The mountain bike trails from the top of Sun Valley’s fabled Bald Mountain (9150 feet elevation) wind through meadows, switchback down sheer slopes, weave through pine forests, and really get the adrenaline flowing. We were cruising (or rather, braking) down eight-mile-long Warm Springs Trail because the friendly fellow who sold us tickets for the gondola to take us to the top sized us up and said, “Take Warm Springs Trail. You’ll see when you get up there that you have two choices, Cold Springs and Warm Springs. You folks want Warm Springs. It’ll be a lot better for you.” Then he grinned and said, as if questioning our resolve, “Cold Springs is not for the faint of heart.”

I would say that mountain biking on a ski mountain by definition is not for the faint of heart. Hence, the slow, careful progress of our party of five.

It’s not a stretch to say that one of us could easily have flown off the mountain over the three hours we made our way down. The widest part of the trail was about two feet, most of it was loose rock with the occasional boulder and gnarly tree root, and hairpin switchbacks took us down the steepest sections.

We were novices. At one point when one of us picked himself up from a minor crash and brushed off his skinned knees, a more experienced biker who stopped to help commented merrily, “If you aren’t bleeding it ain’t mountain biking!”

Even though we took our sweet time and stopped for lots of breaks to make sure we didn’t lose anyone, we saw few other bikers and felt we had the mountain to ourselves. And when we stopped we could appreciate the stupendous scenery over Idaho’s Sawtooth National Forest.

The wildflowers on the open slopes near the top dazzled us with their pinks and purples and yellows and blues, but as we descended and entered a forest burn zone we came upon a scene “straight out of the ‘Wizard of Oz,’” my friend Lee said: wild hollyhocks as far up and down the slope as we could see. In 40 years of mountain hiking (probably 200 years collectively), none of us had ever seen a wildflower show so spectacular.

When we reached the bottom, bruised, dusty, fingers locked in a claw grip and forearms aching from squeezing the handlebars, we all marveled that we had made it.

“Heck, I’d do it again,” George said. “But not tomorrow!”

The next stop was the Jacuzzi.

My sentiments still stand…the names of inns and restaurants have been changed to their rightful spelling.

Very high on my list of romantic getaways is a wine country retreat. Most people have at least name recognition with the wine country of Napa Valley, Sonoma, Santa Rosa, and the contiguous valleys that go all the way up  Humboldt county — but little Walla Walla is a jewel that is less known — but no less worthy.

This town is in the wine region of Washington state and is home to more than over 100 wineries, about 80 of which are open to the public either on weekends or by appointment. The quality of the wine is superb, the scenery is stunning, and there are fine restaurants and places to stay.

Why don’t you know about it? Because unlike Napa or Sonoma, Walla Walla is not a short drive from a major city. It is about a five hour drive from Seattle or a quick one hour flight. But it isn’t something that most people will do for an afternoon or on a short mini visit to the Northwest. But if you’re in the mood for romance (or fine wine) you are really missing something.

First of all, Walla Walla is like what a California wine town must have been 40 years ago, a small turn of the century downtown that is more for locals than visitors. There are very few “tourist shops,” although there are plenty of tasting rooms and festivals. Locals will fill the fine restaurants unless you get your reservations in early (if you like truly wondrous food that you aren’t upset paying top dollar for, book Saffron as soon as you arrive). Also very good: T. Maccarones and another favorite of mine is Brasserie Four — where I am boringly attached to the yummy Mussels and Yam frites. Whitehouse-Crawford is usually very good but I have to admit I had a mediocre meal last time I was there. Olive is a new yuppified restaurant with good lattes, great lunches, picnic supplies and a very good selection of wine.

The fun and the romance however goes beyond roaming the in town tasting rooms ( I particularly like Tru for Champagne, Da Ma for very good wine with great cowboy art on the label and Rollat ). Get a car and go to the Oregon border (about ten minutes from downtown Walla Walla)  for deluxe scenery — rolling green hills in the spring, yellow in the summer and fall — and the beautiful Blue Mountains (they do have a blueish cast) in the background. Tasting wines in the informal and modestly priced (or free) rooms is intimate (be sure to make someone the designated driver though — some of these wineries pour very generously).

