Friends, Friends, Everywhere

The road from Missoula started off promisingly, with one of my most pleasant days of riding on this trip yet. Highway 200 provided a gentle route paralleling the Clark Fork river (and thus avoiding any passes), traversing a comparatively easy path through rugged mountains, against a backdrop of sprawling vistas of gentle valleys girded by snow-capped ranges. A blue sky filled with fluffy, tame clouds and breaking sun and a light wind at my back completed the picture of an ideal day of riding. I met a fellow cyclist, Wes, who’s been circumnavigating the states for the last ten months, from New York to Florida to California to Washington, and is currently on his way back home to New York. (A bit more ambitious than me, I think, but who knows what the future holds?...) A gushing roadside artesian well provided me with the sweetest water just when it was most needed, and an isolated spot in a copse of trees on the bank of the river beckoned me to bed down at the end of the day. In all the ways that the road can give to a traveler, this day showed no end to its magnanimity. From the waterside, I watched the stars and bats and vespertine birds awaken from their slumber as I slipped into mine. I was happy I had checked the weather forecast before I left town, though, because any other night I would’ve simply unrolled my sleeping bag under the open sky; instead, I enjoyed the comfort that a warm tent provides when a torrential storm decides to blow through in the middle of the night.

The following day couldn’t’ve stood in sharper contrast. I snuggled up in bed longer than usual, hoping that the morning rain would soon pass. A couple of hours later, with not respite in sight, I resigned myself to the idea of a soggy day, and headed off into the all-too-familiar grey. A fierce headwind tore at me relentlessly, the bitterly cold rain continued to fall, and my slight downhill of the day before had somehow turned into an entire day of inexplicable uphill battle, despite me continuing to follow in the path of the river. Nearing the end of the day, I had barely logged a paltry 40 miles, and I was just beginning to think about looking for a place to set up camp and call it quits for the day, when a person in a car flagged me down from the side of the road. A woman, Sarah, had driven by me a few minutes before, and had turned around after a couple of miles to come offer me a dry place to sleep for the night. She directed me to her house about eight miles further down the highway (and somehow, the road suddenly turned downhill again), where I stayed with her and her two-year-old son. In a truly generous display of Montana hospitality, I was fed a dinner of elk steaks with sautéed mushrooms, a nourishingly warm and brothy mushroom soup, salad, and woken in the morning with farm-fresh eggs and blueberry pancakes with homemade raspberry jam. Sarah was a transplant from Portland with a well-honed astuteness (she surmised, by my piercings and the fact that I had started in Portland, that I was a vegetarian, but by my horns, that I wasn’t vegan). As it turned out, that night was her and her husband’s fourth anniversary, but he was off in Helena on some work-related training, and we joked about her having dinner with another man on her anniversary. I was sent off in the morning fed, warm and dry, laden with apples, and in high spirits once again.

I made it to Sandpoint that afternoon, where I met up with an old friend, Justin, whom I briefly lived with in Seattle. I stayed with him for a day, spending much of my time recovering from a hangover from my first night there. (Note: absinthe is always bad news.) His friend, Florence, was visiting from Quebec for the summer, here to see the States for the first time and practice her English, and I got to practice all my mad French skills (voulez-vous du beurre?) in turn. I hadn’t seen Justin in almost two years, and he’ll likely be moving out to Portland, Maine this coming fall after going on (musical) tour this summer, so I’m glad I got the time to visit and catch up with him, before he makes his flight from this lovely corner of the continent.

From Sandpoint I made a mad dash to Tum Tum, WA, a place I once called home, and is easily one of the most special and sacred places I’ve ever been. My friend, Katherine, has 100 acres of rural mountain land, bordered by expansive DNR property and similarly conservation-minded neighbors; she and another friend Rob and I all lived out here about five years ago, gardening, brewing, saunaing, and communing our way through a quiet revolution of spirit. By astounding coincidence, both Katherine and Rob were both out at the land when I got here on Sunday, despite Katherine currently living in Seattle, Rob near San Diego, and me in Eugene; this has been the first time the three of us have been together in several years, and all that’s missing is a pair of goats, a cat and a deceased dog to complete the family once again.

