Carson Mccullough
BOISE, Idaho (CN) — Spoiler alert: Did you know that Idaho loves potatoes?
It’s a phenomenon that’s been well-documented in the Potato State, including by this very outlet. A quick glance around any Boise street will confirm it. You might spot a spud graffitied across storefronts, or a tater on a local license plate. Live in Idaho long enough and sooner or later, you’re guaranteed to find an abandoned one on the side of the road — detritus that likely bounced out of a potato delivery truck, of which there are many here.
Even still, readers may be surprised to learn that visitors to Idaho can sleep in a potato. Planted in a field, the so-called Big Idaho Potato Hotel offers a “cozy, grown-up getaway for two,” according to one vacation-rental listing.
To answer the obvious question: No, it’s not a real spud. It’s six tons of steel and concrete. And yet dear reader, trust me when I say: When this reporter took a good long look at the Big Idaho Potato Hotel, it was indeed a potato that looked back.
The story of how the potato hotel came to be is about as Idaho as potatoes themselves.
In 2012, the Idaho Potato Commission celebrated its 75th anniversary. To commemorate the occasion, officials constructed this massive potato sculpture.
It then spent several years traveling the country in a flatbed truck, part of the Idaho Potato Commission’s effort to extoll all things potato. It was designed for just one year. In the end, it lasted for seven.
Like all things, eventually it came time for the potato to return to the earth. But rather than simply discarding this Idaho pop-art sculpture or locking it away in a warehouse somewhere, Kristie Wolfe, then an employee of the Idaho Potato Commission, offered another suggestion.
Thus, the Big Idaho Potato Hotel. Much like the rest of the state, it’s a little out of the way. Thirty miles south of Boise and surrounded by all the sagebrush, it offers one of Idaho’s most unusual vacation experiences.
As a native Idahoan and potato lover myself, I knew I had to see it.
The directions said the hotel was just past a railroad and that I couldn’t possibly miss it. After cresting a small hill and feeling the clack of railway tracks passing beneath, I agreed with the directions: There was no mistaking it.
The potato did not appear to have any neighbors — and yet visitors are not alone. Standing sentry over the property is Dolly, a two-year-old cow. When I arrived, she was dozing in the sun. According to the spud’s guestbook, filled out by visitors from across the country, she’s one of the most sociable cows in the business, always willing to accept tips in the form of weeds or other greens.
Once inside the Big Idaho Potato Hotel, its interior was nothing like its spuddy shell. While the outside was rough and plain (as every good potato should be) the inside was warm and gentle. A chandelier of antlers rested above the bed, while easy chairs and wood shelves lined the curved walls.
As the sun set and an October chill took hold, I was reminded that it was almost Halloween. And here was this reporter, inside a potato.
Consider the windowless potato, long and thin like a spuddy coffin. Consider the wind howling over the Idaho plains. Consider that the nearest sign of civilization was a half-hour drive away, that the cell reception was spotty and that only a few inches of steel and concrete potato stood between this reporter and the wilderness. Perhaps not such a bad spot for the season, after all.
Thankfully, though, that was about the extent of the spooky-season vibes. There were no bumps in the night; only the occasional whistle of a passing train and a responding moo from Dolly. There were no creepy monsters, unless you count the occasional spider that made its home around the field. The only ghosts were the voices of jazz musicians long gone, humming from through a provided record player. How surprised they might be, I thought, to learn that someday, their gentle songs would be playing inside a potato.