The Tribe of #MountainJews
On being Jewish in rural Idaho
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
In October, I traveled to New York City to participate in a sold-out event for the On Being Jewish anthology (to which I contributed). In a panel discussion, I spoke about parenting my daughter through her bat mitzvah year in 2024—and I also ended up talking a lot about being a Jew in rural Idaho. As you might imagine, this room full of New Yorkers were fascinated by the concept.
“How did you get there?” they asked. “Are there many of you?” Hoping to lighten the mood of a beautiful but heart-wrenching event, I spun a fictitious tale of a handful of Jews who, after crossing the desert, and then the Atlantic, kept heading west before continuing up, up, up into the mountains of Idaho. I told them of the #mountainjews – who prefer western mountain ranges to Florida beaches. My silly explanation got some laughs amidst an afternoon of tears, as writer after writer spoke of the inspiration behind their On Being Jewish Now essays.
I grew up between rural Washington and Idaho, hailing from a fruit-farming family that, for generations, has provided many of the apples Jews worldwide dip in honey during Rosh Hashanah. We were deeply committed to the earth, and to the memory of our Jewish ancestors who made the daring and dangerous passage to start life anew in America.
Commitment to religion can ebb and flow through the years—through life cycle events and geopolitical shifts—but the decision to live remotely, among the mountains, is a steadfast and spiritual one for a surprising number of Jews. My daughter was one of six children in our temple who were bat mitzvahed in 2024. The only difference between her August celebration and those of her peers in Florida or New York? She and her friends rolled into the festive weekend right off a weeklong backpacking trip. And by “right off,” I mean there was still a ring of dirt around her ankles as she slipped on her heels.
The bat mitzvah weekend was a religiously monumental one for me, as a Jewish parent. But my spiritual choice to live in the Wood River Valley of Idaho strikes a wholly different tune in my heart—one that is reinforced, year after year, in the exact same way, in the exact same place.
I am a runner, and my all-time favorite trail is a hilly loop called Chocolate Gulch. It’s 5.2 miles: long enough to get a good leg burn, but not so long that I can’t appreciate the miraculous beauty around me. I start with the steep, meandering section, so that when I crest the top—and look out over the expanse of trees, streams and wildflowers that lead into Fox Creek—I can stop and take in all that is glorious and timeless and coursing with vibrant energy. In that moment, how I label myself doesn’t matter: what I feel most is lucky. And, trust me: if it’s hard to start a run in middle age, then the only thing harder is to start, stop and then start again. But it’s worth it for the view that never changes—even though I do.
I stop on that same peak on every run because I feel a presence larger than myself, grander than my needs, more expansive than my being. Is it the sun warming my skin? Could be. The endorphins that have kicked in? Perhaps. Am I closer to G-d at 7900 feet? Possibly.
Or maybe it’s relief: I am only one of billions of inhabitants—human, animal, natural—taking up space on earth at this moment. Not so terribly important in the grand scheme of Sawtooth National Forest, yet part of the fabric and beauty of my holistic community all the same.
After about a minute, my breath slows, my legs tighten, and I know that it is time to resume my run. I begin to jog down, down, down with a smile on my face and freedom and joy in my heart, knowing that—another day soon—I will return to my spot of awe.
Religiously, I identify as a proud Jew—honoring Shabbat, holidays and the milestones that mark a Jewish life well-lived. Spiritually, I feel the overwhelming power of the universe when I am in the mountains. I am a #moutainjew, and I am fortunate to be one in the Wood River Valley of Southern Idaho.
Alli Frank has worked in public and private schools for over twenty years. A graduate of Cornell and Stanford University, Alli lives in Sun Valley, Idaho, with her husband and two daughters. She is the co-author of Tiny Imperfections, Never Meant to Meet You, The Better Half, Boss Lady and the upcoming Run for Your Life, Callie Kingman as well as an essayist in Moms Don’t Have Time to: A Quarantine Anthology and the USA Today Bestseller On Being Jewish Now.
Instagram: @allifrankauthor
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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I love this, Alli. I am now a PNW Jew - which is its own thing too, after being born a prairie Jew in Minnesota. I remember arriving at college and the New York Jewish girls who became my sorority sisters could not comprehend that Jews had made it across the Mississippi and perhaps that I was the only one there.