Sunset at Vision Mountain.

It’s been every bit as soul-nourishing as always to be out the mountain, and all the better to experience a serendipitous and unexpected reunification of community. Springtime is far and away the best time of the year to be here, with still verdant hillsides filled with blooming burdock, lupine, shooting stars and bitterroot. I've taken a few days here for myself so far, basking in sun and old friendships, hiking, chopping wood, and enjoying the silence that permeates the air. Lack of cellular telephone service and good ol' fashioned dial-up internet couldn't serve me much better right now.

Missoula Oblongata

I begin by extending a warm and heartfelt congratulations to Ms. Amy Elizabeth Conner, who has now successfully joined the burgeoning ranks of the certifiably educated youth of this country. You will find that your degree opens all sorts of new doors for you, paving the path to such illustrious careers as, say, dishing up pie in a tourist café, to lathe operator in a baby carrot factory, or, even better, several more years of school! I'm proud of your hard work, and excited for the road that lays ahead of you, whatever that may be.

Amy's moment, in all her dorky splendor.

The passing of a rather tedious Saturday morning of ceremonies and barely-audible speeches was eased by the company of parents, grandparents, siblings and nephews, dinner and wine with the family, and, of course, the requisite evening bender with my sisters and some of Amy's friends. The downtown area was awash with the effluvium of the University of Montana's newest graduating class and their restless relatives, funk bands tearing off proverbial roofs, and people looking to celebrate the beginning of warm, leisurely summer nights. The whiskey shots flowed like wine, hips swayed like trees in the wind, college students stumbled like, well, college students, and Amy, bless her heart, braved it all like the trooper she is, despite an interminable case of bronchitis.

Of course, dorkiness begets dorkiness.

Following the next morning's diaspora of family members to their respective corners of the Northwest, Amy, my dad and I took the opportunity to hit the road for a couple of days, rejoicing in the fact that none of us had any pressing responsibilities to tend to, save the savouring of one another's company and our surroundings.

Our first destination was Wildhorse Island, a remote state park in the middle of Flathead Lake, the largest natural freshwater lake west of the Mississippi (how's that for qualifiers?). (For centuries, the native Salish Indian tribe would store their horses on the island to discourage raids from the neighboring Blackfoot tribe, and a small herd inevitably turned feral.) The island is rife with bighorn sheep, coyote, deer, and yes, still a few wild horses. When I was thirteen (and with my permission, just to clarify), my dad took me to the island for a vision quest, leaving me to fend for myself for a few days without any food. Sadly, mid-May is a bit early for snow melt here, and the lake's level was too low to be able to rent a boat, and we were never able to make it to the island. Instead, we drove the 90-mile loop around the lake, and wound our way up to the top of Chief Cliff, which provides a spectacular overlook of the area. We crossed paths with a black bear and mountain lion (first real sighting of my life!), and found a small herd of bighorn sheep at the top.

Flathead Lake and Wildhorse Island from the top of Chief Cliff.

From there we wended our way into the rugged Mission Mountains for the night, and through the National Bison Range the next morning, passing through plains of grazing herds of bison and antelope.

Morning dawns on the Mission Mountains.

I'm back in Missoula now, preparing to hit the road again first thing tomorrow morning, just in time for more rain, rain, rain. In the meantime, I'm reclining with a beer and a mimosa, enjoying the sweet smell of the fresh precipitation, the sporadic crack of lightning and roll of thunder, and the memories of a week well-spent back home in the wild, wild West.

