Story and images by Eric Walle and George Thoma
“Hey guys! How was your day?” said the mildly scruffy stranger as he turned to face us from his seat at the bar.
“I feel like we sort of came out on the losing end today,” I lamented. George looked up from his burger and fries. “Yeah, I’d rate it maybe a six out of ten at best.”
We had just had our asses thoroughly kicked by a backcountry gravel route that was hotter, steeper, rougher, and longer than we could have imagined. We were exhausted, and not in the best of moods.
“What!” The stranger said, staring at us as if we were crazy. “We don’t do sixes around here. Ya gotta do better than that. Look where you are! No bad days here. All tens.”
On some level, he was probably right. We were, after all, in Salmon, Idaho, a wonderfully rustic small town surrounded by high mountain peaks and split by one of the world’s most beautiful rivers. Sure, we had just been completely humbled by the local terrain, but in the grand scheme of things it could have been a whole lot worse. We had come to Salmon to explore its endless backcountry gravel roads. And when you’ve never ridden those roads, and there’s virtually no information available to help you plan your route, sometimes things don’t go your way. We were tired and frustrated, but at least we were back alive and staring down fresh beers at the local brewery. And getting a timely lesson in unbridled optimism from one of the locals.
My good friend and riding partner, George, and I had ridden through Salmon back in 2018, on our way from Boise to a bikepacking trip through the notorious Magruder Corridor. We thoroughly enjoyed spending a night in the lively little town and vowed then to come back and explore a bit more if we ever got the chance. Cycling, however, was not the primary reason for our return. Instead, it was my fascination with American history that brought us back to Salmon, as just thirty miles south on the continental divide is Lemhi Pass, a historically-significant spot where Meriwether Lewis reached a crucial turning point in his exploration of the Louisiana Territory and the Pacific Northwest in 1805.
After leading his Corps of Discovery some 2,600 miles upriver from St. Louis and into today’s western Montana, Lewis climbed high into the Rocky Mountains, finally reaching what he presumed to be the continental divide. As Lewis climbed the final steps into an expansive, windswept meadow and up toward the pass, his excitement must have been palpable as he hoped, somewhat optimistically, to be the first American to lay eyes on the mighty Columbia River, or perhaps even the expansive plain leading to the Pacific Ocean. One can only imagine his disappointment as he topped out at nearly 8,000 feet, only to look upon endless rows of high, snow-capped mountains still to the west.
It was a critical juncture in American history. As Lewis gazed into modern-day Idaho at that expanse of mountains, he must have realized at that instant that there was no water route or easily-navigable land passage from the east to the Pacific Ocean. The fundamental goal of the Corps of Discovery was never going to be realized. It would have made perfect sense for Lewis to round up his men, march back east, and deliver the bad news to a waiting President Jefferson. After all, his Corps were exhausted and nearly starving, he had no horses to carry their equipment over the high mountains, and he was deep into territory belonging to natives who had no previous contact with white men.
Against all good judgement, and despite the imminent dangers he knew he would face, Captain Lewis decided to press on westward, ultimately cementing the United States’ grip on possession of the Pacific Northwest, and dramatically changing the course of history for an entire continent.
As a student of history and lover of the mountains, I’ve always wanted to visit that spot, to see what Meriwether Lewis saw on that fateful day in 1805. After re-reading Undaunted Courage, Stephen E. Ambrose’s excellent account of Lewis and Clark’s journey, this past spring, I casually looked up Lemhi Pass to see if it was accessible. Five minutes of research revealed that there was a gravel, round-trip byway designed and maintained specifically for that purpose. In fact, it could be driven in a passenger car with reasonable clearance. And, if it could be driven, I thought, it most certainly could be ridden…
At only thirty-six miles in total length, The Lewis and Clark Backcountry Byway seemed like an ideal ride for a past-his-prime cyclist who loves history and exploration. There were wild rivers and streams, high mountain meadows and forests, smooth gravel, and best of all, history markers and didactic panels along the route! For a history nerd, it was almost too good to be true. Of course, we could have simply driven the route. But, to ride it was to share in some of the excitement, curiosity, and exhaustion that the men of the Corps of Discovery felt as they neared the 7800’ pass 220 years ago. And, as is the case with nearly all exploratory backcountry gravel riding, we would undoubtedly share some of the frustration and disappointment they felt, as well.
One thing that makes (and keeps) the town of Salmon so unique is its relative isolation. It’s not really on the road to anywhere, and you have to make a concerted effort to wind up there. Since the drive northeast from Boise to Salmon would be a hefty five hours through endless mountains and river valleys, George and I scoured our maps to see if we could add a few more days of backcountry riding to the mix. What we quickly discovered was a backcountry road network so vast and remote, that it’s difficult to even choose where to begin. And, while Salmon is generally known as a river town that provides access to countless miles of remote whitewater, its abundance of backcountry gravel routes is even more impressive. If you are a dedicated gravel rider with a thirst for adventure, there may not be another spot in the country that rewards your efforts like Salmon, Idaho.
