Nary a man has lived as mightily and magnanimously as my friend and former roommate Francis, of Contrapparatus fame. Having graced the city of Seattle with his presence for the last couple of years, he has moved on to greener and more familial pastures about ninety miles down the road, in the quaint little town of Centralia, or, more familiarly, Centralasia. Though hearts and bodies might move on, the brethrenhood of the traveling Lunies lives on, and it was a quick and easy decision to make the side trip inland to go and visit while we were passing on by on our way up north.
Having traversed our way around the romantically tranquil Willapa Bay, we began what was supposed to be a Rails-to-Trails from coastal-ish Raymond to inland-Chehalis, but turned out to be a mere Rails-to-not-Rails, in that the old railway had been removed, but the trail had not been further developed, and in some places was even still littered with railroad spikes. After a brief attempt at riding through foot-deep gravel, we opted instead for the paralleling Highway 6. It started out promisingly enough with generous shoulders and a minimum of traffic, but quickly went south upon entering 24 miles of highway construction, replete with torn up roads, tar that covered my tires with gravel, and monstrous trucks that preferred to pretend I wasn't there. The return of scorching sun and heat iced the cake to make for one of the worst days of riding I've ever had, but the arrival in Centralasia made up for it all.
Francis lives at Coffee Creek Community and Gardens, a rustic farm nestled in a wooded valley. The lack of running water is made up for in the abundance of produce, animals and kindness that the place and people exuded. We spend a day's rest there, helping out a bit at the Chehalis farmers' market, washing some clothes, and just taking it easy.
During last summer's bicycle travels, Shannan and I stayed at an Mennonite intentional community in Minneapolis that we had found on Couchsurfing. It was a bustling house hopping with activity, and while we were there, there were a couple of other travelers, including a fellow named Seth from Portland, and Derrick from North Carolina. (As it turned out, I ran into Derrick again later that summer in Pittsburgh, during the G20 protests.) Imagine our surprise, then, when, across the country and on another bicycle trip together, we ran into Seth, who now lives on a farm here in Centralasia, and with Derrick, no less. Now, I know it's a small, small world and all, but running into the same person in three random places all across the country in the space of less than a year, with no pre-arranged contact in between? I have to say, it bemusedly blew my mind a little.
A brief moment of terror occurred during the market, when a sudden pair of explosions rocked the vegetable stands and flexed the windows on all the buildings around us. Francis was in the middle of playing music for a festive audience, but a collective silence seized the crowd. We figured it had been some kind of factory explosion outside of town, but it just turned out to be the now famed Obama sonic boom, the jets roaring past us on the way from Portland.
We're all rested up and clean again now, and hitting the road again early tomorrow morning, Olympia-bound, and then up the peninsula. Look out oysters, here I come...
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Hello Coast, Goodbye Sunscreen
The first task at hand was to find a route to the coast that didn't involve the relentless pounding of traffic and logging trucks, a task accomplished by simply riding out of town on the friendliest road I knew, and continuing to follow friendly-looking roads in a vaguely northwestern direction. The route took us through back-road Willamette Valley vineyards territory (with tasting aplenty), and quickly up into the national forest of the coastal range, where traffic virtually disappeared. We wheeled our way through thickets of thimbleberries and brambles of blackberries that suffered a surfeit of fruit, and we gorged our guts to gustatory satisfaction. A perfect amount of sun, clouds, and mild wind combined to create ideal conditions for the start of a trip.
Our arrival at the coast was laughably cliché, in that the coastline was tightly enshrouded in thick clouds, visible as a looming grey wall that grew to encompass us as we approached. My map said that the average summer temperature of the Oregon Coast is 58 degrees, a statistic I would come to find impossible to refute. While the rest of the country sweltered through a heatwave, I shivered along miles of highway, wrapped up in layers of long underwear under my jacket.
The Oregon Coast is part of one of the most well-traveled bicycle routes in the entire country, a literal interstate of cyclists from all over the world with all sorts of agendas: I met a family that left their home in Vancouver with their six- and two-year-old daughters, to hit the road for a couple of years, with no previous bicycling experience; a Brit making his way southward from Alaska; an eighteen-year-old from South Korea who is making his way to his first year of college in Vancouver by way of El Salvador; tandems and recumbents; ultra-lightweight speedsters and folks who just couldn't stand to leave their cast-iron ware at home. Everybody is out on the road; I even ran into a friend of mine from Seattle who was on his way down to Santa Barbara. (Hell, I even got passed by my mom in a car somewhere between Cannon Beach and Seaside.) And of course, most every one of them is headed in the opposite direction, as everyone knows that you're supposed to bike from north to south; the prevailing summer winds are said to dismantle a cyclist's spirits in the space of a schoolgirl's wink. As a result, much of the road's shoulders have only been developed one the west side, whereas the northern route contains potholes large enough to pitch a tent in. This, at least, was the word on the street...