Lochsa Loveliness

Number of miles: 619
Number of hours spent pedaling: 54
Average number of comments made per day about my helmet: 3
Percentage of comments that utilize the phrase "horny guy": 80
Number of pending lawsuits from Harper's Index: 1


Living in this country, and particularly the Northwest, I've sometimes felt deprived of a rich and expansive cultural history, given the difficulty of, say, finding a building more than even 150 years old. How easy it is to forget, though, the ghosts that we've buried of those that were here before us whities. Virtually my entire bike trip thus far has retraced the path of Lewis and Clark on their commissioned travels out west some 200 years ago, and every mile has been teeming with placards that tell the stories of a different time. Many of the hills and mountains are carved with paths that've been trodden for several thousands of years, part of a vast and intricate trade network all across the continent. One night I camped on the shores of a river bend that was the site of an ancient Nez Perce village, and has been used as a popular fishing site for more than 10,000 years. Many of the mountainsides and river valleys through the Idaho portion of the trip have been left largely intact, with trees towering and forests self-regulating as they have been for millennia. Wending my way alongside the Lochsa river, through endless expanses of gently rolling mountains effused with tumbling creeks that still burgeon with salmon and steelhead, past countless hot springs that burble out from river rock, the scent of warm cedar and fresh rain kissing thirsty soil wafting on the wind, it's very easy to feel like I was born in the wrong century; I can't help but think that I would've done well here a few hundred years ago.

A more gentle stretch of the Lochsa River.

I finally encountered some other travelers along the way. Over the course of three days, I played an extended game of leap frog with a hitchhiker, Jim, from Kentucky. He was on his way to Butte, MT, to visit his mother; every morning I'd pass him on the side of the road, only to see him wave at me from a car as he passed by later that afternoon. I finally lost him somewhere during an 80-mile stretch of nothingness, so presumably he found a ride that carried him past my reach. I also met some other cyclists, who were just finishing their first week of a speedy two-month jaunt across the country. They had a support car following them, replete with tents, propane stoves, and, um, a generator, so they were sailing across the terrain with unladen cycles. I camped with them for a night, and they were incredibly gracious hosts, sharing dinner with me, and pancakes the next morning to boot. Of course, as it turned out, they were all Bible-thumping evangelists, and the evening necessitated a fair amount of firm deflection of some very enthusiastic proselytizing. (Somewhat interestingly, not five minutes before meeting them on the road, I had just finished listening to an episode of This American Life that had examined the various techniques that religious zealots use to lure people into their sights; our first interactions while riding together were rife with many of the methods mentioned in the show.) I think I've managed to develop a healthy appreciation for the role that religion can play in another person's life, and the inspiration and solace they can find in it, but I have a very hard time hiding my disdain for other people telling me what I should think and how I should live, and how my beliefs (like, you know, carbon dating, for example) are wrong. Dudes, my name's Darwin, what more do you want from me? I'm finding this to be a surprisingly common phenomenon, though; evidently Christian God is telling lots of young, white males to get on their bicycles and go spread the Word far and wide. This was not the first time I've run into a group like this, and I daresay it shan't be the last...

The weather has been astonishingly coöperative ever since my last rainy day coming out of Lewiston. A combination of sunshine, pleasantly fluffy clouds, some inoffensive drizzle here and there, and crisp nights have made for ideal biking. I'd been looking forward to the Hwy 12 stretch of Idaho since I heard about it last summer from my friend, Shannan, who described it as one of her favourite places she'd ever biked through; built up as it's become to me, it proved to be nothing of a disappointment. I took a leisurely pace through the Lochsa Wilderness Area, taking time for a couple of off-road hikes, hot spring soakings, and even a couple of evening campfires (a luxury which I don't usually partake in while biking). There was still a decent amount of snow crossing over Lolo Pass, but nothing on the roads. (I think I either sunburned my eyes from the snow or pavement glare, or else irritated them from some extended wind-whipping, but they've been stinging for the past couple of days, and I keep seeing an odd rainbow halo around my shadow. Weird.)

A hot spring on the edge of Warm Springs Creek.

