Emily Articulated: Walking town

By Emily Erickson
Reader Staff

“Sandpoint is a Walking Town,” the sign reads, proudly greeting vehicles as they exit the Long Bridge. “Come, park your car, stroll between shops, and wind your way along the sidewalks and paths, made just for you,” it invites. 

I was holding a coffee. My friend held her dog’s leash as we walked toward City Beach. The sun shimmered across the creek on the first hot day of spring — a taste of the summer to come. We chatted about small things: how her family was doing, our upcoming trips, meandering in and out of conversation in the lazy, comfortable way that closeness allows. 

As we crested the bridge, a car revved its engine. The tailpipe backfired as it accelerated toward the beach, skidding into the corner and peeling into a parking lot full of people. My friend’s dog cowered, tail tucked between her legs, whining to go home. The lid popped off my coffee from my grip.

Emily Erickson. Courtesy photo.

“[Sandpoint’s] lakeside location boasts both breathtaking natural beauty and recreational opportunities,” one article declared, naming Sandpoint the “Coolest Small City in Idaho.”

I was biking from home, dressed in bike shorts and a neon top, set for a several-hour ride. Sweat began to pool under my helmet, and the reflective tape of my pedals glinted in the late afternoon sun. My tire hugged the edge of the pavement on the section of road without a shoulder.

A truck blasted past, its modified horn deafening, black smoke billowing from its tailpipe and into my face. I turned around and went home.

“From wineries, to breweries and the arts … [Sandpoint] is a vibrant, happening haven in the wilds of northern Idaho,” the article, “10 Picture-Perfect Mountain Towns,” described.

I sat outside Heart Bowls, the wisteria draping lazily over the fence, casting soft shadows in the overhead sun. A bird played in the bubbling fountain. A toddler, fingers sticky from a smoothie, drew pink streaks across the table.

The peaceful scene turned cacophonous with the rumble of semi-truck brakes and the too-fast acceleration of engines that followed. My eardrums rang. The bird flew away. The little boy burst into tears.

I grew up in a farming community, a place where big, loud vehicles were a part of life — their size and heft required to pull a combine. “Dually with a gooseneck” and “two-tons” were regular parts of the vernacular. I have driven cars to the point of being loud (my left tire inexplicably squeaky, as we speak), and understand quiet cars can be luxury. 

But here, and lately (this spring especially), the loudness and bigness feel different, more intentional — the havoc, wielded for show, performed like roosters puffing out their chests, screaming at the top of their lungs to prove something. 

This disruptive driving dredges up my inner crazy lady (is there one dormant in all of us, waiting for us to reach our mid-30s?) shouting “slow down” at the cars and trucks speeding past my house, through town and on neighborhood streets — soon to be in a nightie and hair rollers, I suspect. 

But I come by my rage honestly. We forget, once inside a vehicle, what it’s capable of. We sink into our seats, temperature-controlled, favorite playlist cued up, and lose track of the fact that we’re operating heavy machinery capable of causing injury and death. According to the Idaho Department of Transportation’s 2023 crash report, 50% of all crashes in the state were caused by aggressive driving.

If we want to earn the title of “Walking Town,” then it has to be safe to walk. That means putting the safety of kids, pets and people first. It means preserving the ability to enjoy our front yards, to stroll the sidewalks without fear and to trust that drivers will obey speed limits — that our lives will be considered.

If we want to preserve our small-town charm, the fix is simple: We have to drive like we’re in one. Windows down, radio low, eyes open, looking for the people and pets and animals that make this place wild, quaint and beautiful. 

Every day, we get to choose whether we contribute to or detract from the shared experience of being here.

So slow down. It’s a walking town — at least, that’s what the sign says.

Emily Erickson is a writer and business owner with an affinity for black coffee and playing in the mountains. Connect with her online at www.bigbluehat.studio.