At what point does admirable stick-to-it-iveness transform into excessive stubbornness? Where is the line between those two?
Pilgrims on the Camino love to advise people to “listen to your body,” and to not push too hard. Better to stop a little early and avoid injury than go too far and suffer the consequences. And fair enough–if we could accurately anticipate injury potential before the disaster unfolded, then it would certainly be prudent to halt our exertions in advance of that Rubicon. The problem, though, is that the body is often equal parts busybody and drama queen, actively resenting any request for strenuous activity. Listening to your body for exercise advice can sometimes be akin to listening to students about homework preferences.
A handful of miles outside of American Falls, my body was shrieking like a banshee. Not the whole thing, to be fair. But a combination of new shoes, wet shoes–still waterlogged from yesterday’s downpour despite being positioned against the heater all night–and damp socks (same story) meant that my heels were experiencing chafing early on. And because I’m an idiot, I hadn’t restocked bandages or tape when they ran low. It had been months–literally, months–since I needed these early in the trip, and so it seemed like a place to cut corners. Until, of course, they were finally needed once again, on a day when I still had another 35 miles ahead of me and zero possibility of encountering a store.
I had two options, neither of them great. I could turn back to American Falls, buy supplies, and accept that I would fall behind schedule. Or, I could tape up my heels as best I could, grit my teeth, and count on my feet to just be awesome and resilient.
Of course, I opted for the latter.
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Gabriel Lee describes the 1930s to 1960s as the “Big Dam Era,” Hydroelectric power was embraced by progressives as “white coal,” an environmentally friendly alternative to fossil fuels that would offer a cleaner, sustainable source of power and a more reliable approach to irrigation. Between 1950 and 1979, a whopping 40,000 dams were built across the US.
And now, many of them are coming down.
There are lots of reasons for this. First and foremost, just like the Baby Boomers, that golden generation of dams is showing its age. American Rivers tracks all dams in America, and by their calculations, more than 85% of our 90,000+ dams are over 50 years old. Repairs are expensive; some of these have been largely abandoned. And with extreme weather events on the rise, the risk of dam failure becomes ever more significant, an event that poses potentially dire consequences to towns in the flood zone.
There are also concerns about the impact of dams on biodiversity. Concerns about salmon populations in the Pacific Northwest have long been a topic of discussion, and with good reason. 29% of the region’s salmon have now gone extinct. American Rivers highlights a particularly egregious example from the South: “Seven dams on the Coosa River in Alabama have caused more than thirty freshwater species to go extinct – making it one of North America’s worst mass extinctions on record.” At long last, there is also some recognition of the damage done to indigenous sacred places, many of which were flooded by dam-created reservoirs, as was the case in the Fort Hall area surrounding American Falls.
Most surprising to many, though, is the adverse impact dams can have on greenhouse gasses. Hydropower generates high levels of methane, which is far more harmful than carbon dioxide. It’s not quite as green as we were led to believe.
I crossed the American Falls dam in the dark, setting out early given the long walk ahead. That dam’s not going anywhere. However, dams on the Snake River may be on the verge of becoming an endangered species in their own right. In late 2023, the Biden administration reached an agreement with six Northwest tribes to remove four dams on the lower Snake.
That said, it’s far from a done deal. In February, the Idaho legislature signed a joint memorial to express its opposition to the dam removal. The primary issue at hand is a surprising one–their concern is that Idaho’s wheat crop, destined for the export market, is reliant upon river barges for transport. Without the dams, they argue, the Snake would become unnavigable. The primarily Republican opposition also emphasizes the clean energy created by the dams. I would have thought the same. A recent study conducted by Colorado State University, found that these four dams and their reservoirs “release about 1.8 million metric tons of carbon dioxide per year. That’s equivalent to burning 2 billion pounds of coal annually.”
On one hand, there’s something potentially admirable happening here. A recognition that a mistake was made–that, as we’ve learned more about the varied consequences of river damming, we’ve needed to reevaluate some foundational assumptions and make substantial changes. On the other, though, there’s a credibility risk. It would be easy for critics on the right to look at this discussion and believe that these changes are less about the impact on climate change and more about shifting socio-cultural concerns about indigenous rights and fish. That’s not to suggest that those are bad things. Rather, there’s a perception that anything can be framed as environmentally harmful–including things that have long been hailed as clean and green. Science, in those cases, risks becoming polluted by politics.