My dad passed me on the highway, only about fifteen miles outside of Missoula (he stopped to feed me some of mom's cookies, though). He got here early in order to tool around the western side of the state for a few days, exploring places from his (and my) childhood; I would've liked to have joined him, but he left Missoula only a few hours after I got here, leaving me hardly enough time even for a shower (which, for the sake of humanity, was quite needed). Fortunately, I think there'll be some time for that sort of activity once my sister's graduation is over and done with. Instead, I've spent the last couple of days relaxing here in town, exploring the night life a little, and spending some quality time with the li'l sis. I lived here for a couple of years as a child, and have come back to visit Montana often since. There are multiple generations of both sides of my family all over the state, and it's easy to feel at home here; I find the pace of life quite agreeable, a good deal more relaxed than typical city life, though, to be fair, Missoula is hardly a typical city. It's an interesting collision of west-coast liberalism and Libertarianesque leave-me-the-hell-alone attitude, as reflected in the chic dreadlock/cowboy boot pastiche that is found here.

On an entirely different note, I've heard feedback from a few different people about how difficult it is leaving comments on this blag, having to set up a profile or something first; I think I may've fixed that now, so I think y'all can just write something, if'n you feel the compunction.

La Monteillet Fromagerie

Number of miles: 363
Number of flat tires: 228
Minimum number of pounds of goat cheese consumed: 3

Me and my big mouth. I had to go and say something about how I hadn't had any flat tires. As I rode out of Walla Walla, soon after writing last, a thunderclap announced the arrival of a storm that immediately started dumping down a slurry of frigid sleet and hail. And of course, about five minutes later, I got a flat. I fixed my tube on the side of the highway, drenched from the sleet and the passing trucks, fingers quickly freezing without my gloves. By the time I got on the road again, I could no longer feel my fingers, and didn't have much warmth left with which to heat them up. Looking up the road at the expanse of looming clouds, I knew this would be a long, cold, cold night.

But! Luck was no stranger that day. By the time I neared the end of my day, the sun had returned enough to dry me out some, as had the feeling in my extremities. As the sun was setting and I was looking for a place to bed down for the night, I passed a goat farm that looked inviting enough. I sallied up to the door, and was immediately greeted with an enthusiastic embrace, congratulations, cheese and wine, before I could even say who I was or what I was doing. I was given an AirStream to stay in, known locally as the KyleStream, which had been given to the farm by Kyle MacLachlan, of Twin Peaks and Sex in the City fame (apparently he grew up around here or something). I was stuffed to the gills with wonderful food and saunaed well into the evening.

What passes for dog food at a fromagerie (I'm not kidding).

Monteillet Fromagerie is a gorgeous farm, owned by Pierre-Louis, an endearingly charming Frenchman, and his equally gregarious wife, Joan. Goats, sheep, dogs, cats, geese, ducks and chickens all run under feet around a sprawling, lush tract of gently-wooded grassland in the Walla Walla valley, cut through by the Touchet River. In was an easy decision to stay an extra day to help out some, and get to know the place better. After a day of weeding, plowing, food and wine and playing with animals, several of us drove to the nearby town to what I can confidently say was the best bar I've ever been to in my life. jimgermanbar is the brainchild of its namesake, Jim German, a Seattle transplant who has shunned the city lights and commotion, in lieu of a more low-key and intimate setting, to bring his noble gift to all who seek it: Master and God of the Cocktail. I tried (note: tried) six or seven different drinks from him, and every. single. one. was without a doubt the best cocktail I'd ever had. After my first few tastes, it was clear this was a man who could do no wrong; I didn't even bother picking something from the menu, but just asked them to bring me "something". Wow. If you're ever in the neighborhood, or even if you're not, good lord. It's worth the drive to Waitsburg.

Hello, friend.

I set off the next morning well rested, showered, laundered, and laden with cheese. Monteillet would be an exceptionally easy place to get sucked into (they offered to keep me for the week, and then drive me to Missoula, and I don't think they were kidding), but I was ready to get back on my bike. I had a pleasant, if non-descript, day of cycling ahead of me.

