We’re kid-free now, me and my partner Sarah, an old cowgirl and current bon vivant. And we need food, we’re hungry for culture too, but now mostly food. A flock of food trucks hug the edges of a parking lot just off Yellowstone Highway. The Yellowstone Food Village is a beautiful culinary evolution, offering diverse cuisines you wouldn’t previously have found next to each other in I.F. 

“How long has this been here?” I ask the woman through the window at a Japanese steak and sushi truck. She’s Balinese, and her husband is also back there. He lived in California. Now they both live here.

“The court, 5 years,” she explains, smiling. “In the summer, it gets very busy. Lots of people on picnics. Now not so busy.”

There’s this Japanese truck; there’s also two taco trucks; and a crepe truck; and a Thai truck. We stick with Japanese for now, crab Rangoons and a fried Philly sushi roll. The salmon is good and fresh, and the fried Rangoons are better than what I get from local restaurants. We’ve replenished after gunfighting.

The Art Museum of Eastern Idaho gets less attention than the Museum of Idaho, and that’s a shame because even though the Museum Idaho is a not-to-be-missed travel through human history, it’s a sign of evolution that we dedicate buildings to pretty things born of brilliant minds. Sandra at the front desk explains that currently they have locally made arts and crafts there for purchase, but if we want to check out the exhibit it’s a modest 5 bucks. Their exhibits rotate, she explains, and right now it’s the Society of Animal Artists, from all over the world. Some Americans, some Swedes, Brits, South Africans, and at least one is from a local Teton Valley artist. The works wouldn’t look out of place at the National Museum of Wildlife Art in Jackson Hole.

All media is represented. There’s birds carved out of feathers, a buffalo carved out of paper in a lightbox, a bronze hare scratching its ear, and a scratchboard shoebill. A photorealistic gorilla perches nervously on a log, oil painted zebras drink from a sun-blasted oasis, birds emerge from a piece of polished driftwood. 

A man in an anteroom teaches a pottery class; across the hall, in the kids’ activity center, I draw birds on the wing with a magnetic wand. Maya in visitor services carries a hip librarian vibe past one of their few permanent pieces, a dress made of translucent plastic rulers, to meet with us. After talking about the museum, I ask if she has any suggestions for town.

“Walk along the greenbelt and check out Love at First Bite, it’s my new favorite. And there’s also haunted ghost tours around Halloween. And I heard we have secret tunnels from prohibition.”

“You guys have tunnels too? I just wrote about St. Anthony and the tunnels there, but they’re closed up.”

“I think the ones here might be open. I’m not sure but I have a friend, her teenage son figured out how to get in.”

“Do you know the book ‘Where the Red Fern Grows’?” asks Sandra. “There’s a bronze of the boy and his dogs in front of the library, by Marilyn Hoff Hansen, to honor the fact that the writer Wilson Rawls lived here when he wrote it.”

The delicate features of this bronze are aged, one dog’s head cocked to the boy’s proffered hand, an axe in the boy’s other, the second dog sniffing the ground. The boy is barefoot in overalls, and rarely have I seen public art that so perfectly encapsulates its place and time.

From the library we head to the Fairfield, IF is home to many modern hotels and the Fairfield is just across the bridge from the heart of downtown. We finish lunch. Change. Collect our thoughts. Because Idaho Falls is a town alive with possibilities, reinvented and vibrant, and tonight we’ll be trying to drink in as much as possible.

Bowl-ero Lanes is a time warp, with lit-up cowboys mid-dance on the front marquee. Walk through the door and take in that sweet sound of rolls and strikes. We put in for a lane, then head to the lounge for a drink while we wait. The Bowl-ero lounge screams old 70s swank, with headshots of red-jacketed bowling commissioners on the walls, and glassed geometric lights over tables. I.F. soldiers’ photos hang above the bar. There’s a 22nd birthday party here, and a couple regulars belly-up to the bar. I get the feeling that people come here for the old school lounge ambiance. The drinks are cheap, people laugh easy, and we’re almost bummed when it’s time to hit our lane.

Perhaps the wood of the lanes is a bit older. And some of the balls have seen better days. But it’s a living flashback to bowling alleys from “The Big Lebowski,” “Uncle Buck,” and every other legendary cinematic depiction of the great 10-pin roll. We each win 2 rounds before running out of time. The showdown must continue in another time and place, but for now we have to settle for a tie.

Photographer Eric Daft and local marketing genius Kristi Baughman meet us in downtown Idaho Falls but before we get into that, let me digress. My first few years living in Eastern Idaho, I knew Idaho Falls as the place to go to big shops and the mall. I’d drive through on my way to Salt Lake City since it’s my gateway to the I-15. I’ve spent countless hours on the sidelines of youth sports fields as my kids played soccer (thanks to their massive Old Butte Soccer Complex) and lacrosse. Only recently did I realize Idaho Falls had a downtown. In the past few years, that downtown has transformed into a metropolitan hotspot, with great food, a lively bar scene, and a few speakeasies speaking to the town’s history when the west was wild.

We Uber to the Snakebite Restaurant and put our name on the list. The place is packed with a well-dressed crowd, with an alive feeling you don’t get at a country corner diner. While we wait, Kristi takes us to one of the speakeasies, XVIII, right around the corner. Descend steps with bottles lining the ceiling, bottles they found lining the walls during renovation, hidden between the beams, full of phantom liquor from when it was all illegal. I order a Sazerac, others an El Camino (Basil Hayden with 400  Conejos Mezcal and Benedictine) and a whiskey.

