View of the Sawtooth Valley from the top of Copper Mountain. Photo Credit: Sara Vanderwyk, SIHA staff
Very few people are fortunate enough to live in the Sawtooth Valley in January. During the shortest days of the year, nearly all vacationers flee to warmer towns, leaving the valley quiet, snowbound, and extremely cold. However, a small group of people are willing to brave the consistently below-zero temperatures and long nights. I was lucky enough to be one of them, through a program with my college called the Winter Wilderness Experience. This was a month of backcountry skiing, avalanche safety, and learning about literature. Now, I am back in Stanley for the summer, this time working for the Sawtooth Interpretive and Historical Association (SIHA). The difference between these two seasons is dramatic. Yet I believe that my lucky chance to live in the Sawtooths through both seasons has given me an appreciation for the need for both.
One of the most physically demanding days of this winter was our expedition up Copper Mountain. Located a few miles west of Cape Horn, this summit is the northern-most peak in the Sawtooth Mountain Range. In the winter, Copper is considered a skiing mecca. However, while driving by it in the summer, it is often overlooked by visitors as they set their sights on more grand and jagged peaks.
Our group of six began our ascent at 8 o’clock in the morning. We hiked, boots clanking against the asphalt highway, with our skis slung over our shoulders. Once we reached the base, we stepped off the highway to attach our boots to the pre-skinned skis. Slowly, we inched our skis 200 feet up in elevation. The sound of my skis crossing the wind-carved slope was piercing. The friction between the two forces created a noise that was reminiscent of the scraping of ice off a car’s windshield. The sliding made me hesitate to move my next leg forward. Instead of focusing on my potential to fall, I reoriented my eyes to the plateau we were moving toward. In that location, the Whitebark Pines were orange-colored, a clear sign of blister rust. The needles were dry and tended to fall when gusts of wind moved their branches. After a few more steps, I was finally at the peak. Previous thrill seekers clearly traveled the ground. These tracks were everywhere, except the edges of the fluffy cornices. Collectively, the groups stayed silent, taking in the spectacular view. From where we stood, we could see the Sawtooths, Whiteclouds, Boulders, and Lost River Range.
The 2025 Winter Wilderness students skinning up Copper Mountain. Photo Credit: Sara Vanderwyk, SIHA staff
After a glorious few moments of admiration, I clumsily peeled off my skins and tightened my vintage boots. One by one, my classmates dropped into the bowl, making effortless telemark turns. At the first grove of pines, the group stopped and celebrated. I was the last person to begin skiing again and suddenly I saw movement under the snow covered branches. It sat motionless near a clump of subalpine fir, ears tall and alert, its white coat glowing faintly against the blue shadowed snow. For a moment, it didn’t feel like I was seeing it, but like it had allowed me to see it. Snowshoe hares are masters of camouflage, changing their coat color with the seasons to blend in and avoid predators. In winter, they are nearly invisible in the snow, except for the flicker of movement.
Now, months later, I found myself on another steep climb, this time up to Saddleback Lake in the middle of July. No ski boots, no balaclava, just dusty hiking shoes and a single water bottle, which I should have rationed more properly. There is a different kind of exertion in summer: where snow muffles everything in winter, the heat amplifies your heartbeat, your breath, the sound of crickets and jay calls bouncing off the granite. However, the slope felt just as endless. At the top, the view was radically transformed from January. What had been a white, silent world was now a carpet of green. Below me, alpine meadows burst with arrowleaf balsamroot and lupine. Back in January, wildlife sightings were fleeting and hushed. In summer, the land is loud with buzzing insects and whistling birds. Winter taught me about stillness and patience. Summer is teaching me to pay attention to movement, color, and sound. People always ask me which season I like better. I cannot choose. Winter demanded strength. Summer invites awe. Both have taught me what it means to live with a landscape, not just pass through it.
Sights from the Redfish Inlet trail head. Photo Credit: Sara Vanderwyk, SIHA staff
Sara is a 2025 Naturalist who attends the College of Idaho. When not working or studying, she loves skiing in the winter and hiking in the summer.