At a glance, the numbers are downright staggering. The surrounding Salmon-Challis National Forest boasts 4.3 million acres of forest and wilderness, with hundreds of trails linked together by over three thousand miles of forest service roads ranging from champagne gravel to rocky double-track routes that will test the efficacy of any chamois. Small subranges of the Bitterroot Mountains fan out southward from Salmon like talons, and a fit and ambitious bikepacker could spend weeks linking up backcountry routes without ever riding the same road twice. Since we only had ambition on our side we decided to base our rides out of Salmon daily, allowing us to pack lightly and truly enjoy the sensations the forest roads could provide, while taking advantage of Salmon’s culture each night upon our return.
And, here’s the thing about Salmon: it’s awesome. This mountain town of just over three thousand residents flies under the radar for all but a handful of folks seeking adventure each summer on the Salmon River’s famous whitewater. The river culture here is unmatched and the overall vibe is unpretentious and as authentic as can be. The locals are friendly and welcoming - a common trait for a working town that has yet to be overrun by tourists. High mountain peaks are visible in every direction, and the town’s main street has a classic aesthetic complete with old red brick buildings, dive bars, and an endless array of small business storefronts featuring oversized wooden recreations of the area’s abundant wildlife. Look in any direction from the center of town, and you will likely see multiple murals, carvings, and sculptures of the town’s namesake fish. Salmon are everywhere. We didn’t look very hard, but the only place we didn't see salmon was in the river.
The Lewis and Clark Backcountry Byway was the route we tackled first, establishing a pattern that we would repeat for the next couple days: head south along either the Lemhi River or Salmon River, find a road that follows a creek into a canyon, climb for miles on loose gravel through hot and exposed sagebrush country, climb some more, top out on a high, forested ridge, follow that ridge until exhausted or confused or both, find a rideable route back to the original river valley, fight afternoon headwinds back to town.
Each climb out of the valley was extremely long and generally steep. These roads are old and originally built for extraction, without much thought given to gradient, erosion, or tired cyclists trying to crawl their way to the top. Switchbacks are rare, and consistent grades over ten percent are common. The Bitterroots are definitely two chainring territory. Though difficult, all the climbs were truly beautiful, featuring a wide range of flora and geographical features that changed dramatically and often as our elevation increased. Each day we climbed more than 4000 vertical feet and topped out on rolling, forested ridges that were often 8000 feet or higher, allowing us amazing views of the surrounding river valleys and high, snow-capped peaks of the mountains to the west.
Late June in Idaho can be hot, even in the high country, and it’s impossible to carry enough water to sustain this kind of riding. Fortunately, there was also still plenty of water to filter in the numerous roadside creeks, which we did often. Other than our goal of reaching Lemhi Pass, we started our rides with no established agendas or timelines, allowing us to stop and explore whenever we wanted. Idaho summer days are long, and since we were in no hurry, we usually made sandwiches or wraps in the morning and stopped creekside to eat rather than relying solely on packaged energy food for sustenance. For a current or former bike racer, this style of riding can take a legitimate mental adjustment. However, the rewards are worthwhile, as the mountains of central Idaho are filled with interesting artifacts, old structures, hot springs, and grassy meadows around every bend. They beg you to stop and explore, or perhaps, to just take a nap.
Way-finding in the Bitterroots can be tough, however, as signage, when it exists, is most often old and illegible, and roads and trailheads can often be overgrown from lack of traffic. The backcountry territory here is vast and we saw virtually no other people. We did, on two occasions, encounter prairie rattlesnakes warming themselves on the road, one instantly rising up and assuming a striking posture when I moved in for a better look. Given the remote nature of the territory, taking our time, being aware, and making smart decisions seemed like a good idea.
We didn’t always make smart decisions. Upon reaching a high ridge at Williams Creek Summit in the Salmon Mountain Range, we realized that our escape route to the north was too many miles away and involved too much climbing for us to endure in our shared exhausted state. From memory, we knew that there was potentially a trail called Powderhouse Gulch to the south which circled back toward our starting point and was only a couple miles away over a short (but steep, rocky, and terrible) climb on the ridge road. Initially missing the trailhead as we descended down the ridge, we doubled back and climbed again to find an ancient and rotted wooden sign in the weeds that we assumed marked the nearly non-existent trailhead. After thirty seconds of deliberation we rode through the grass, into the woods, and headed down a barely-visible singletrack.
