Peaks to Craters Scenic Byway
Rexburg, Idaho, to Challis, Idaho
I woke around six and heralded the crew into an unhappy early morning push. We had some distance to cover today and a park I didn’t expect the rest of the crew to be terribly interested in. So once in the van, they could all fall back into a long morning nap. After a quick turn through the complimentary breakfast, we were on our way out of Rexburg. Sitting on the eastern border of the Snake River Plain, the drive west out of Rexburg was one of flat, expansive fields as far as you can see. The defacto Potato capital of the world, we drove through town after town of lush green young potato plants vanishing into the distance.
We marched across the open valley towards the mountain ranges for some time. Four finger-like ranges that crawl into the northern edges of the Snake River Plain. By mid-morning, we had crossed the plain and were now running across the tips of the ranges towards our first destination of the day. One by one, we clipped the edge of each range. The Beaver Mountains, Lemhi Range, and the Lost River Range all fell by. To our left, potatoes, as far as one can see, to our right, rolling lush hills flowing from the tips of the mountain ranges. The early morning warmup pushed fog pockets into the air, creating a mystical scene against the lush fantasy-fueled rolling hills. I stopped briefly for some shots at a particularly beautiful spot.
At Arco, at the southern tip of the Lost River Range, we picked up US-93/26/20 towards our morning destination. Short of our destination, the endless fields slowly became pocked with wild sagebrush until the plain was covered in every direction. Diem and I stopped at the entrance for a quick pick as the girls continued to slumber. We had arrived at the otherworldly and often unknown Craters of the Moon National Monument. Nestled in the heart of Idaho’s Snake River Plain lies the mesmerizing Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve, a treasure trove of geological marvels. This protected area, straddling US 20 and nestled between the quaint towns of Arco and Carey, sits at 5,900 feet and boasts some of the country’s greatest Volcanic sites outside of Hawaii.
First established as a monument on May 2, 1924, this land of lava and legend underwent a significant expansion under President Clinton’s proclamation in November 2000. This expansion led to the birth of the Craters of the Moon National Preserve in August 2002, a sprawling 410,000-acre sanctuary managed by both the National Park Service and the Bureau of Land Management. Stretching across five counties – Blaine, Butte, Lincoln, Minidoka, and Power – the preserve is a treasure trove of geological splendor.
The Monument and Preserve are dramatic landscapes encompassing three vast lava fields and about 400 square miles of sagebrush steppe grasslands. This brings the total area to an impressive 1,117 square miles. The Monument alone covers 343,000 acres, showcasing a unique geological heritage. Here, the Great Rift of Idaho cuts through the land, offering a window into the Earth’s fiery heart, with open rift cracks, including the deepest known on Earth at 800 feet. Visitors can marvel at an array of basaltic lava forms, along with natural phenomena like tree molds, the eerie remnants of lava-engulfed forests, and lava tubes, the hidden veins of this volcanic landscape.
From the entrance, we first stopped at the visitor’s center to purchase a few souvenir stickers and check out the museum. The facility was full of a wealth of information on the park and its history. A few things that particularly caught my attention were some of the park’s links to the space program. Before Alan Shepard stepped on the moon for the Apollo 14 mission, he and his fellow astronauts trained here, at Craters of the Moon. Today, NASA still incorporates the alien world in its research. Using the otherworldly backdrop to test the next generation of communications tools and remote sensing devices.
As I explored the museum and soaked up its knowledge, I came to a map with pins marking spots around the world from where people had come to visit. I picked up a few pins and marked one on Covington, our home in Georgia. Then I looked at Vietnam, where Diem, Jennie, and Lisa were born. It only had a single visitor from there, Saigon, to be exact. So I took a pin and stuck in Da Nang. Now, there were two. What a fantastic migration it has been for them.
From the center, we bounced along the main road that circles around the park. I stopped at several places for great views before coming to a must-stop point on the park map. The aptly named Devil’s Orchard, I stepped out to the seemingly barren landscape for a closer look. A well-maintained concrete path wound from the parking area out of sight beyond the piles and formations of what once must have been an actual hell of fire and brimstone. Leaving the entire crew to rest in the van, I headed down the trail and out of sight.
Signs strategically placed along the trail told the orchard’s often violent geological history. Two millennia ago, the neighboring volcanic peaks succumbed to their own rage, erupting with such ferocity that they splintered into fragments, tearing the landscape and themselves apart. Torrents of molten earth channeled massive sections of crater walls, sweeping them down to rest in this very place.
