Izaak Opatz — writer, musician, artist, and Climate Ride guide — shares his take on our recent Idaho Hot Springs Gravel ride, which, after a sunny start, got hit by a late-season stretch of cold rain. It’s honest about how rough some of those days were. But as anyone who’s ridden through weather like this knows, the soggy, shivering days are often the ones you remember best — and the hot springs waiting at the end of them taste that much sweeter. If you know Izaak, you know. And you’ve heard his unique voice singing lullabies for single people. Read on for his full trip report.
Curious about our other gravel tours from mellow to intermediate to advanced? Check out our post: Green, Blue, Black: A Ski-Run Guide to Our Climate Ride Gravel Tours
DAY ONE / North Fork to McDonald Flat
A lot of things characterized the Idaho Gravel 2026 ride – hot springs, rain, surprisingly good spirits despite the rain, great food – but the first thing I noticed was that the three male riders on the trip were all named John.
I picked two of them up at their hotels and joined the third John and four other riders (Moira, Kendal, Delta, and Liz) and two leaders at Patrick’s house, where they were drinking coffee, getting acquainted, and referring nervously to the week’s rain-filled weather forecast.
After all the bikes and bags were loaded, we began the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Missoula, Montana to our starting point in North Fork, Idaho. It was a sunny day, with just wisps of cloud stretching high above the Bitterroot Valley.
We parked at the North Fork store and stepped out into the sudden heat. Riders used the bathroom, bought last-minute gear and beer, filled their water bottles, crammed their pockets with Starbursts and energy gummies, stripped down or changed into their riding clothes, and, after a quick run-down of the route by Patrick, set out due west on the paved Salmon River Road.
At one point, the plan was for this road to span the full 150 miles between North Fork and Riggins, Idaho, close to where our ride would end six days later. CCC crews worked from 1933 to 1941 from both sides to carve a road bed along the steep-sided Salmon River canyon. The project was dubbed by some, “The Road To Nowhere” and seen as impractical, but construction only halted after American involvement in World War Two.
The first 20 miles of riding was pleasant and rolling, a perfect way to get reacquainted with being back on a bike. I, however, realized within the first pedal stroke that I’d forgotten to bring my Brooks saddle to use with my rental bike, and fumed at myself for the next 45 minutes as my sit bones banged and bruised against the hard, narrow seat. The only traffic was the odd van or truck towing a trailer of rafts downstream to the put-in, or heading back upstream with its trailer empty. Without ceremony, the pavement turned to gravel and would remain so for the next 90 mile
The group must have been full of adrenaline and/or enthusiasm because, despite starting just a few minutes behind, I couldn’t catch up until the first water stop, where Patrick had parked the van and set up a table with snacks and water in the shade of a large Ponderosa pine. Everyone chattered and cracked jokes, I whined about my seat despite promising myself I wouldn’t, and soon we all got on our bikes and resumed pedaling.
At lunch, we stopped for sandwiches picked up from Grist bakery in Missoula that morning. Delta got into the river for the first of many no-nonsense dips in the Salmon and other rivers and creeks along the route.
The day’s climb began just after lunch, when our route turned south off the Salmon River and began gradually rising as it followed Panther Creek upstream. Our stomachs full of bread and water, we started slowly.
The south-facing slope to our left was covered with trees blackened by 2022’s Moose Fire, contrasted against green bunchgrasses, rabbitbrush and sage, and the creek to our right ran loudly with runoff through a flat of cottonwoods and tall alder bush. We climbed and climbed, songbirds flitting overhead, larger raptors occasionally drifting higher above, like lofted ash. Conversation bubbled when the road flattened and tapered off when it pitched up again.
At the final water stop, we cooled down in another Ponderosa’s shade and filled our water bottles, and Patrick gave us directions to our camp that night at MacDonald Flat. We were approaching an area known as Cobalt that’s been mined periodically for the metal since the late 1800s. At our final left turn we would cross Blackbird Creek, polluted a sick coppery color from the Jervois Cobalt Mine nine miles upstream. “Follow the clean water,” Patrick told us.
We camped along Panther Creek at McDonald Flat campground, amid mountains carpeted with live pine trees, beyond the reach of the Moose Fire’s scar. Cold beers were fetched out of the cooler, damp bike shorts exchanged for dry layers. For dinner, we wolfed down rice bowls with grilled veggies, soy-marinated soft-boiled eggs, and grilled steelhead salmon (from Idaho!).
