Discovering Craters of the Moon, a cinder garden, the Inferno Cone, and Number Hill.
Looks like I wasn’t finished with Idaho just yet. Our host in Sun Valley told us that, rather than get back on the main highway, we should take Route 26 to see the Craters of the Moon. These were different, apparently, from the craters of the actual moon, which we could see every night — albeit from a very great distance.
Thousands of years ago, a series of massive volcanic eruptions along the Great Rift — a 52-mile-long crack in the Earth’s crust — produced a pristine, intact landscape of young basaltic flows in southern Idaho. I can’t quite tell the difference between craters, cones, and fissures, but this place has all three.
You can see the scarring of the landscape as you drive closer. Some hills are covered in trees and greenery; others, presumably in the ancient splatter zone, have large portions blacked out by volcanic residue.
There is no mountainous volcano to blame — or to thank, rather. All of this terrain came spilling out of the ground.
Everywhere along the singed ground are these tiny white plants. The nearby sign calls it a “cinder garden.” They’re an especially resilient variant of dwarf buckwheat, evolved to withstand scorching summer heat, winter snow, and mighty winds year-round. Leaves are white to reflect, not absorb, the sun’s killer rays.
Hike the Inferno Cone, a night-black barren cinder slope, if you dare. The winds may knock you off into the wilderness below. (A park ranger is stationed at the top with an anemometer to inform you just how hazardous your trek was.) I dared to try.
It’s a tough climb, but the view from the peak is worth your while. Again, be careful not to fly off.
Somehow, throughout this haunted landscape, various plants and trees have found a way to push their heads through the hardened lava. It makes for a stirring contrast.
When we left, we headed farther south toward the Idaho border. There isn’t a ton to pause for along the way, but one sight caught my eye.
Every year since 1920, the graduating class of Butte High School, in the town of Arco, whose population is under a thousand, has climbed the nearby mountain to commemorate their achievement. It used to be called Wildcat Mountain. Now, it’s called Number Hill. See if you can tell why they changed it.
That’s right. There are 107 class numbers painted on this mountain, each one roughly 50 to 200 feet tall. Those in the twenties have finally begun to show up twice. A century from now, there should be two of everything.
We didn’t make it far out of Idaho but just far enough to begin a new adventure. Does anyone know how to get a beer around here?
ADDENDUM: To celebrate the 250th, my mother and I have begun shouting “Flag!” anytime we see an American flag along our drive. It has to be an actual flag — not just a print — but can be any size and displayed in any manner. The farther we get from California, the more frequent do our flag sightings become. (Gas prices have gone in the opposite direction. We just found the first station selling for under $4.00!)
This is an installment in a cross-country road-trip adventure.