But ugh, today has been the most trying by far. I woke up to rain this morning, and after wheeling my bike out of the field of grass I camped in, found both of my tires completely flat. I spent the next two hours pulling out literally hundreds (I counted) of vicious thorns from my tires, portaging my bike and gear to safer ground, and reassembling. I was lucky (or just smart) to have been carrying two extra tubes with me, because there aren't enough tire patches in the country to have fixed those poor shredded tubes. It's continued to rain nonstop all day, and though I've only made it about fifteen miles so far today, as I look out the window from the familiar comfort of a library, it seems a daunting task to head back out into the dreariness. It helps to look on the bright side, though; at least I have goat cheese.

La Furia del Viento

Number of miles: 254
Number of flats: 0
Number of bugbites: 0
Number of other touring cyclists: 0

Well, starting a bicycle trip in early May is not without its risks. Things started out quite pleasantly, as only a trip along the Historic Columbia River Highway can be. Carving its way along and through cliff faces, past countless waterfalls, and endless forest, this highway is a cyclist's dream; not only are there generous bike lanes abound, but significant stretches of the highway have been closed to cars for decades, leaving the road to just you and a few scattered pedestrians.

The Columbia River, gorge-ous as ever.

A section of the Highway, closed to car traffic.

I've wanted to do this stretch Oregon for quite a while, but after a previous experience cycling in the Columbia Gorge, told myself I would only ever do it from West to East, as the wind goes. And boy, does it go. I had been enjoying a pleasant tail wind, up until my the morning of my second day, which had me crossing the river from The Dalles to connect up to Hwy 14. By this point, the wind had picked up considerably, and continued getting worse as the day went on. I ended up having to walk my bike across the bridge, and for most of the three miles up to 14; when I tried to ride, it took all of my forearm strength to not be pushed off the road, and I had to lean against the wind considerably. Any time a truck would pass me, though, I would fall over, as though a wall I'd been leaning on had suddenly evaporated. Once I got to the highway, however, it was one of the exceptionally rare circumstances on a bicycle where the wind seems to work entirely in your favour. There was one particularly memorable mile-long uphill stretch where I kept a steady 17mph pace without pedaling. Of course, one of the downsides to all the wind was that it made any stopping/resting nearly impossible; there was nowhere to avoid it, nothing to hide behind, and it chilled to the bone, hurt the skin, exhausted the ears. (Lest anyone think I exaggerate, I will report, sans hyperbole, that the next day's Tri-City Herald reported that windspeeds of up to 102mph were recorded in the Gorge, sections of highway were shut down, more than one town declared a civil emergency, and a windsurfer met an untimely end out on the river.

One advantage of going through the Gorge is that it's the only east-west route that manages to avoid a mountain pass in the Cascades, but I was still surprised at how quickly the climate shifted right on cue; within about ten miles, the landscape changed from verdant, mossy firs and ferns, to the familiar and more subtle ponderosas, sage and burdock root of the eastern slopes.

Admittedly, not the best design for a bike path.

It's been pretty cold at night. Anticipating this, I geared up a bit heavier than my trip last summer: more warm clothes, a tent instead of my tarp, and a new sleeping bag rated 15 degrees lower than my old one. Last night was the first night where wind or rain didn't keep me huddled inside my tent all night, and I took advantage of the clear skies by finding a clear patch of ground amidst the sagebrush to unroll my sleeping bag, and got my first good view of the spring stars. It got into the mid-thirties, I think, but was snuggly warm all night long. I've been fighting off a bug that's been living in my sinuses and throat, but, this morning aside, I seem to be winning that battle.

Other than that, it's been a fairly uneventful trip so far. Water has been suprisingly scarce, though much of the dry spell was through a stretch of Washington that simply had nothing there. As I start climbing elevation through the Columbia Plateau, though, I'm sure that'll change. Fer chris' sakes, I can see snow en them thar mountains, I know there must be runoff!