The Washington side of the line has some alluring tasting rooms with knock-your-socks-off wine. Bereson is a casual place with excellent wine. Nearby is Saviah, Va Piano and Waters (which has an especially pretty setup).  I buy all of their wines. Go up the hill and you see bigger operations: Pepperbridge, (known for their Merlot) and Northstar, also known for their reds.

Tertulia Cellars and Amavi have architecturally interesting rooms.  If you make a private appointment you can see Garrison Creek. This is a gorgeous winery set in acres and acres of wine grapes. Sipping their wine looking out at the Blue Mountains is about as romantic as you can get (but go early in the summer if you can. They are a small boutique producer and their wine sells fast). If you cross the Oregon border you can visit Zerba, which has a tiny log cabin on the highway, and Watermill Winery, which is right in Working Class Milton-Freewater producing a very fancy Malbec and great hard cider.

But that’s just one part of the area. There are amazing wineries on Highway 12, including one of my all time favorites, Woodward Canyon. L’Ecole is in a lovingly restored school house and is a big producer of moderate and excellent red wines. They also make two high end wines — Apogee and Perigee (delicious!)  A classy experience all around can be had at Long Shadows, a collective of six wine makers who have made a big success of their wines (they must have: the tasting room is decorated with a number of impressive Chihuly glass creations).  The wine has won all kinds of awards.

Finally, the last intense area of wineries is out by the airport. The Port of Walla Walla has built numerous small industrial type  buildings — unadorned but cheaper to rent, so that they can “incubate” young winemakers and wineries who can’t afford to do a more presentational tasting room. It is fun and efficient walking around them.

On the other side of the highway are some more excellent wineries — and some more beautiful scenery — Walla Walla Vintners, Abeja, a’Maurice, and K Vinters (who recently got a 100 on their Royal City brand and whose Syrahs are justly famed). Speaking of Abeja, that’s the place I like to stay and it wins the romance sweepstakes in any state. Two couples collaborated on putting the winery and an inn together to make a destination inn. I have been there seven or eight times, but let me warn you, you have to win the lottery (literally!) to get in there on spring barrel and other important wine weekends. They have a lottery for people on their wine list and  there are only nine rooms to be had. But what fabulous rooms they are!

This time I stayed in the summer kitchen that used to be a small farm outbuilding but now has a modern small living room and kitchen, and upstairs a big tub (two people can definitely cuddle in there), a shower and a big bed overlooking the vineyards. It is decorated beautifully with fluffy towels and quilts and big robes to make you feel well taken care of. A new room, just finished in July, is called Edison and it is a beautiful big bedroom and kitchen with an enormous window looking out into and among the trees that makes you feel like you are in a tree house. I have seen all the rooms — I would be happy to stay in any of them.

The innkeeper Mary is delightful, and a fine cook. Your room comes with breakfast and this July visit we had lemon soufflé pancakes one morning and a superb herb and cheese omelet the other next day. Sitting out in the garden under the trees, soft breezes rustling by us, hearing the river beneath us — it doesn’t get better than that.

If you can’t stay at Abeja, there are other charming places. Try Walla Walla Inns and Walla Faces Winery .They have lovely apartments downtown but also a few rooms right off of Highway 12 not far from the airport that has beautiful views of the hills and a pool. Girasol is also situated among wine fields very close to Pepper bridge and Northstar and is very romantic. The major hotel in the city, the Marcus Whitman, has been renovated and has a classy lobby and restaurant. If you wanted a place to stay in town so that you could eat and drink a lot and not have to drive, this would be a good choice.

During the winter Walla Walla  is a pretty sleepy (and cold) college town, but  starting in late March and going until November it comes into its own as a romantic destination. It gets hot in late spring and very hot in July and August.

The whole area is getting into the wine and food act now and two nearby towns also are quite charming and have attractions. Waitsburg has the Jimgermanbar which is renowned for its owner’s mixology, and the Whoopem-Up Café with celebrated home cooking. Dayton has a Fromagerie (a goat farm that produces cheese) with international interns and seriously good products). These places make for enjoyable excursions.

