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.
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