Twenty seconds later I was cursing and regretting our decision as George left me in the dust on a rocky, twisty, eight-inch-wide singletrack that plummeted nearly two thousand feet over the first two miles. At one point the trail was so steep and loose that the only way to ride it was to lock up the rear wheel completely and perform a controlled skid while hoping that a rock drop didn’t catapult you over the bars. We were definitely pushing the limits of what gravel bikes are intended to do - truly the type of riding that is only fun when you rehash it a few days later. 
Each day of riding brought new adventures, and the fun and excitement of finding out what was around the next bend heavily outweighed any negative results of poor decision making. In fact, much of the riding was on roads maintained by the Forest Service that receive almost no vehicle traffic - not even ATVs - making washboard surfaces and brake bumps rare, and smooth, fast descents the norm. There’s just so much to like about riding gravel in central Idaho. The canyons, roadside creeks, and wide open meadows are beautiful, as are the views of the state’s highest peaks in the distance. There is literally nobody out there, and the forests in the Bitterroots are thick and dark, adding a satisfyingly creepy feel that would make M. Night Shyamalan feel at home. And, perhaps best of all, the town of Salmon is waiting for you at the end of each ride, complete with huge meals, tasty beers, unsolicited, but friendly conversation, and, of course, a refreshingly chilly swim in the River of No Return.
Oh, and what was it like for a self-described history buff to reach storied Lemhi Pass? Frankly, after sixteen miles of hard climbing my initial feeling was one of relief. While George ate the last few bites of his wrap, I collapsed in the grass and closed my eyes for a few minutes. When I finally sat up and looked around, I was overtaken by the natural beauty of this historic place. The pass is an enormous expanse of meadow, filled with a multitude of tiny wildflowers and grass and surrounded by dense forest. There was no wind, and in the strange quiet, looking to the west at the high Bitterroot peaks and the Lemhi River valley 4000 feet below, it felt like we might be the only two people on earth. Overwhelmed by the moment, I barely thought of Lewis and Clark at all.
If You Go -
Lodging: The Stagecoach Inn offers a rustic, river-side setting with reasonable room rates. The staff are used to hosting whitewater enthusiasts, motorcyclists, and backcountry travelers, so they don’t blink when you haul your dirty bike up to your room each night. It’s a pleasant five-minute walk across the river to food, drink, and the local outdoor shop. Bonus: a large, shaded lawn behind the hotel, complete with river views and umbrella tables and chairs, is the perfect place for post-ride beers and relaxation.
Food and Drink: Salmon is not a tourist town, but there are enough restaurants and watering holes to keep you going. Junkyard Bistro is a comfort food mecca featuring casual bar or outdoor seating with a small selection of beer and wine. Bertram’s Salmon Valley Brewery offers craft brews and pub fare in a lively barroom setting. Highlander Beer features local craft beers and decent house-made pizza by the slice in a sparse, modern setting with seating indoors or out. Odd Fellows Bakery is, by far, the best morning stop for coffee and a pastry. Worn wood floorboards, a stamped tin ceiling, and a creaky loft stairway will make you feel like you are in a sixties folk cafe rather than in blue-collar Salmon.
Bike Things: The Hub is your one-stop shop for a quick repair or to pick up that one important item you left at home. It’s a quick walk or ride from the Stagecoach Inn, but hours can be tricky if you are spending long days on the bike. Bonus: The Hub was literally opening their new tap room and beer garden the day after we left town. Booo! But also yay!
Routes: Though the Lewis and Clark Backcountry Byway is already a known entity, we purposefully kept our other routes to ourselves, as any truly great gravel adventure starts with beers and maps and figuring it all out on your own.
Equipment: George and I both used tried and true equipment, apparel, and accessories. Given the remote and uncrowded nature of our routes, we didn’t want to take any chances using items we didn’t trust one-hundred percent. George rode a Lynskey titanium gravel bike with a Shimano GRX group and Ultegra carbon wheels. I rode an ENVE MOG with ENVE AG25 carbon wheels and a GRX group. We both ran double chainrings and were glad we did. 40c gravel tires were a nice compromise - providing just enough grip and cushion on gravel roads and trails, while not feeling like lead when there was an asphalt approach to our rides. Other than one soft tire, we had no mechanical issues.
Apparel: We chose CAPO’s cargo bibs, as they provide durability and support and have a refined chamois that is great for long saddle days. The added utility of quick-access pockets is a gravel game changer. Since we had storage in our bibs and bike bags and didn’t need jersey pockets, we wore CAPO’s terrific Super Corsa Tech T. Light, vented, quick-drying, and super comfortable, this casual jersey was perfect for the occasion. Like we have for the last decade, we wore CAPO’s fingerless gloves and socks, because we like them best. For comfort and reliability, we both wore Shimano gravel shoes and Lazer Z1 helmets.
Accessories: Road Runner Burrito Supreme handlebar and top tube bags were all we needed to handle a few tools, emergency tubes, food, and the ever-important compact water filter. We love Road Runner’s stuff.