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The Oregon Trail stuck to the south side of the Snake. Today, though, I86 has taken over that terrain. Instead, I opted for the north side, which is completely unpopulated and unpaved. Even still, this area has experienced a makeover. A century ago this was a sagebrush desert. Now, it’s rich agricultural land. The Minidoka Dam, the next breakwater on the Snake heading west from American Falls, receives the credit for this transformation. Completed in 1906, the dam’s accompanying power plant became the first federal plant in the Pacific Northwest.
The reservoir created by the dam became Lake Walcott, and the lake’s state park was my target for the day. I didn’t get to enjoy it much, tottering along as I was through a 14-hour walk, but I was still quite pleased to arrive before sunset, even if that accomplishment was only achieved by a matter of minutes. I settled in next to a picnic bench on the lakefront, the reservoir surface shimmering a silvery blue as I inhaled some tortillas and avocado. One bench over, a pack of deer munched merrily away at some recently pruned tree branches. As dusk took hold, I thought I saw a dog padding by on the footpath, so I turned on my light to check it out. Instead, I saw the chubbiest raccoon I’ve ever seen. It seemed to evaluate me for a moment, deciding if I was worth the effort, before it plodded onward towards the heart of camp.
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I only shed a few layers of skin on my heels, so it could have been worse. And fortunately, the walk from Lake Walcott State Park was lovely, first moving right alongside the lake, and then joining a canal track. The town of Rupert was just 11 miles ahead, allowing me to reach the historic town square by 9:30, in time to crash a school assembly taking place in the square. After watching all of Rupert’s students and teachers sing the anthem and deliver the pledge, I popped into a café for breakfast–my first chance at an omelet in ages.
There’s a particular genre of reporting focused on speaking with Trump supporters at diners, and I think this might have been that diner. Indeed, Rupert might be the most visibly pro-Trump town I’ve encountered on my walk. At one point, a young woman drove by in a red MAGA hat; flags adorned a number of homes and businesses. Inside the diner, two men ate at a table in Trump 2024 hats, while a group of seniors were discussing politics at the bar counter.
“If Trump could just keep his mouth shut, he’d be doing fine.”
“He’s not going to keep his mouth shut.”
“I don’t care what he did in the past; that’s between him and his wife.”
“I don’t like him, but I like his policies.”
“He’s a businessman. He’s good at that.”
“As long as I can put up my Harris-Walz sign, I’ll be fine.”
The diner fell absolutely silent after that last line, prompting the man who said it to laugh out loud, as he was clearly goading the Trump hats into a reaction. Even still, though, the discussion at the counter kept circling around, revisiting unappealing traits of Trump, underscoring their stance as independent thinkers, and articulating concerns about Kamala (“Once she said she was pro-abortion, I was done with her.”) It sounded like a group of people trying to choose between a person on their team who they dislike and a person on the other team that they wanted to dislike.
Three months ago, Democrats and Republicans were both caught in a similar position–with aging presidential candidates who were remarkably unpopular. The debate proved to be so disastrous for Biden that he simply couldn’t move forward. The Democratic Party leadership had to change their minds about Biden; rank-and-file Democrats were, on the whole, relieved and reinvigorated. Even if Harris wasn’t their top choice, which was true for many, she seemed like a representative candidate who had a plausible route to victory.
Republicans, meanwhile, remain firmly entrenched with Trump. Certainly, some are enthusiastic about this–including a number of folks here in Rupert. My sense, though, is that a substantial number of Republicans are experiencing Trump Fatigue. The difference in visible displays of support between my walks in 2019-20 and now is dramatic. That doesn’t mean they won’t vote for Trump, but the zest and zeal has diminished.
Not every Republican is Liz Cheney. American presidential politics are a zero sum game. Either the Republican or the Democrat is going to win it. And the winner might get to choose Supreme Court justices, or implement significant tax cuts, or push forward new, strict immigration policies. If you’re a Republican in this country who dislikes Trump, who maybe even finds him deplorable… it’s still a hell of a leap to change your mind about your vote.
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I hobbled into Burley in the early afternoon, footsore and with some intermittent burning on my heels. Uncomfortable as it was, I felt vindicated. I held the line, maintained my schedule, pushed through the challenges, and emerged only lightly scathed.
A funny thing happens when stubbornness goes unpunished: bad choices are validated. Potential changes are disregarded. Why do anything differently, when it all works out in the end?
Even still, though: my pack has been restocked with bandages and tape. I may not be willing to make substantial changes to my plans in the interest of comfort and care, but I can at least grab some low-hanging fruit.
