Glorious Gravel, Hot Springs, and Unexpected Wildlife Encounters at Rebecca’s Private Idaho

This year, Rebecca’s Private Idaho, a four-day gravel-palooza in the stunning Rocky Mountain town of Ketchum, was bedeviled by wildfire smoke from the Watipi fire in the Sawtooth and Boise National Forests. After an air quality index (AQI) of 490+ resulted in the cancellation of the first of three days of riding in the Queen’s Stage Race, numbers had dropped to a more reasonable range by race time on Friday morning.

On Friday, August 30, Rebecca Rusch – whose Private Idaho more than 750 riders and racers had come to enjoy over the long holiday weekend – addressed the crowd gathered in front of the Limelight Hotel in downtown Ketchum on a chilly-and-smoky morning.

Along with a hearty welcome to her hometown, Rusch issued a carpe-diem to the assembled graveleurs.

“We are right on the borderline of an acceptable AQI this morning, so you need to decide for yourself if this is the right decision for you,” she said.

Then, 70ish riders gave it a thumbs-up and hit the city streets, bike paths, and eventually gravel road for the 20-mile neutral roll out to the timed 4.5 mile hill climb segment to the top of Dollarhide Pass.

Rebecca’s Private Idaho, or RPI as its known, is in its 12th year and going strong, especially when the wind blows the smoke away.

Champagne gravel, hot springs, and … mink bites

“When we started this thing, there wasn’t any such thing as a ‘gravel bike’” Rusch said during an interview at Rotary Park prior to the first events of the weekend.

Rusch is an icon in the gravel, mountain bike, and ultra-endurance world. She’s a seven-time World Champion, author, entrepreneur, Emmy Award winner, and motivational speaker (if you haven’t seen Blood Road chronicling Rusch’s traverse of the Ho Chi Min Trail in search of her father’s fatal crash site during the Vietnam War, stop reading and stream it now).

And she wants the cycling community – and gravel in particular – to be more inclusive, for more people to get out and explore our public lands.

“Gravel riding really opens the door for exploration, and a lot of people made that discovery during Covid” Rusch said as her still puppy-ish 38-pound pooch pulled mightily at the leash anchored to her waist. “This is my core workout…” she noted with a laugh.

One gets out of town quickly in Ketchum. The restaurants, shops and residential areas gave way to creeks, aspens, meadows and towering canyon walls before the legs are warmed up and the morning chill is off. My Ibis Hakka seemed to delight in the transition to a surface it was born for as we hit the first tasty section of gravel.

As more of a mountain biker than a gravel racer, this cycling journalist put the “neutral” in the neutral roll out. This approach allowed me to chat with folks at the back end of the pack – a couple from Massachusetts doing their first organized bike event. The guy from Georgia who has no hills to climb, no elevation to train with. The gal from Washington who’s done 23 gravel races and really really wants a top-ten finish. The guy from Puerto Rico, the ones from Canada and Australia.

In fact, this year RPI had representation from 49 of our United States, and the one woman from New York? She rode her bike here. Yup. 2,600+ miles across 10 states. How’s that for commitment to adventure and exploration?

The lineup for the staggered start was festive with tunes on hand to enhance the mood, and the ever chipper race director Carlos Perez welcoming each rider with calming bits of advice.

“Now, these cones here are not the start. You’ve got all the way til that mat up there to clip in and get sorted, and these 10 yards are the hardest bit … and with that you are free to start whenever you are ready. Go have fun!”

I was not going to race. I was going to pull the “I’m just here for the story” card and save myself the potential humiliation of placing 126th out of 18 (I mentioned I’m not a gravel gal – I’m also not a climber). But one of the Be Good scholarship recipients I had interviewed the day before for an upcoming article in this esteemed publication looked at me like I had six heads when I said I wasn’t racing.

“Huh? You’re here. You’ve got a number and a chip. Get in there!” extolled Gabriela Ruiz of Bentonville, Arkansas.

