Of all the towns and cities I’ve passed through, Boise may embrace the literal Oregon Trail the most. Sure, many of the towns littered along the route have museums and pioneer-themed iconography sprinkled around, but the actual tracks followed by the pioneers are long gone, buried under tons of cement. By contrast, Boise preserves miles and miles of the historic path, starting well before the city’s southern limits.
I departed Mountain Home shortly after my 4am wake-up, which translated into nearly three full hours of walking in darkness. Some obligations in Portland had shifted my plans for the day, requiring me to walk further and faster in order to have wifi for an evening zoom call, so I powered through the miles with far greater urgency than I had required for weeks. But hey, I had new shoes, and the fit was perfect, and that provided such a sense of relief that I felt capable of anything.
The route followed by the pioneers generally makes perfect sense to me. There are three main priorities: the most westward-facing approach permitted by the geography, the flattest terrain possible, and water access. Leaving Mountain Home, though, the Oregon Trail violates the first two rules. It heads almost directly northward for a while, and it abandons the perfectly flat valley in favor of foothills. It feels gratuitous, like the kind of unnecessary suffering I might inflict on student groups on training hikes. Maybe they were bored? Admittedly, the valley–for all its golden sheen–grows monotonous after a while, and it was difficult to muster a great deal of enthusiasm for another day of yellow stubble. By contrast, the hills offered at least some faint flashes of visual diversity, like the occasional boulder field, or tightly tucked little gullies.
Of course, that highlights the key truth of route-finding for the pioneers: water access trumps all other priorities. This is dry, unrelenting terrain, but there are helpful trickles hidden amidst those hills, and they drew the wagons ever higher in pursuit of hydration. The geology shifted here, away from the volcanic rock that had become commonplace in recent days, and towards a softer sand that exploded into small clouds with each step I took, and coated me in grime when occasional trucks jolted past. Pioneers first hit Ditto Creek, but there were no guarantees. Theodore Talbot wrote in 1843 that, “This evening yellowish granite appeared in needle form fragments and masses. Country mountainous, good grass, water in the creek on which we are camped partially dried up.” I similarly found a creek that existed in name only.
Next came Bowns Creek, a more impressive sight to these modern eyes. After a prolonged ascent, the dirt road crossed a boulder field and then transitioned immediately into a sharp descent, twisting into a hidden valley, complete with a small farm. In 1851, PV Crawford was similarly pleased with what he found, writing that, “Here we found water and grass plenty, and brush for fire wood. Having had no water since we left Barrel creek we halted here for a rest.” While Blacks Creek followed, it proved to be as unreliable as Ditto, often appearing as dried out as the surrounding countryside. In sum, the pioneers opted into a lot of additional hardship in pursuit of the possibility of one of these creeks surviving deep into the summer, even though they were often disappointed. I opted instead for the trusty Arizona Iced Tea gallon jug, originally purchased in Lander three weeks ago. It would have been a different world if the pioneers had plastic.
The day’s ascent peaked at Bonneville Point, an important landmark on the Oregon Trail, and one that today hosts a small interpretive site. It’s named after Captain Benjamin Bonneville, one of the most famous explorers on the Oregon Trail, thanks to Washington Irving. When Bonneville and his team reached the point, one of the Frenchmen in his group is said to have declared, “Les bois, les bois – voyes les bois!” (The woods, the woods, see the woods!) Standing atop the point, I could well understand his enthusiasm. After so much yellow and brown for so long, I too could see those glorious trees, cutting a green line through the thirsty earth. Even better, I earned my first view of Boise, the downtown skyline popping up from the midst of those trees, along with the cliffs cut by the Boise River apparent to the east. From here, it was all downhill to Boise, following the original Oregon Trail. What was it like in the wagons as they bounded and careened down these unspooling hills, with the fertile promise of the river valley just below?
On this day, though, my thoughts weren’t on fertility–just the opposite. I couldn’t help but notice the scorched hillside, growing ever more charred as I neared the furthest outskirts of Boise. I’ve walked through plenty of burned-over areas at this point, and I lack any sort of ability to affix a timeline to the burn. Weeks, months, even years? Who knows. But still, I was caught off guard when I learned later that these hills had been ablaze just three weeks earlier, in a small conflagration known as the Plex Fire. Fortunately, though, quick action by fire crews eliminated the threat–for now, at least.
The Oregon Trail led me onward into the city center, eventually transitioning into the Boise River Greenbelt. It’s a remarkable urban accomplishment, offering a tree-lined route for walking, cycling, rafting, and all manner of other outdoor activities for 25 miles through the city center. On this Wednesday morning, I saw groups cycling together, fishermen wading hip-high into the river, dogs merrily hunting sticks flung into the water, and loads of other happy Boise residents.
While pioneers on the Oregon Trail passed through the future site of Boise as early as the 1840s, the town wasn’t founded until 1863. From that point on, Boise’s Main Street was part of the official route, with a ferry porting emigrants over the Boise River. Despite the appeal of those trees to tired travelers, it was the discovery of gold that secured Boise’s future, bringing a rush of settlers to the town in 1863, along with the construction of Fort Boise. Nothing remains of the fort today, though some handsome stone structures still line Main Street.
Of greatest interest to me in downtown Boise was the Basque Block, and I was fortunate that my hosts, Steve and Maria, led me back there after my evening presentation to the American Pilgrims group. Among the many waves of pioneers working their way westward across North America in the 19th century were Basques, coming from Spain and France. Mark Kurlansky’s Basque History of the World first introduced me to the fascinating history of the Basque people, who have always been travelers. During the Age of Exploration, Basques were deeply involved in every voyage–supplying ships, serving as crew, and bringing a great deal of seafaring knowledge. Magellan gets all the credit for the first circumnavigation of the globe, but the dude died part way through. No grit! It was a Basque, Juan Sebastián Elcano, who took over and completed the journey. Because the Basque Country is small, and property was passed down to the oldest son, younger boys had to pursue opportunities where they could, and there was plenty of that in North America–especially as sheepherders.
In time, Idaho became a haven for Basque immigrants, and today Boise has the largest Basque population outside of the Basque Country itself, numbering as many as 16,000 people. Boise’s Basque Block centers on an original Basque boarding house, built in 1910, and it also includes a bar that immediately makes one feel transported to a corner bar in Spain. The Ikurriña, the Basque flag, flies proudly up and down the street, and examples of the unique Basque language are engraved in stone up and down the block.
I was thoroughly impressed by Boise–a lively, walkable, active, and clean city. It’s easy to see why it’s one of the fastest-growing cities in America, and it wouldn’t surprise me if large numbers of folks from Portland and Seattle joined the waves of Californians pouring in.