By the time we’re done, our table is ready at the Snakebite. I order a Rattlesnake Wagyu burger. Who doesn’t want to get snakebitten? The baked brie dip app is creamy glory, the smoked salmon dip is the perfect level of fishiness. Fish and snakes. Washed down by beer. A drunk man in a Santa suit stumbles by, he knows the score. So do we. The burger is perfect, with a kick carrying us off to the next spot.

Tucked in an alleyway, above what I think is an old Dodge Dynasty, a red light illuminates sign depicting a white dove. The Soiled Dove is tough to find, and even when you walk in you have to wait for the man behind the desk to seat you. He leads us past a painting of two flapper women enjoying a dreamy cocktail, to a side room of leather couches circling tables. Over our shoulder is another room with a copper roof curved like a tunnel, imagery pulled from subways and hipster basements and roaring ’20s films. I order a Frontier Grit, an Oaxacan Old Fashioned with cinnamon and clove to smooth out the tequila. 

“How long have you guys been open?”

“A little over a year,” the host answers. ”It’s been really cool.”

“I never woulda imagined this in Idaho Falls.” I wander up to watch the jazz band from front of stage: a tenor sax player, a guitarist, an oboist, a crooner on a mic ripped out of a swanky night club from some old detective noir. A dark bar retreats from the tables in front of the stage.

The women order espressos. Eric and I order more strong drink. When we emerge into the alleyway, alive with old time swagger, the ladies head back to the hotel. But for Eric and I, the night is just getting started and we’re crackling with energy to see what it’s all about.

“Yeah, I’ll go to the Celt after work, when I’m feeling stressed, or lonely, or looking for companionship. And then I come here.”

“You gonna do karaoke?”

“Will you?”

“I will if you will,” I tell him. He gives me a hug. This guy looks like he’s enjoying his night, tells us he’s born on December 25th, I ask him if he’s Jebus and he cheers that yes, he is Jebus. This is the scene at Samoa Club, a packed little bar in downtown IF. Two country guys karaoke Staind. A girl in a dress sings “Clarity” by Zedd, sounds like the top song in the world “Golden” by Huntrix, but it came out, like, 10 years before Huntrix. Eric and I have shots and beers and look around. Well-dressed businessmen drink beside cowgirls and suburbanites; black, white, gay straight, all are represented here. A taco truck pulls up a little after 11 and bargoers soak up the booze with carne.

“What’s the story with the Samoa Club’s name?”

“I don’t know,” answers the bartender. “I think it’s been around since the 70s, and the owner, I think just liked Samoa. So the name stuck.”

I sing “We’re not gonna take it,” and Eric joins in, so does an enthusiastic blond woman. On her way out she explains she was going to see them in Idaho last summer but Dee was sick so they had to cancel.

Just as we’re about to leave, Jebus and another guy sing “A Whole New World” from Aladdin. Jebus sings the Jasmine part. He nails it.

Eric and I slip into the House on Park, next door to Samoa Club. It’s a large drinking hole, with pool tables, multiple bars, a younger crowd, and more karaoke. 

A guy sings “Zombie” by the Cranberries.

A guy sings “Zombie” by the Cranberrie as we talk to the bartender in the back, a bigger guy with a beard and tattoos radiating up from his knuckles. He’s from Inglewood, L.A., but he moved here and never looks back, besides his Dodgers cap. Paintings of famous musicians lining the wall. I get Eric to pose in front of a portrait of Tom Petty. The energy is hypnotic. Everybody wears less than I would think for how cold it is outside.

Closing bell rings, and we have a final round before heading back to the hotel. The walk is less than a mile, and it’s a nice night to walk off some booze. I stop as we cross the bridge over the Snake River, by the town’s namesake falls, looking back at a shimmering downtown. It’s beautiful.

I feel worse for wear in the morning. And as Sarah and I pack up our room, I wonder what we discovered. There’s art, and culture here, sure. The nightlife could go toe to toe with any big city. And the food is great. So my big thought is breakfast. Smitty’s Pancake and Steak House is an I.F. staple, art deco trim on classic diner tables. Sarah gets a stack of pancakes, and I order chicken fried steak and eggs. The gravy makes a happy icing to perfectly fried, flattened beef. A mimosa cuts the hangover. Sarah’s pancakes are fluffy and sweet. We catch a glimpse of the high-sided German pancakes and I make a note for next time. Now for the fresh air.

We walk around the Japanese Friendship Park, just next to the bridge and fronting the Snake. There’s a gazebo with Japanese roof tiles. Pagoda stones line the sloping path to a cliff over the river which winds around to an impressive 3-story cascade. I step close enough to feel the spray. We continue down the greenbelt along the river. I sit on an outdoor swinging bench. It’s a wonderful place to spend a day, and no trip to Idaho Falls is complete without a stroll along the greenbelt, staring down at the great, impressive Snake as it splits the town in two. 

Idaho Falls is a city many people drive through. But Idaho Falls isn’t just a sleepy blend of strip malls with an old downtown. Idaho Falls is alive. It’s full of art and food trucks. There’s a bowling alley soaked in American grandeur, and delicious restaurants. There are speakeasies grounded in the lawless old west, and a bar-hopping scene, and voices full of song, and strong drink. And there’s outdoor majesty in the middle of it all. Next time you’re heading up I-15 and you see those signs, you owe it to yourself to pull over and explore. Spend the night before continuing to Jackson Hole or Yellowstone or Dillon, Montana. Go paintballing, check out some art, knock down some pins. Have a bar crawl. Just make sure you have a karaoke song planned. And say hi to Jebus for us.