The path continued past charred remains of lava tubes and piles of cinder. From the violent beginnings of the orchard, the centuries wore on, with boulders succumbing to time’s relentless whisper and breaking apart. In the meager cradle of earth, rabbitbrush and limber pine seeds dared to sprout, defiantly claiming their territory. A sojourner of faith wandered upon this chaotic assemblage of stone, brush, and timber a century prior. Struck by its wild and untamed essence, he proclaimed this landscape—a devil’s garden, an earthly collection of natural wonder that seemed to be stitched together by the threads of the underworld itself.
In the building light of a cloudy day, I traversed what could only be described as nature’s contradiction. The volcanic earth beneath me simultaneously hushed and amplified my footsteps. I wandered through a world paused in the aftermath of a fiery past, its turbulent history etched into the blackened terrain, now silent and contemplative.
In this lava field, the earth spoke of its fury and peace in the same breath. The stubborn and soft greenery adorned the edges of the rough, jagged rock—a testament to life’s perseverance. These tenacious trees and shrubs were the brave pioneers in a landscape that seemed to defy the very concept of growth.
Amidst the craggy lava flows and cinder cones, the remnants of a once seething earth now provided a playground for the curious and the intrepid. Each step was a crunch, a crackle, a reminder of the earth’s ever-changing skin. Underneath, what looked like a Hobo spider darted across my path. Overhead, the clouds—a painter’s palette of greys—draped across the sky, their heaviness threatening, yet they held their rain like a secret, just out of reach.
The path wound its way through the stark black fields, punctuated by patches of life—pale sagebrush and brilliant wildflowers that dared to flaunt their colors against the monochrome backdrop. There was a rhythm to our progress, a dance between the old and the new, the dead and the alive, the history written deep within the earth, and the stories we created with every footfall.
I could almost hear the whispers of ancient eruptions, the echoes of the earth’s fiery breaths as I traversed the lava beds. Each clearing gave way to a new vista, a fresh canvas of textures and hues. This was nature’s gallery, with each view more captivating than the last, each rugged silhouette a sculpture wrought by the greatest artist of all—time itself.
I returned sometime later to a van still snoozing the morning away. We pressed on. Beyond the orchard, we came to a small parking area for what was labeled enticingly as Inferno Cone. Again, I alone trekked from the van to take a closer look. A massive pile of loose, black volcanic rock sat before me, rising over 160 feet from the lava bed. Which once stood spewing cinder hundreds or possibly thousands of feet into the sky. A quarter of a mile round trip, the trail to the top of the cone rose swiftly to its dizzying height of 6,181 feet above sea level. Grabbing my hat to protect me from the often peeking sun, I stuck a water bottle in my back pocket and headed up the trail.
A cinder cone, also known as a scoria cone, rises as a steep, conical mound composed of an array of loose, volcanic materials—ranging from ashen particles to the coarser, air-filled scoria. This type of geological formation takes shape surrounding a vent of volcanic origin, a testament to the Earth’s fiery exhalations. These pyroclastic elements are birthed from the heart of explosive eruptions or majestic lava fountains, springing from a singular and often cylindrical vent.
Within the chaos of these violent displays, gas-enriched lava is propelled into the sky, fragmenting into a myriad of pieces that, upon cooling, descend as various forms of volcanic debris. They settle in a nearly artistic symmetry, crafting slopes that angle sharply at 30 to 40 degrees, encircling the vent in an almost perfect ground plan. A bowl-shaped crater usually rests near the pinnacle of most cinder cones, a silent amphitheater to the once earth-shaking processes that gave rise to its very existence.
Halfway up the path, my breath became heavy, and the hike, difficult. With no switchbacks or places to stop, the almost 25% grade was quickly formidable. I stopped briefly to take a look back while simultaneously catching my breath. Though not yet realized, the view was becoming quite impressive. It was a striking scene. Barren, burnt, desolate land spreads like cancerous vines into the lush, rolling countryside of Idaho’s Snake River Plain. Soaking in the scene for a brief moment, I trudged upward for the ultimate payoff.
One can see a substantial distance at the top of the cinder cone with no obstruction to the east, south, and west. The northern views encompass mainly the southern edge of the Lost River Range and the Pioneer Mountains. Here at their southern edges, they have become verdant rolling foothills slowly flowing into the plain. I took a neat video of a panorama-style shot and explored the cones’ top. An unexpected tree stood to one side, and sagebrush had consumed large patches. I also noted patches of red, oxidized rock and debris near the now quiet vent of the cone. The top of the cone was peculiar indeed.
