Stanley
Stanley is a massive mountain town tucked beneath the jagged embrace of the Sawtooth Mountains. Despite its grandeur, it holds a population that barely crests 119 in the off-season, swelling only slightly in summer with the arrival of dirtbag raft guides and seasonal wanderers. There’s no boundary between the road and the sidewalk because there are no sidewalks. No pavement either, except for highway 21 running through it, all other streets embrace the timeless tradition of gravel.
Founded in 1919 and named after Captain John Stanley, a gold prospector who passed through the region decades earlier, Stanley began as a waypoint for miners chasing veins of silver and gold through the nearby Yankee Fork. Then later, as logging and ranching took hold, it quietly evolved into a basecamp for outdoor explorers, fishermen, and those simply trying to breathe a little easier.
With our nighttime visitors on the forefront of our awareness, today was for preparation. Since mice are nocturnal, there was no hunting that could be done during the day except the hunting down of mouse traps, which we found at the town’s one-stop-shop, the Mountain Village Mercantile, equal parts grocery store, hardware supplier, gas station and camping outfitter, serving as the town’s pulse, humming softly beneath the mountains. Afterwards, we made our way to Stanley Baking Co. & Café, what could be argued the warm, woody heart of the town.
The café looked like it was built with Paul Bunyan in mind, vaulted ceilings held up by thick, exposed logs, hewed and lacquered to a smooth amber shine. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods mingled with sweet mountain breeze drifting through the screen door, whose hinge squeaked and frame clapped shut each time someone passed through. Cups of coffee in local hand-thrown ceramic mugs stood like tall stumps before the patrons, its steam catching the morning light through the classic, 4-pane cabin style windows.
The seating was arranged by instinct more than logic, a sort of organized chaos that balanced itself. A smooth granite, diner style counter that seated 5-6 people comfortably looked into the kitchen, behind them, stand alone tables with rustic, sturdy wooden chairs, hewed and lacquered like their grandparent logs above them. A few booths hugged the far wall.
With out bellies full and mouse traps purchased, we followed a forest service road just north of town that winded its way up to a good thousand feet before bestowing a multitude of free campsites overlooking Stanley and the Sawtooth range. We chose one that was apparently so breathtaking, that just before sunset, as the sawtooths were being glazed with the sweet nectar of the golden hour rays, a small army of SUVs pulled up next to our site and from them emerged a bunch of nerdy looking older gentleman, clad in REI hiking attire and armed with comically large camera lens. The ringleader approached us, camera swinging from his neck like a pendant of authority.
“mind if we shoot a few frames?” he asked like a proud toddler who finally learned how to wipe his ass. “I’m a photography tour guide and this here is the spot I took all these pictures” he finished, whipping out his phone and showing us photos taken from this very spot, each one just slightly different from the last.
“Yep, its called Alpine glow, looks like cotton candy don't it? It’s rare. Only happens when the water molecules suspended in the air hit the fading light just right” he explained, pausing on a photo.
“Well i better get going, show these folks a thing or two about how to take a picture” he finally finished, giving us a wink.
He had them spread like a tactical team of marines, shutters clicking in manic bursts. The sound filled the hillside like a swarm of digital cicadas. They fired off a few hundred shots, crouched down, fired off a few hundred more, stepped to the right, and did it all again. We listened as they murmured to each other about aperture, shutter speed, focal length, how does one get laid. The guide scurried from one guy to the next, give a few tips, quick hump their leg and tell them what an amazing shot they just took. This circus lasted until we finished cooking dinner.
“Dinner time huh, what are ya having? Looks like grilled cheese. Oh yea, i know a grilled cheese when i see one. Well, we didn't get the shot, photography is much more than having a nice camera, you really gotta know the settings.” he finished with an air of noble aristocracy.
With mousetraps baited, loaded with cheese and tucked away throughout Ravie, we hit the hay. The sound of shutters still echoed faintly throughout the forest behind us and the Sawtooths reduced to a jagged silhouette on the horizon ahead. All that was left to do was wait. For sleep, and maybe, hopefully, the snap of a mouses vertebrae.
As always, we got a late start for out hike, but who else is going to slowly enjoy that morning poo?? We ended up getting burt as fuck, one of those sunburns that lasts a full week, but found some snow we were shooting for up in the alpine valleyas we reached Sawtooth Lake, cradled beneath the jagged spires of Mount Regan.
