Took a detour to the quiet town of Stanley, Idaho, on my way to Salt Lake. Kind of a whim, slightly motivated by the work of a friend, mostly because bathing in a natural hot spring sounded like the best option after 12+ hours of driving. . As it were, I could’ve saved a lot of anxiety (and gas money) if I said f*** it, I’m gonna sleep in a Walmart parking lot in Boise and continue to Utah after that. The road into the Sawtooth Range was twisty and icy, rock slides littered the road with debris, a low cloud layer made visibility beyond 50 feet impossible and when it lifted, it gave way to a white out of snow and sleet (a good ol’ “wintery mix” as we like to call it in New England). . Nevertheless, I’m glad I made the drive. I’d never seen Idaho, and driving along the interstate doesn’t count if you want to understand a place. The tub, an old mining cauldron, was hot—too hot actually—so it took plenty of icy river water and about 10 minutes of just sitting on the edge to ease in. But after soaking for a half hour, or could’ve been an hour, I wasn’t counting, I drove the spectacular stretch of highway through the heart of the Sawtooth Range, stopping probably all too frequently for someone who had seven hours of driving left that day. But that’s the thing with traveling and photography—it’s very rarely the planned stops and carefully crafted shots that you remember. It’s those moments you just decide to roll with an idea because to hell with your plans, you want to soak in a giant pot of steaming water.