In the van that morning, the riders had composed a bingo sheet of things they hoped to see over the course of the ride, including, to wit: a moose, a pack rafter, stars, a waterfall, a white bark pine, and a bike packer, among other things. When it was reported that a real, live bike packer was camped in another site at McDonald Flat, several riders moseyed over surreptitiously to get a look.
That evening, thunderheads rose over the ridge to the north, bruising the sky as the sun set, and thunder echoed from adjacent valleys, but the rain we kept expecting held off. For now.
DAY TWO / McDonald Flat to Mill Creek Mormon Bend
The ride today continued up the gradually-but-constantly climbing Panther Creek Road, where, at one point, riders had to squeeze past a mass of cows herded down the road by a cowboy on horseback.
The first water stop was at Morgan Summit, where Panther Creek petered out and Morgan Creek, heading south, began. Riders identified penstemon, lupine, and other wildflowers at the top before filling up water bottles, cramming a banana, reapplying sunscreen, and rolling down the descent toward Challis, a smooth gravel road loping 17 miles downhill through wide, open valleys full of sagebrush and narrow, rocky gorges that pinch together against the road before opening up again. I was driving the van, but whenever I stopped and turned the engine off, “woo-hoos” could be discerned against the austere vastness of the plain.
After more than 24 hours of gravel living, reacquainting with pavement where Morgan Creek met Highway 93 was a double-edged sword – agreeable smooth road surface, obnoxious rushing traffic. It was enough exposure to savor the gravel again when the route hopped off the highway a few miles down, on a backroad toward the small agricultural town of Challis, Idaho.
After a lunch of bahn mi sandwiches, cold mini-sodas and chips at a city park, the riders got hyped for the final 14 miles of the day. Not a huge distance, but it would cover the most intense climbing yet, grinding up a paved road out of town and then zig-zagging up a steep mound called, ominously, Big Hill. Just across the valley from Big Hill is the single-tow Chipmunk Ski Hill, where a lift ticket can be bought for five dollars during those few weeks each winter it has enough snow to operate.
But a mile before the Big Hill climb began in earnest, we passed a large digital display proclaiming ‘Custer Motorway Closed’. Helpfully, a Custer County Sheriff passed by just as we were making sense of that message, and he confirmed it – the road, just before our planned campground for the night, was being resurfaced and was closed to All Traffic.
After a quick look at the atlas, Patrick formulated an alternative plan – those that wanted could attack the Big Hill for the next 45 minutes, then everybody would turn around by three o’clock and meet back at the thrift store in Challis (a hidden gem). We’d soak at Challis Hot Springs and shuttle to a campground up the Salmon River that would put us in a position to ride an alternative loop to the next day’s destination of Stanley.
Over the coming rainy and cold days, we would refer frequently to the not-so-distant-past when we soaked in hot springs waters of 101 degrees Fahrenheit on an 84-degree day. Our group took over one end of the pool at Challis Hot Springs and, with a Mormon family splashing around nearby, Kendal neglected to moderate her volume as she talked about her graduate studies on cannibalism, including how similar human flesh is to pork.
DAY THREE / Mormon Bend to Stanley
To begin today’s ride, we pedaled back up the highway a few miles under grey skies in single file to the turnoff for Basin Creek, where a negligible two-track traversed the right-hand slope just above the narrow valley. It felt like a perfect place to spot a moose but the only animals we saw were robins and a couple of #van-lifers.
As the road looped back toward the southwest, we had to ford Kelly Creek, shouldering our bikes and tenderfooting it through the ice-cold water. I strained to keep my face from contorting too ghoulishly in front of the clientele, while Delta, who had packed her sandals, practically Jesused across.
We popped out onto the well-graded Kelly Creek Road, where the champagne gravel fizzing beneath our tires made it feel like a highway. The road climbed to a promontory point and we got our first glimpse of the Sawtooth Mountains standing in granite echelon against an invasion of surging rainclouds from the south. We pulled our rain gear out as a steady downfall began. Liz spotted sandhill cranes, and Jamaica met us in the parking lot at Stanley Lake with a carafe of still-hot coffee from the morning.
Afterwards, we biked the highway to Stanley and down the Pioneer Park bike path leading to Redfish Lake, where some riders ordered hot toddies at the lodge before meeting Jamaica for a well-timed lunch of hot soup and cheese sandwiches along the shore of the lake.
At this point, we were soaked and the temperature was dropping. The staggeringly beautiful Sawtooth Mountains were obscured by low clouds. But we would be staying at a hotel in Stanley that night, where hot showers, hot springs, and laundry beckoned – on our ride back, perhaps motivated by such luxuries, some riders (Jon Brandt) exhibited surprising reserves of energy and speed hitherto unknown.
