Sun Valley: In Full Bloom

Think of Sun Valley, Idaho, and you probably envision a glittery and glitzy ski resort, a playground for the Gore-Tex-clad. Truth is, skiers know only the half of it.

Sure, the promise of powder lured me there in the first place, nearly 12 years ago. My sister Stephanie and I hit the slopes 117 days that winter (yes, we gleefully kept count), and we planned to leave in spring. But as the air warmed, Sun Valley just got better. Volvo-esque traffic jams melted away with the snow. Chairlifts still ran up to mountaintops, which sprouted fresh life, and they were rigged to carry bikes. The Sun Valley Summer Symphony performed free open-air concerts. So we stayed -- me for four years and Stephanie, well, she's still there.

Nearly a mile high, Sun Valley and its sister town of Ketchum are nestled between a scramble of mountain ranges and the immense backcountry of the Sawtooth National Forest.

Bald Mountain is an unmistakable presence with its sudden 3,400-foot rise, and locals refer to it as "Baldy" with warmth usually reserved for old friends. In summer, hikers and mountain bikers crisscross its 30 miles of trails. A chairlift rises to the top of Baldy, handy for anyone who doesn't want to make the hike up or who is wearing a wedding dress, as I was during my last ride to the top.

In a white gown and heels, the serene 20-minute ride was like a long walk down the aisle. The cobalt sky was dotted with puffy clouds, and the warm wind rustled through conifers like a meditative chant. From the trails below, hikers cheered and teenage boys assured me that my groom was still waiting at the top. Once there, my hair was wind-swept (not in a pretty way) and the edges of my dress were dusty. It didn't matter because the mind-boggling views of the snow-dusted Pioneer, Boulder and Smoky mountain ranges had a way of putting life in perspective.

The River Run lifts accommodate more cyclists than brides, allowing the adventuresome to experience all of the thrills without the heart-pumping grind to the top. I'm still too scared to try the Warm Springs Trail, a technical descent that starts at 9,010 feet and drops more than 3,000 feet on a single track.

Biking out Sun Valley Road to Corral Creek trail is more my speed. The wide dirt path rolls east and suddenly feels remote, a literal road to nowhere. It's an easy ascent until the single track, just west of an actual corral that wraps back into town.

Stephanie took me for my first mountain bike ride on this trail, and the gentle single track descent felt fierce. She sped away. I puttered along the trail, tapping my brakes at every bump and stream. In the shady pockets, I could almost taste the spicy sweet scent of evergreens.

It was dreamy until a burly Great Pyrenees dog appeared near the trail. Guarding his sheep, he barked and snarled. I sped down the trail white-knuckled and gasping for breath. Sheep have grazed these mountains since the early 1900s, I later learned, and the historic brick building where sheep ranchers swapped stories has morphed into a Starbucks. When I finally caught up to Stephanie, she commended me on my speed, so I decided not to mention the bear-like dog.

I was glad for the wheels that day, but I prefer to hike. My favorite low-altitude trails are part of the Adam's Gulch trail network and wend through alpine meadows, sheltering conifers and icy alpine streams. Only a few miles north of Ketchum, the land still feels untamed.

When I lived near this trailhead, a 225-pound black bear broke into my neighbor's home, opened the freezer and helped himself to a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream. Since then, only a roly-poly porcupine has plodded across my path. Still, the spellbinding beauty of the area makes me pause during every hike and ask: Can I possibly be only a few miles from civilization?

Luckily, the answer is yes. Java on Fourth is always my first stop back in town. The yellow coffeehouse is known for its "bowl of soul," an icy blend of chocolate, cinnamon and espresso, topped with a thick smudge of homemade whipped cream and served in a fat ceramic bowl.

Sometimes I order a "bowl of soul" with three shots of espresso. Summer days in Sun Valley stretch into 15 hours of light, and the extra shot gives me the post-hike energy I need to take in some of Ketchum's culture.

There's the art scene: Once a month, about a dozen galleries keep their doors open late (and the wine flowing) for Gallery Walk. For a little mining-meets-skiing history, I like the Ketchum Sun Valley Heritage and Ski Museum. On display is a wagon that weighs in at 6,400 pounds. It once was part of a group that carried more than 18,000 pounds of ore daily, pulled by 20-mule teams. Other exhibits conjure the miners, outdoor enthusiasts, artists and writers, such as Ernest Hemingway, who lend Sun Valley its unique aura. Literary buffs may know that Hemingway wrote "For Whom the Bell Tolls" in room 206 of the Sun Valley Lodge, and his memorial lies a few miles northeast of Sun Valley off of Trail Creek Road.

Once the sun drops and the air gets chilly, I love to soak my sore muscles in the natural hot springs, about a 20-minute drive out Warm Springs Road. The steaming spring pools meet up with the frigid waters of the Big Wood River. If I'm feeling brave, I dip into both. Stars shine so clearly that they turn the night sky purple and illuminate the surrounding craggy ridges.

Rejuvenated, I look to those peaks and begin to plot my next adventure in Sun Valley.

Amy Spindler is a freelance journalist living in Columbia, Mo.