evoTrip | Northern Idaho

In a wistful attempt to relive our Spring Break days, four of us wrapped things up at work last week (mostly), got up early (kind of) and headed East for the Sellkirks. I was responsible (lame) and went to work Friday morning, so Danny and I didn’t get on the road until mid-day. I think Sandpoint is the furthest east Danny has ever been, so this was a big trip for at least one of us.

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We made it over the first pass (where conditions at Summit looked measely) and things were off to a good start - old school beats pumping, beautiful Ellensberg scenery rolling by, gray skies fading away behind us - until the all too familiar sight of flashing lights appeared in the rear view. I didn’t notice them until they were pretty close behind since we were borrowing Patrick’s iced-out bromobile and the windows are tinted so dark I have a hard time seeing whatever’s on the other side. I pulled it over.

“Hi there. I pulled you over because your windows are just so dang dark, I had a hard time even seein’ through ‘em!” the cop informed me. Thanks officer.
“And then I realized you have expired tabs.” Thanks Patrick.

I explained I was borrowing a friend’s car while Danny rifled through the glove box searching for registration and proof of insurance. He fished the registration out from a sea of receipts (Patrick spends entire paychecks at Pizza Mart) and love letters, but we were out of luck with the insurance card. The cop went back to run my license.

10 minutes went by. I wondered what the state flower of Idaho was, why Danny didn’t just shave his attempt at a mustahce off and what the awful stench coming from the surrounding fields really was until the cop returned. He seemed annoyed. And then he informed me that my license had been suspended… for the past nine months. “Did you know it’s a crime in the state of Washington to drive with a suspended liscence?” he asked. He began to read me my rights. My thoughts quickly turned from flowers and mustaches to the Idaho potatoes I’d be served on a tray and have to eat off my fingers while serving my sentence in the state penitentiary.

He said there was no way to tell why my license had been suspended and asked if I had anything I wanted to tell him. He also told us he’d need to search the car. I rambled something off about an unpaid ticket from last June that had since been cleared up. Needless to say, we were in a tight spot. It either appeared that we had stolen a car and were heading east to hide out while plotting a disasterous return for Ken Griffey Jr to the Mariners, or that we were irresponsible idiots who still couldn’t find the insurance card.

We were forced to stand down the hill near the fence with the officer who had arrived for backup while the first guy searched the car very thouroughly. (Strangely, he didn’t even ask to look in the Thule box, which everyone knows is where you hide illegal stuff.) After the second cop talked to us and gradually discovered that we were, in fact, just a couple of idiots, they let us go with a $200 expired tabs fine. Which means we skirted a $550 fine for no proof of insurance and I avoided a trip to the local jail. Danny hopped in the driver’s seat and immediately pulled off at the next exit, where we slammed a few beers, bought a couple scratch tickets and kept trucking.

We rolled through Spokane a few hours later, where I got a driving tour of Danny’s alma matter, Gonzaga, and stopped for gas. I suddenly remembered the scratch tickets and told Danny to choose one. He looked so dumb when I scratched three wining symbols off mine and cashed in for $80. All he won was $2. Ha. Seriously, though. Two for two? That’s a personal record for me.

We finally made it to Sandpoint, met up with Courntey and Clark and drank a few Laughing Dogs and a few too many Kokanees before dreaming of powder stashes and bluebird skies.

We woke to barking dogs, gray clouds, and wet drippy weather. And we were perturbed to discover that Bloody Marys (or any beverage made with hard alcohol) are a no-go before 10am in Sandpoint. Red beers sufficed.

Schweitzer is a cool mountain. So much terrain, lots of variation and a homey feel. It seems to play a huge role in keeping the community strong and close (maybe too close sometimes). I counted at least 79 trees, one grouse, 9 men over the age of 80 and 0 ladies skiing in leopard pants and Guccie shades. Also, Danny was able to flirt with 2.3 girls. Bonus!

We got lucky because it started snowing! The snow turned kind of heavy kind of quick. You know, heavy? Like rain? So we took an early beer break and watched Stomp Games from inside the lodge. The course looked a bit gnarly, but that didn’t stop anyone from going big. The favorite of the day was a rightside 7 to a corked leftside 9. NBD, though. I could do that in like 2 minutes.

There were big plans for a bonfire that night, but Courtney passed out around 7, woke up at 9, observed that it had gotten dark and went back to sleep. Just before Danny went to bed, he admitted to me that he liked the smell of asparagus pee. Gross.

The only thing better than a bonfire, of course, is a six hour drive west, a touristy stop at the Gorge and Butterfinger blizzards in Cle Elum (which Danny couldn’t finish since he’s not a real man). So that’s what we did. All in all, a Spring Break to top anything any Brigham Young student could ever think up. Or be allowed to do. Count it.