Well. Yeah, I guess that’s right. I lined up and felt those old race jitters, but discovered they were easily quelled as they hadn’t had time to develop, marinate, and turn into useless heart palpitations and sudden urges to pee.

To my delight, I not only didn’t fall off or over, I actually passed a few people on the climb. All the way up, racers who had finished and were now headed back down to Frenchman hot-springs for a dip prior to cruising back into town hooted their encouragement with great abandon.

A giant Be Good Foundation gong had been hauled to the summit, and every finisher was invited to bang away. Every finisher was also cheered across the line by Rusch herself, the core-workout canine assisting in the revelry.

Like the Eskimo and their rumored abundance of words for snow, there are likewise as many names for gravel types: hard-pack, champagne, smooth, deep, swimmy, sandy, powdery, chunky, technical, sucky, uber-sucky, baby-head, and the ubiquitous and soul-crushing washboard. The ride back down – a delightful swish and sway on a gentle descent made of 92 percent champagne – ended at the natural creekside hot springs where most riders took in the waters.

The hot of the springs and the contrasting cold of the sweet, clear creek were restorative to sore legs and grimy faces. I chatted with fellow riders and absorbed all the beauty my mind could fit. Walking carefully back across the creek to avoid an embarrassing and potentially painful fall, a quick brown undulating flash in the water caught my eye. Before my brain had time to fully form a coherent “WTF?”, the quick brown undulating flash had sunk its needly teeth into my foot.

I shamefully screeched in a too-high register, “something just bit me!”

It is amazing how quickly even the most self-assured person’s thoughts turn to what others are going to think. In an instant, I was sure that those around me were like “Sure lady, there’s a miniature Loch Ness monster here in Frenchmans’ Hot Springs and it just bit you. She probably just stubbed her toe and needs a better story.”

“Look! There it is! Under the rock!” one of my fellow riders exclaimed. The thing in question shot out of the water and onto land and was now hiding, plotting its next move. My relief at not being gaslit by mother nature was palpable. Thing now emerged and ran across the bank. Long and skinny with beady little eyes–was it a weasel?

The race medic was standing across the creek looking utterly perplexed, mouthing words I couldn’t hear due to the rush of the water. I made my way over and we examined the damage. Three perfect little fang marks on my middle toe were beginning to leak blood.

“Well, I didn’t have to tend to any bike-related injuries today…would you like me to clean up your underwater weasel bite?”

Turns out it was a mink, whose scientific name, “neovision vision” is a real head scratcher. I guess it had a “new vision” of my toe in its minky little mouth. The internet says they are semi-aquatic, prolific, aggressive, and that their conservation status is “species of least concern.” And that’s good cause I had dark dreams of turning her into a very small scarf, or a jaunty little hat for Rebecca’s dog.

The likelihood of the erstwhile hat having rabies was “extremely low” according to the ER doc, but you don’t “get a touch of rabies.” You get rabies, you die. Fortunately, the rabies vaccine is 100 percent effective. I received seven very painful shots that day – one rabies, one tetanus, and five immunoglobulin to goose my body’s infection fighting response. And a course of strong oral antibiotic for three days.

The not unexpected slight fever, chills and Charlie-horse level muscle soreness meant that I skipped the last, big day of racing. Reports from the course were of blue skies, a long, hard day in the saddle for those having competed in the 102 mile, 6,448’ Baked Potato, the last leg of the Queen’s Stage Race.

The spirit of this event with its breadth of offerings – something for the serious competitor and something for the first-time participant wanting to dip their toe in the (non-minky) water – are the things that will keep people coming back, year after year, to Rebecca’s Private Idaho.

Yes, this place is beautiful, and that alone deserves a return trip. But it’s the infectious passion that Rusch, her team, and your fellow gravelers have for the endeavor that gets under your skin and makes you mark your calendar for Labor Day weekend, 2025.