We lucked out with a window of sunshine right around dinner – souvlaki chicken with grilled veggies, tzatziki, and rice. Patrick’s aunt and uncle drove up from Sun Valley to join us, and his uncle (insanely rounding out the group as the fourth John) chatted with us about his work with Idaho Rivers United, a local nonprofit working to protect the Salmon River and its fish.
That evening, the group soaked at the hotel’s private hot springs, inside a three-walled shelter on the banks of Valley Creek whose open wall faced southwest, where the Sawtooth Range pinkened in the alpenglow. It would be the last sunset this group ever saw.
DAY FOUR / Stanley to Bear Valley
It was still raining the next morning, but with only about 40 flattish miles to cover to camp we had time to wait it out and, with the Stanley Baking Company a short walk away, a good reason to. The breakfast spot is as much a draw as the area’s craggy peaks and whitewater rafting, with its great pastries, oddly standout oatmeal pancakes and appealing granola-mom ambiance. We milked the bottomless drip coffee, ate our weight in pancakes, and reveled in the smattering of cold rain at the windows.
And by the time we all got out of our rooms, packed up our bikes, layered up, and filled bottles, the rain quit and there were even blue cracks in the gray sky.
I led the group back down the highway to Lower Stanley, where I, stubbornly relying on memory alone, missed the turn onto Nip-and-Tuck Road, which peeled off to the west and threaded through another narrow valley before climbing up a rise. We regrouped and were caught by a trio of lycra-suited mountain bikers, and Kendal wasted no time in organizing a congratulatory tunnel of Climate Riders for them to sheepishly ride through, a lá a summit finish at Le Tour.
We bid goodbye to our last panoramic view of the Sawtooths and pointed our wheels downhill, winding down for a few miles on car-less roads, with mustard-colored granite gravel effervescing under our tires. We crossed Stanley Creek and turned onto a farm road, cranking a handful of miles along the valley bottom, spotting more sandhill cranes in the fields, keeping an eye out for pronghorn.
Patrick had prepared us for a creek crossing this morning, but someone had chainsawed a six-inch-wide tread along the top of a fallen tree, providing a dry crossing for those able to nimble across it in cleats while shouldering their bike. Which turned out to be everyone but me and one other rider. We gritted our teeth through the piercing cold and only very subconsciously hoped someone would slip off the log. At the first water stop, Pat met us with pickles and a carafe of hot chocolate, not a duo you’d think to crave, but that oddly hit the spot.
After threatening all morning, the rain finally began to spill out of the clouds, cold darts on our arms and necks, just before a lunch of sushi handrolls. The sun came out again while we ate, but the dark wall of clouds to the northwest – where we would be riding – made clear it was a passing thing.
Those clouds opened up as we began climbing the small pass out of lunch, enough that no one really wanted to stick around at the top. Snow was visible a few hundred feet above the road, and Patrick said the thermometer in the van showed 37 when he came over. I put on a dry layer before plunging down, pedaling a big ring just to stay warm, pelted by a cold, steady rain that in its buck-shot texture threatened to make the jump to snow or hail at any moment. I hoped the loss of elevation would help, but it remained stubbornly cold and inarguably wet even after the road flattened out. I caught up to Jon Brandt and John Metz and we ploughed nonverbally through the rain and potholes to Bear Valley Campground.
When we stayed at this camp last year, bugs and sunburn had been our main concerns. Riders pumped up inner tubes and took turns floating the few bends of Bear Valley Creek from the bridge to the campground, sipping beers and expressing gratitude at the coolness of the water. This time, we huddled under pop-up tents, dodging discharges of rain from the roof, and changed into dry clothes in the van. Pat made hot water for tea and I started a fire that limped along in the rain.
When it came time to figure out the best method for putting tents, the riders came up with an ingenious solution that not only kept the tents dry but also kept everyone moving and their spirits up. They decided to help put each tent together under the pop-up so that it would be assembled with the fly on before it was brought out into the rain. This method also led to the joyous, borderline manic, discovery of Moira’s wallet (in her tent), which had gone missing days before.
After this was done, the pop-up tent was moved over to the fire, where the riders annihilated a bottle of George Dickel. Pat, Jamaica, and I made and delivered pizzas to the waiting riders, who ate standing up in a circle surrounding the table, devouring them as they arrived, in incredibly good spirits. The rain never stopped. The group migrated back to the fire, drying gloves and socks, and I went to bed to the sound of drizzle.