In the distance to the East, some 27 miles away, stood a striking feature in an otherwise featureless plain. The impressive Big Southern Butte stands in the heart of the Eastern Snake River Plain in Idaho, a geological wonder crafted over millennia. At a mere 300,000 years old, it’s the youngest among three rhyolitic domes in the vicinity, emerging as one of the planet’s grandest volcanic formations. Towering proudly over the landscape, it ascends some 2500 vertical feet, a commanding presence in southern Butte County, just east of the renowned Craters of the Moon National Monument where I stand now.
Comprised of two fused lava domes, Big Southern Butte boasts a substantial base diameter spanning just over 4 miles and a collective volume estimated at around 2 cubic miles. This monumental structure is one of the largest volcanic domes on Earth. I stood for some time admiring the view: the beautiful rolling hills, the massive Butte alone on the plain in the distance, and the lush steppe vanishing into the west. It was clear that I was falling in love with Idaho.
I, for all intents and purposes, fell down the cone back toward the van. When I returned, Diem was moving around and preparing a snack. I was happy about this; it meant she would be up for exploring with me, so we pulled out and pushed deeper into the park. Just over the hill, we came to a stop labeled Splatter Cones and jumped out for a look.
A spatter cone emerges as a distinctive geological feature, characterized by its low, steep-sided profile and composed of fused lava fragments, aptly named spatter, formed around a central vent from which a lava fountain erupts. Typically standing at heights of 10 to 16 feet, these cones exhibit a circular and cone-shaped form. In the case of a linear fissure, the lava fountaining generates expansive embankments known as spatter ramparts along both sides of the fissure, presenting linear wall-like features.
These formations, whether spatter cones or ramparts are predominantly shaped by the lava fountaining phenomenon associated with mafic, highly fluid lavas, notably those found in the Hawaiian Islands. Molten lava blobs, or spatter, propelled into the air by the force of a lava fountain often lack sufficient cooling time before reaching the ground. Consequently, upon landing, they possess a semi-solid consistency akin to taffy and adhere to underlying spatter, gradually cascading down the cone’s sides. Over time, this spatter accumulation forms the cone comprising either agglutinated or welded spatter particles.
This particular area had several spatter cones spread across a wooden walkway. The first we came to wasn’t terribly big. It had more of a hump behind the vent where the splatter piled up. It was clear that once large amounts of bubbly, boiling, molten lava flew from the vent, creating what must have been a terrifying scene for any creatures nearby.
Further along the path, you could see two well-formed spatter cones adjacent to one another. They looked formidable—deep black with sharp, twisted, hard edges. We walked towards them, and the wooden path wound around and up to the vent of the first cone. Fulfilling my husbandly duties, I acted as a tour guide and photographer, reading signs to Diem and snapping smartly blocked pictures for Diem’s social pages. It was a fun time on the warm yet windy day.
From Craters of the Moon, we headed back towards Arco, where we picked up US93 and turned north into the Big Lost River Valley. This valley hugs the western side of the Lost River Range and runs north towards tonight’s stop, Challis. I was excited to take this run from Craters of the Moon to Challis. It is one of Idaho’s famed scenic byways called the Peaks to Crater Scenic Byway. I was also fascinated by the moniker Lost Rivers. There are two in the area with such a distinction. On the other side of the Lost River Range is the Little Lost River Valley, formed by the river of the same name.
Originating amidst the rugged peaks of the Rocky Mountains, the Big Lost River meanders southeasterly towards the expansive Snake River Plain. As befitting its name, this river’s surface flow doesn’t merge with any major watercourse but instead surrenders itself to the depths of the Snake River Aquifer at a point known as the Big Lost River Sinks, thus earning its distinctive moniker. It stands among the cohort of Idaho’s Lost streams, those enigmatic waterways that traverse the plain only to vanish beneath the earth’s surface.
The journey commences at the junction of the North Fork and East Fork Big Lost River, nestled deep within the Pioneer Mountains, a subrange of the Rockies, located in Custer County, South-Central Idaho. Initially tracing a northeast trajectory, the river abruptly veers southeastward upon meeting Thousand Springs Creek, which converges from the left, carving its path through Butte County. Here, the river’s flow is harnessed by human hands to form Mackay Reservoir, a vital water source near the town of Mackay. Continuing its southward journey, it courses through fertile agricultural valleys, supplying towns like Arco with vital waters for local agriculture.