The area is growing every year. Each time I go I hear more international accents but so far, I haven’t seen the kind of buses that invade Napa on summer weekends. I hope it doesn’t come to that  (although I love Napa despite the heavy tourism and I will write about it soon in my list of the country’s most romantic places). Still, I would say see Walla Walla now — it has a casual charm that won’t last forever.

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Pepper Schwartz serves as the AARP love and relationship ambassador and is the chief relationships expert at Perfectmatch.com.

There are many popular canoeing rivers in Northern California. The Sacramento River, from Red Bluff, 30 miles downriver in the shadows of Mount Shasta, to Woodson Bridge, is not one of them.

It was July 4th weekend so we were expecting crowds, and save for a few kayakers and boat enthusiasts, we pretty much had the river to ourselves.  We had planned a moderate backpacking trip but when one in our party had abrupt knee surgery in April, we opted to paddle to our campsite instead of forcing the kids to hike with packs a la the Bataan Death March.  The preparations were similar to a backpacking trip, but we could bring comfy pads and a cooler. I was concerned about tipping the canoe, but my friend hails from Minnesota and has done this sort of thing before.

We rented canoes at the Driftwood RV and Fishing Resort in Los Molinos, CA. The crowd at the park was definitely more of a beer drinking, horseshoe throwing, BBQ crowd, some more hardscrabble than others. The equipment we rented was in great condition and they provided life jackets (of course) and unexpected cushions and small portable seat backs, which made the trip that much more comfortable.

It must be said that the Sacramento River flows, so the canoeing is anything but arduous. We actually did a lot of floating, which was fine with me, since I was in a canoe alone with my two boys, ages 10 and 6. It was glorious, and gave us time to enjoy the scenery. We saw tons of birds: osprey, pelicans, an eagle, egrets and even though the water was chilly we often pulled ashore to frolic and sort of swim. The temperature was in the 100’s so the snow melt temperature of the water was much appreciated.

The first night we canoed back to the Driftwood, feeling a bit insecure about the whole thing and wanting to get our proverbial feet wet first. This spot is clean, well maintained and has that feel of most camp sites, like perhaps they had their heyday in the ’70s. The manager was sweet and brought us pastries in the morning and charged the kids 40 cents for cans of generic “pop.”

The second night, we decided to pull up on shore and set up camp. We were told (and did a bit of research) that the banks are pretty much public land, so we could pitch a tent anywhere we pleased. The challenge was picking a spot and not feeling like there might be a better one around the bend.

It was a perfect spot and the kids enjoyed the clay-like mud. Having been engrossed in the FIFA World Cup, they were smitten with South African names and promptly named the mud “Mbele”… literally hours of mud play ensued, what more could you ask for an outdoor adventure? No ipod, video games or TV, even if the photo looks a bit like Lord of the Flies. We cooked on backpacking stoves, enjoyed the sunset and slept surprisingly well.

You can explore the small offshoots of the river, finding a variety of small beaches and spots to investigate. We finished up our journey and the Driftwood folks met us to take our gear back to the RV Park. They hired a local to drive one of our cars to meet us — all in all a pretty seamless adventure.

I recast and landed the fly in the same spot, watched it run with the current in the shade, under the willows and through the deep water again. But no strike.

“People say they catch fish but only small ones, and I tell them they’ve got to put the fly where the big fish are. That cast was right where the big fish are,” Jim mused, as I couldn’t tempt a trout to rise to the fly.

“I’m pretty good,” he continued, “but I couldn’t make a better cast than that.”

That, of course, was music to my ears, even though I suspected that he said the same thing to everyone.

We were fishing Wild Horse Creek, a quintessential Idaho trout stream in Copper Basin in Challis National Forest 26 miles north of Sun Valley. Jim was leading me and three of my best friends through a morning of fly-fishing that promised lots of contemplation and — we hoped — a few fish.

I’m not an avid fly-fisherman. I don’t have the gear, the box of intricately tied flies arranged in rows like museum specimens. When I fish at home I still use the $10 fly rod I bought more than 30 years ago after good buddy Lee showed me why fly-fishing was more fun (and usually more productive) than spinner or bait fishing. In a good year I fish maybe three days, and I usually spend more time pulling my flies out of trees and shrubs than tempting trout, but today I had Jim Santa to tell me how to do it.