DAY FIVE / Bear Valley to Burgdorf
It was still cold and actively raining the next morning, and everyone steeled themselves for a wet, uncomfortable ride. Pat scrapped the day’s planned route over Lick Creek Summit, which tops out at around 7000 feet and resembles the slabby granite of Yosemite’s high country. The forecast was lousy, and the van and trailer wouldn’t have been able to support the riders on that section of road. Instead, they would begin riding right out of camp, following an undulating section of two-track through a starkly beautiful burned forest.
I was scheduled to drive the van, and tried not to look too happy about it as riders finished breakfast, pulled on their not-quite-dry riding clothes and stuffed toe- and hand-warmers into their shoes and gloves. But it wasn’t long before I saw them quickly warm up and recall, as they swooped the turns and bombed the hills, how much more fun riding a bike is than bumping along a rough road in a car. By the time I stopped at the beginning of the day’s first climb to resupply them with snacks and water, everyone was in good spirits.
The climb was no joke, contouring through avalanche paths into the alpine zone, leveling off in enough passable facsimiles of a summit before the actual top to be demoralizing. But everyone made it more or less in the same group, wolfed down some peanut butter and huckleberry jelly sandwiches on top, practiced the sneakily difficult ‘boot dance’ (because it’s in a ⅘ time signature?) before a short descent to a flat stretch of high-country riding that felt, in late June, eerily winterlike.
The road switched to pavement just before the short climb to Warm Lake Summit, where I passed Kendal tractoring through a veil of large, heavy snowflakes. I lowered the van window and tried to think of something funny and encouraging to say, but all I came up with was the doltishly obvious, “It’s snowing!” She gave me a silent thumbs up.
I set up lunch at Warm Lake Lodge, at the bottom of a swooping, plunging descent that, in dry and warm weather is a dopamine-inducing exercise in gravity, aerodynamics and centrifugal force, but today was just an especially piercing, teeth-chattering few miles to be endured before lunch. Kendal arrived stiff and shivering, and I started the van and blasted the heat so she could warm up. All of the riders came in chilled and wet, and when Pat arrived he announced we would be bagging the final few miles, instead shuttling to Burgdorf Hot Springs outside of McCall, where the riders would be staying in cabins within a few dozen slipper steps of an Olympic-sized gravel-bottomed pool of 113°F water. Praise be.
DAY 6 / Burgdorf to Alison Creek Picnic Area
Today’s ride was a treat, the perfect reward for making it through the previous days’ cold trials. Some riders snuck in one last soak before suiting up, enjoying some blueberry pancakes and sausages for breakfast, and heading out into a drizzle so reduced relative to earlier days’ drenchings it might as well have been sunshine.
A gradual 800-foot climb out of Burgdorf delivered us to the rim of the main Salmon River canyon. It would be an 18-mile descent to the river below, on a small two-track road whose tight turns Pat designated a ‘no-fall zone’.
At the top, some of us stopped to add layers at a turnout where a couple of men who’d just come up the hill on Jeeps and buggies gave us sidelong glances. It was cold, probably high forties, and still raining. I’d been riding with Jon Brandt, who chose not to stop. “Get me off this fucking mountain,” he said, before rolling out of sight.
For the first few miles, the granite gravel made a wet paste in spots that made bike handling feel almost like spring skiing. The forest transitioned from lodgepole pines near the top to firs and cedars as we dropped, then finally flattened and climbed slightly for a mile as the road traversed out of a gully to a slope facing out into the main canyon.
The canyon yawned wide through patchy fog, accentuating the vastness of the span. At certain points, we looked down and saw the road zigzagging below us from one hairpin bend to the next like one of those tight Alpine roads on a climbing stage of the Tour de France. The air was getting warmer, the rain had finally stopped, and the descent just kept going down, down, down…
I caught up with Jon Brandt happily taking pictures and gushing about the descent, a man transformed from the chilled rider at the top of the hill, impatient to get this ride over with. We rode together as the road dropped into the forest and one final hairpin put it alongside French Creek, noisy from the rains and full to the brim before it flushed into the main Salmon River. At the junction with the Salmon River road, Jon and I shook out our hands, cramped from squeezing the brakes for the past 50 minutes, and exchanged an ebullient high-five in spite of ourselves.
We found Kendal and the two other Johns at the Manning Crevice bridge, and eventually regrouped with the rest of the riders who arrived unscathed and similarly elated at the long descent. We pedaled the final few miles as a peloton to a pull-out along the river, where Jamaica had set out fried chicken, pasta salad, and drinks, including John Hearne’s favorite post-ride guzzle, 2% chocolate milk. We changed and piled into the van, and made the long haul back to Missoula, continuing to follow the paths of rivers all the way home.
- Words and Images by Izaak Opatz