The road from Northern Oregon into the heart of Idaho is uneventful, though that may be part of its charm. At a certain point, we left Highway 84 for the even sparser Route 20, then continued onto a seldom traveled dirt road that winds through the rock formations called Castle Rocks. Step one foot out of the car, and it’s just . . . silent. Pure, eerie nothingness. Maybe one bird chirps if you listen closely enough.

Travel a bit farther to a designated viewpoint to see the whole shebang. Again, nothing quite jumps out. That’s the point. You are standing in perfect serenity, without a distraction in the world.

We stopped to be with friends in the Wood River Valley of south-central Idaho for two nights. It’s a scenic hideaway for America’s rich and famous — less known than Jackson Hole but just as renowned for its skiing. In fact, the world’s first chairlift was built at the Sun Valley Resort by the Union Pacific Railroad in 1936. The engineer, James Curran, was inspired by a system used to load bananas onto boats. I would have just held the bananas in my hand (they’re not that big), but what do I know?

The Sun Valley Resort is also the first destination ski resort established in the United States. The building’s wood-paneled interior is elegant, and in the back, you can enjoy ice-skating in the summertime.

These man-made creations, however, pale in comparison to a man himself. Ernest Hemingway and his family frequented the resort. He wrote parts of For Whom the Bell Tolls there. He eventually retired to a home on the Big Wood River in the nearby town of Ketchum, where he died in 1961. Today, he is laid to rest in the town’s cemetery without much of a sign. Readers bring him the smallest tokens of their appreciation.

For dinner, we were told we needed to visit the Pioneer Saloon in Ketchum for its prime rib and fully loaded baked potatoes, so we did just that. The meal would have been impossible to finish had we not split it. The saloon opened in the 1940s as a casino and was then taken over by the American Legion and turned into a meeting hall. It was a restaurant in the 1960s, aiming to reflect “an earlier Idaho when old wagons rattled down Main Street and business was done with a handshake and a drink” (according to the menu).

I have never seen more dead animals in one place than in this restaurant. And no, I don’t just mean the beef that was served. My photos captured a tiny fraction.

One creature in particular quite literally stood out.

There was a case of an Indian headdress that draped from eye level to the floor. On the walls were countless posters and photographs from the American West’s glorious 19th century, including one from Buffalo Bill’s traveling show. (Bill was an Iowan, by the way!) Downstairs is the “trophy room,” rimmed with the heads of vanquished game.

See a wall full of “punt guns,” or enormous shotguns that swiveled on the back of boats to shoot as many as 30 ducks at once. You can stick two full thumbs in the barrels of these bad boys.

As for the food, you couldn’t get more Idaho than beef and potatoes. More impressive than an Idaho potato’s taste is the sheer size. I’d say the thing was “fully loaded” even before the toppings.

Anyway, back to the serenity. We chose Idaho as the resting place of our trip for good reason. The hills block the noise and stifle the wind. Even the rivers seem to sit still. There are more large animals than people: moose, elk, antelope, black bears, bobcats, wolverines, mountain lions. This place is the simple life incarnate.

But a resting place is not the destination. Onward to the centerpiece of our journey.

This is an installment in a cross-country road-trip adventure.