Beyond Arco, the river alters its course again, embarking on an easterly, northeastern, and ultimately northerly trajectory. Its journey culminates at the Big Lost River Sinks, a serene expanse of marshland where its waters seamlessly drain into the earth below, marking the end of its visible passage through the landscape. Here, we follow the river upstream and into the valley—and what a beautiful valley it is.
Lush, verdant, and beautiful are a few words I can use to describe the valley. Overhead rain never threatened, but as we moved through the valley, the mountains as if by a magical force, sucked the clouds into a fervent pitch. Forcing the clouds to expel their moisture over the lush range. Onward, we marched, and the valley continued to unfold before us. The green mountains seemed to go on forever, with occasional snow-capped, craggy peaks making their way into the frame.
Halfway up the valley, we came to Mackay Reservoir at Black Daisy Canyon. The main water supply for the local inhabitants. In 2011, several environmentalist groups addressed a formal plea to Idaho Governor Butch Otter, urging proactive measures concerning the safety of the Mackay Reservoir. Within their correspondence, they outlined various factors potentially contributing to dam failure, notably highlighting concerns regarding the dam’s age, its proximity to fault lines, insufficient monitoring of dam integrity, the absence of a resident warning system, and a history of neglecting inspector recommendations.
Their appeal stemmed from a 2009 inspection report, which raised red flags about the dam’s structural integrity. The report stated, “Much about this dam is not known due to poor documentation during initial construction and subsequent modifications. The amount of leakage observed at the right-center toe of the dam is cause for concern despite claims by the owner that ‘it has always leaked like that.'” There doesn’t seem to be any major flooding today. Let’s hope they get that figured out.
The beauty of this valley just can’t be overstated. North of the reservoir, the valley opened up into patches of wildflowers and the whitest, fluffiest clouds. The Boulder Mountains, too, came into view in the northwest. Their lofty heights and snow-covered tops created the most beautiful Alpine scenes with the enchanting wildflowers in the foreground. I have said this already on this trip, and I am sure I will say it again, but this is the most beautiful land I have ever seen in the United States. It is God’s country here.
We eventually reached the northern edge of the valley, where we found the small town of Challis, our home for the night. It was just after 3 p.m., a much earlier day than we had had in some time. I chose this particular Inn because it had a special “Family” room that was quite spacious. It also came with access to a basic kitchen and prep area. I took full advantage, hauled our kitchen supplies in, and started dinner.
Duck confit, sauteed carrots and broccoli, buttered crab, the girl’s favorite, and some stir-fried noodles. It was a delicious end to a rather relaxed day. It was nice to make the next stop for the night casually. We are not too rushed, but we usually make it in around 6 or 7. This was a welcome change. After dinner, with plenty of daylight left, I set out on my own adventure to find a place to wash the van. It had officially been two weeks, and I can’t remember the last time I cleaned it up.
There were no such facilities at the gas station nearby, and the town car wash was long in ruin. I stopped to ask the guy behind the counter at the station if he knew a place. He spoke of an RV cleaning place just out of town. But he had no idea if it was open, if it was self-serve, full serve, or even what exactly they do. With not much to go on, I headed for the coordinates the nice, if mostly clueless, gentlemen behind the counter had furnished. It was there, self-serve and open. A large bay big enough for a city bus, with all the quarter-operated gizmos and gadgets one would need to scrub the inside and outside of an RV.
It took about 8 dollars to get the outside to a condition I was satisfied with. It had been over 5,000 miles of bugs, rain, mud, and the like. However, it was what I found at the vacuum station that was really disturbing. The girls had unzipped our queen-sized sleeping bag into a makeshift carpet on which they lounged or slept. I removed it from the back of the van to discover a world of food crumbs, lost and melted candies, sand, dirt, and lord knows what else. I spent several more dollars vacuuming the van. Once finished, I took a few moments to admire my handiwork and the backdrop with which it was accomplished.
Standing affixed, staring into the storms over the Lost River Range, it was a lovely, warm, spectacular afternoon in the Big Lost River Valley. It had been another amazing day. The girls were back in the room, getting ready for bed and some rest. I would soon do the same. Tomorrow begins the second half of our journey. The first of 14 more glorious days filled with unexpected and unknown adventures. What will the days hold? I can’t wait to find out as we begin the second half of our incredible journey beneath an endless sky.
To explore some of the Parks and Monuments we’ve explored and more, click here for the National Park Services.
