Drink: It ain't your Papa's Ketchum

                                                                      
     Inadvertently on the Basque trail (see previous post), I went through Ketchum (aka Sun Valley) and stayed within a stone's throw of Hemingway's old house. Stopped by his grave in the cemetery on which lay the decapitated body of a chipmunk, probably hit by an owl, an appropriately savage trope. However, not much else in that town resonated, with its boutiques and stylish, well... everything. The closest thing I found to his brand of saloon was Grumpy's - beer in schooners, wall of cans, the un-photographable cadaver of a sailfish above the stove, and a very talented woman dancing on the bar.
     Just north of Ketchum, over Galena pass, is Frenchman's Creek where I once spent time with a Basque sheep herder and learned a lot about independence and job satisfaction: https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5505515248189957268#editor/target=post;postID=7236255497963596789;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=82;src=postname                                                                       

                                                                             

                                                                             

                                                                              

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