Hit and Run: Idaho to Seattle (with ice cream to keep us going)

Leaving the Tetons (somewhat sadly) late that afternoon, we headed for the wilds of Idaho, a book of hot springs in my hand. I found several appealing springs which ran around 100-110 degrees F that were accessible even during the spring floods. Many of the springs could only be reached by crossing rivers fed by snowmelt or are often washed out until the water table falls later in the summer. Once within two hours of our chosen destinations, Nick picked up the book to begin selecting which roads would be best to take. Though he noticed something I had not…. A small paragraph at the beginning of the chapter detailed the 45 miles of off-road travel we would have to undertake before traveling between the springs. Suddenly we were much less keen to visit the mystical waterfalls and bubbling springs I had so carefully chosen. Finding a spring about two hours off the interstate which could be reached by paved roads, we altered our plans (again). (It seems almost, that it’s a game—how long can we keep a plan or arrive “on schedule” before changing our minds or realizing what’s realistic?)


Eating in Downtown Seattle


Did I mention how crowded the jeep is? We are champion packers.

Avoiding herds of mule deer and winding through dry pine forests in Southern Idaho, we parked the jeep at a small campground as directed by the book. We walked ¼ mile down the road becoming wary of the sound of a large body of rushing water which was likely to wash away our hopes which had built over the past few hours. I felt a bit meek as I was the one who had selected this spring which we had driven two hours off the route (one way) to find. The boys descended the bank on one side of the river while I crossed over tensely hoping to spot a telltale cloud of steam or step in hot water. I needn’t have looked far, because I identified small pools lined with hand built walls of river stones from the swiftly moving river fed by spring floods. Steam began to rise as if on cue and the nearly full moon reflected off the dark river water. There were no stars, but only because the moon was so brilliant. Though the spring was directly next to the road, it was 1 a.m. and we felt that there was no risk of being seen by any by passers flying through the relatively straight section of road above us. I tossed my jeans and shirt on the bank, but decided to keep my undergarments nearby just in case—after all I consider myself an experienced skinny dipper. Nick also kept his boxers on the bank next to the pool he had selected, but Quarles and Micah left their clothes next to the bridge.
We relaxed in our chosen pools, cold at times because the water was only a few inches deep so we had to lay flat to stay warm, but then jets of hot water would erupt mysteriously from the ground nearly scalding us—some awesome “geothermal shit” as the boys were fond to call it. A pair of headlights pulled up to the bridge in the midst of our peaceful bath, and we looked through the steam at each other with wide eyes wondering what we should do. I shrank down quietly, Quarles hissing that a ranger was about to bust us, while two figures emerged from the running vehicle and walked to the bridge, flashlights in hand. Shining the lights in our direction, I offered a friendly hello, but neither responded, increasing our tension—we felt a little vulnerable to say the least. They spotted the pile of clothing and quickly descended the bank toward it. Nick leapt quietly from his pool, snagged his boxers and began to run toward the mysterious party. Seeing him run toward them, the two young men sprinted for their car, but Nick was faster and accosted them before they could escape. Claiming that they were looking for their friends, they glared contemptuously, less for being unfriendly and more for being caught trying to steal innocent skinny dippers clothes. Micah and Matt were quick to leave the pools for the safety of their clothing while I figured the kids wouldn’t dare return and relaxed a bit longer in the spring…before jumping in the jeep for the overnight drive to Seattle.


Micah and his people, Downtown Seattle park next to Pike's Place Market

Micah and Matt, determined to arrive in Seattle by lunch time from the Idaho wilderness, drove through the night, downing countless energy drinks and caffeine pills and telling stories from here to the moon to stay awake. Nick and I had been more inclined to camp in Idaho and do a hot spring tour to some waterfalls the next day before driving to Washington. Though we were entirely uninterested in driving straight to Seattle, it worked out fairly enough since we slept for several hours instead of driving. Waking early, perhaps it was 7, we stopped at a gas station for oil and coffee. Ready for breakfast, Nick and I carefully selected the best ice cream: one pint of Ben and Jerry’s Brownie Batter. Delicious and nutritious, a breakfast of champions. We were ready to take over the wheel!


The Space Needle looks cooler in neon colors. Photoshop ROCKS.

Flying through the mountains of Northern Oregon and Southern Washington, we arrived in Seattle for lunch, directions to a fabulous Mexican roach coach in hand. Gorging on tacos, enchiladas, burritos, and carrots soaked in jalapenos, we rubbed our full bellies in the shade of the taco bus, El Asadero. Heading into the city, we located the Space Needle for an afternoon in the park. Realizing that it cost $16 pp to go to the top of the needle (what college student is going to pay $16 for a view?!?!) we wandered around the park, playing hacky sack and discussing our options. We decided to wander in the Science Fiction and Music Museum for a few hours—mostly so we could fire the Death Star (which I was the first to do to the chagrin and jealously of Matt Quarles). It was a bit anti-climactic, but I was drawn to the Jimi Hendrix exhibit in the music museum. The exhibit featured a mixer which allowed the user to increase or decrease the level of singing, drums, lead guitars, back up guitars, bass guitars, etc. with Purple Haze and other Hendrix favorites. It showed how Jimi would spend hours in the studio layering sounds, meticulously complex, organized chaos which made Hendrix so famous. The man was a genius.
Staying with Will Siebolt, a Piedmont graduate, we entered a world of fraternities and sororities. Will’s house was modest and well used, shared with a few other friendly University of Washington students. It was a safe haven from the chaos ensuing behind their neighbors’ doors. We arrived in the evening, relaxing in the living room for a while before heading out to explore the campus and go to some mysterious destination the housemates referred to as “Gasworks”.


The Science Fiction Museum

The walk to Gasworks was long and dusty and felt like it would never end. Traffic, broken glass, grass growing in sidewalk cracks, and desperate tension flooding from bars of college students in their last week of class trying to drown their stresses and sorrows in cheap beer and raucous talk, hoping to find love and friendship in a school of 40,000. I walked quietly behind our small group soaking in the unease and leery attentions of the fraternities and hang-outs thinking about how fortunate I am to be a part of a true community in Berea. A community brought together not only by common interest, but genuine compassion for the earth, each other, and the sake of community itself. My community and each of the individuals within my beautifully inclusive group would not be the same without Zack. We were not always as inclusive or passionate about life or food or nature. I often find myself saying “Thank you, Zack”. Thank you for bringing us closer together as a community. Thank you for your contagious excitement about EVERYTHING. Your people. Your optimism. Your passion. I attribute so much of the beauty in my life to you, the extent of which I realized only in your absence. I understand though, that you are with us in more ways than any of us comprehend.
A windy, water-side oasis, Gasworks drew me away from the fast-moving mentality of the concrete jungle. Sprinting ahead of the group up a small but steep grassy hill, I stopped at the top, breathless for a moment—though not from the run. The hill was a Zack spot. It allowed a pristine view of Puget Sound, crowned with sparkling city skyscrapers, peaked with the iconic Space Needle, and encircled by the snow-peaked Cascades. The moon illuminated white speed boats weaving through the cold choppy water. Slipping my knees into the cavity of my blue fleece I began to appreciate the 2 mile walk through Seattle’s litter strewn side-streets which lead us to this precious place. It reminded me so much of the places Zack had spoken of and shown me in Oakland—particularly the little-known overlook of the Bay area where his ashes rest.