As it turned out, however, it was a fine ride. The most tedious part was having to cross the highway traffic every time I wanted to stop and see something on the ocean side. Otherwise, the shoulders are quite manageable, and the wind, that fickle mistress, seemed just as likely to blow with you as against you.
Several days worth of beaches, an almost equal number of days of clouds, one astounding Fata Morgana-esque sunset, and one mandatory visit to Rogue Brewery later, we made it to Astoria, last stop in Oregon before crossing the Bridge of Bicyclist Doom, more commonly known as the Astoria Bridge, a four-mile truss bridge spanning the mouth of the Columbia River. I'd previously crossed it twice before, once in each direction, and each time was a harrowing experience, sandwiched in a nonexistent bike lane between reckless logging trucks out for blood and a very long fall to some very uninviting waters. Fortune favours the bold, however; the bike lanes had been doubled in width since my last crossing, and we hit it on a Sunday morning, with a minimum of traffic. Aside from the thoroughly traumatic experience of watching a cormorant fly head into an oncoming car a few feet in front of me, it was an uneventful crossing.
It'll be time to start heading inland very soon; I'll be curious how long it takes for the sun to creep back out and make me miserable.
Our arrival at the coast was laughably cliché, in that the coastline was tightly enshrouded in thick clouds, visible as a looming grey wall that grew to encompass us as we approached. My map said that the average summer temperature of the Oregon Coast is 58 degrees, a statistic I would come to find impossible to refute. While the rest of the country sweltered through a heatwave, I shivered along miles of highway, wrapped up in layers of long underwear under my jacket.
The Oregon Coast is part of one of the most well-traveled bicycle routes in the entire country, a literal interstate of cyclists from all over the world with all sorts of agendas: I met a family that left their home in Vancouver with their six- and two-year-old daughters, to hit the road for a couple of years, with no previous bicycling experience; a Brit making his way southward from Alaska; an eighteen-year-old from South Korea who is making his way to his first year of college in Vancouver by way of El Salvador; tandems and recumbents; ultra-lightweight speedsters and folks who just couldn't stand to leave their cast-iron ware at home. Everybody is out on the road; I even ran into a friend of mine from Seattle who was on his way down to Santa Barbara. (Hell, I even got passed by my mom in a car somewhere between Cannon Beach and Seaside.) And of course, most every one of them is headed in the opposite direction, as everyone knows that you're supposed to bike from north to south; the prevailing summer winds are said to dismantle a cyclist's spirits in the space of a schoolgirl's wink. As a result, much of the road's shoulders have only been developed one the west side, whereas the northern route contains potholes large enough to pitch a tent in. This, at least, was the word on the street...
As it turned out, however, it was a fine ride. The most tedious part was having to cross the highway traffic every time I wanted to stop and see something on the ocean side. Otherwise, the shoulders are quite manageable, and the wind, that fickle mistress, seemed just as likely to blow with you as against you.
A deceivingly fleeting sunbreak.
Several days worth of beaches, an almost equal number of days of clouds, one astounding Fata Morgana-esque sunset, and one mandatory visit to Rogue Brewery later, we made it to Astoria, last stop in Oregon before crossing the Bridge of Bicyclist Doom, more commonly known as the Astoria Bridge, a four-mile truss bridge spanning the mouth of the Columbia River. I'd previously crossed it twice before, once in each direction, and each time was a harrowing experience, sandwiched in a nonexistent bike lane between reckless logging trucks out for blood and a very long fall to some very uninviting waters. Fortune favours the bold, however; the bike lanes had been doubled in width since my last crossing, and we hit it on a Sunday morning, with a minimum of traffic. Aside from the thoroughly traumatic experience of watching a cormorant fly head into an oncoming car a few feet in front of me, it was an uneventful crossing.
Abandon hope, all ye who cross here...
It'll be time to start heading inland very soon; I'll be curious how long it takes for the sun to creep back out and make me miserable.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Fleeing the Country
August is upon us, in all her august majesty. The days are imperceptibly shortening, while the heat wears on. Languid summer spirits are subconsciously discomfited, motivated by the season's inevitable end on distant horizons. A prescient warning whispers quietly with the occasional breeze: enjoy it now, because it ain't gonna last. A stirring in my blood beckons me to heed the call, because after all, what are summers for? