It was our last day, a day that wore a cloak of regularity, but beneath it, Hell’s Gate State Park was waiting to whisper ancient secrets through its rock formations. The Snake River, a silent witness to history, offered us a pathway to these stone sentinels, its waters a guide to the heart of Lewiston’s rugged beauty.
We had tread upon many a trail before, but nothing quite like this—the rocks stood like nature’s library, each layer a page from a time we could only dream of. As we hiked, the air was thick with the scent of pine and the sound of our boots against the dirt. It was as though each step was a note in a symphony, the crescendo building with the sight of the towering cliffs that loomed ahead.
Lunchtime found us at a rest area, an unassuming pitstop that soon felt like a banquet hall under the open sky. With sandwiches in hand, and hearts full of the morning’s silent conversations with nature, we dined like royalty in the company of whispering trees and the distant, yet ever-present, murmur of the river.
This wasn’t just a farewell to Lewiston, but a nod to the unexpected chapters that often go unwritten in travel itineraries. As we journeyed home to Missoula, our minds replayed the day, finding joy in the simple act of recalling the sights, the sounds, and the rock-solid serenity that graced our last day at Hell’s Gate.
And so, as the road stretched out before us, it was clear that every end is just a disguised beginning, and every rock, a storyteller waiting for a listener.
Boneshakerbike 
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