Neither Stevie, nor J.C. was winded and pointing to the spring fed streams that braided the Lost River Valley below J.C. asked, “Have you ever fished the Lost?”

“Once. Most of it’s private property. I count myself lucky to be invited.”

He nodded.  “That’s why it still holds huge rainbows.”

There was no need to add how Idaho was changing or how the honey holes that we’d fished, or hunted, would soon be hidden behind barbered wire fences and No Trespassing signs.  And rather than mourning a future when I’d find a fly fisherman casting to a secret, spring feed pool, we were grateful to have the mountain to ourselves.

Bending to the grade, one step at a time, we followed the ridge route until we reached the famous, or lately, more infamous Chicken Out Ridge.  That morning it bore a sobriquet for danger.  Narrow, rocky, blanked with snow on both the west and east faces, one misstep could result in serious injury or, in the case of three recent day trippers, death.

Stevie Wonder did not caution us to pay attention only nodded once then picked his way across the exposed rock ridge.

Stevie, J.C. and I met at seven in a dirt turn out where a gravel track rose toward Borah’s west flank.  Unlike other Forest Service climbs this was no “getting to know you” path that led to a pleasant, low angle hike.  The Borah trail started fast and didn’t let up.  Rising thirteen hundred feet per mile for a 24% grade, the only respite was when the trail switched back across a sheer fall line. 

The path first snaked through sage and scrub then transitioned into a doug fir forest where a track, that was only a shade lighter than the surrounding rocks, wound through the trunks until it eventually opened onto a snow covered open scree and shale face. While I was climbing in my elk hunting Whites and J.C. was outfitted in a boot that offered ankle support, Stevie defaulted to a light hiking shoe that suffered when the trail crossed a snow covered side hill. Prior to Borah, I believed that I was in fair, perhaps even good shape but couldn’t match J.C.’s or Stevie Wonder’s pace and was a minute behind when we broke out on the ridge that snaked toward the summit.

Grateful for both my youthful balance and my hunting boots, I reached the opposite vertical face a step behind him. Though steep, the ridge continued to climb to the “Snow Bridge.”  Formed by the winds of last winter’s low pressure systems the “Snow Bridge” had survived the following spring and short summer.  We followed a trail through the snow that was set by previous climbers and were halfway across when a harsh wind nearly pushed us off the cornice. One careful step after another carried us off the snow onto a rock and ice path that continued to climb upward to the summit.

If I harbored a certain conceit over my leg strength, Borah exacted a price.  Each step was incrementally harder than the one before and adhering to a shouted statement I once heard during a raging snowstorm, I repeated, “you can’t make it too tough for me,” and labored upward.

Though the down climb back to the turnout lacked major surprises, no stumbles, rock fall or mountain goats, holding the brakes on for five thousand vertical feet and four miles took a toll on my toes, calves, knees and thighs. 

Still wearing his tenny runners Stevie Wonder appeared unfazed by the side hills and steep grades.  “I love this climb,” he confessed. “It’s a shame the sun wasn’t out. Do you think you’d want to do it again?”

“Sure,” I said.  “Give me a call.”