“When I was an eight-year-old in Duluth I cycled to Amity Creek as often as I could,” Jim said when I asked how long he’d been guiding. “That’s where I learned to read water. I guess I’ve been guiding here since about 1997. I majored in ‘Steelhead Fishing’ at UMD and minored in Accounting.”

For me being here was a last-minute decision to join a mini-reunion of my Dartmouth pals — the only impediments being the usual ones of time and money — and in the high mountain sunshine I couldn’t have been happier that I’d come. There were bragging rights, after all, to be fought for.

Lee and George had their own gear, everything they needed to both look the part and entice trout to strike. Dave and I needed everything from Jim and Sturtevants Mountain Outfitters in Sun Valley. Dressed in waders, rigged up with a Parachute Adams fly on the line, Dave and I were ready to join Lee and George as we fished upstream.

Idaho is legendary country for fly-fishing. The snowmelt streams that flow out of the high-desert mountains and cut through the valleys are loaded with trout and have drawn avid fishermen (and fisherwomen) for decades. Names like Big Wood, Silver Creek, Big Lost, and Trail Creek get the blood flowing, not to mention such renowned rivers as the Salmon and Snake. Fishing here is as good as it gets.

“We’ll just pick and move,” Jim said, fishing a pocket here, a riffle there, leapfrogging each other so we’d all get a chance to hit different stretches of the stream first. The river was shallow enough to easily cross back and forth to fish the deep water in the bends.

It didn’t take me long to get my baptism. I was feeling my way across the stream in calf-deep water when I lifted a foot to step over a boulder. The fast-flowing river wasted no time in pushing that raised foot downstream, pivoting me on my one solid foot and planting me nearly on my face. Lucky for me I caught my fall and kept the water out of my waders, but I was otherwise soaked.

The good thing about being out of sight of your fishing buddies at times like this is they don’t see your pratfalls. The bad thing, though, is when you do catch a fish, no one will believe you unless you produce some evidence.

About 30 minutes later, after having got my bearings and made my way upstream, I cast into a ripple glistening in the sun. I felt a sharp tug, pulled the line to set the hook or see if it was a trick of the current, and sure enough I had a fish on. He pulled like mad, as strong a fight as I’ve ever felt with a fly-rod, this way and that across the stream, downstream and up, and when I finally saw him he was a nice big guy with a broad head, bigger than any trout I’d ever caught.

I got him to the streambank but wasn’t sure how to land him without a net, and since we were catching and releasing I didn’t want to keep him out of the water long, but I had to have some proof. So I managed to get him next to my boot, pull my camera out of a dry box and snap a shot. A moment later, fly extracted, he was swimming again. And I’d caught the first fish of the day.

But as often happens when fishing, the day was more about the practice of fishing than the actual catching of fish. The stream bubbled over the stones, cutting a sinuous path marked by green willows through the valley. Sage ran to the brown mountains, casting its earthy kitchen-spice scent everywhere.  A songbird atop a willow protected its territory or simply enthused about the happy existence it had here, repeating its call over and over much like I repeated my casts and tracked the fly over the clear water.

Jim stopped by and gave me just the right amount of advice: “see the line dragging you under, get the tip up a little”; “you’ve got too much line out, if you cast and hit the bush, then you know, reel some in”; “see that bubble line, that’s a good spot”; “hit that pocket”; “fish the green water.”

We leapfrogged each other, Lee caught a fish about the same size as mine, I had another big strike but he got away, and after I abandoned that pool, Lee moved in and caught a couple.

“This pool’s loaded with fish,” he said, but it was his hole now.

George and Dave got skunked, but the experience of the winding stream, sharp-toothed mountains, pale sky, and no sounds other than the breeze and the stream and the birds brought enough satisfaction.

As for bragging rights, well, they weren’t much. Based on the photo of the size 11 boot next to my trout, Jim guessed he was about 16 inches. “But every day it’ll grow two inches!”

Whatever the size, I was glad I caught at least one fish, and got to hang out and trade yarns with old friends in the fresh mountain air.