name. Hot. The river looks cold and fast, with periodic white, sandy beaches and sheer canyon walls so straight-cut in some places they look like a giant's staircase toppled over on its side. It's high-desert terrain, but once through Riggins, the whitewater capitol of Idaho (yes, it's true), the forest begins and though the steep canyon walls are still there, they are covered with thick green pines.

Riggins is a town that has sprawled lengthwise along Highway 95, having no room to go back from the road more than a couple of acres. The requisite Idaho art is for sale -- chainsaw-carved bears holding flailing salmon in their paws -- and there are several saloons and a lot of whitewater rafting companies.

The highway is maintained for miles by "Yahweh's 666 Warning Church," which can be found on the way out of town, an old building covered with hand-lettered signs about Jesus's coming battle with Satan. I would've stopped to take pictures, but didn't want to attract attention from the "minister."

A few miles up the road, the landscape changes again, into the brown-gold-sage of high-country open range, dotted with lazy, napping cows and fat, healthy horses.

I'm in Boise now, staying overnight. My goal is to see SLC tomorrow, then head down into Zion on Saturday.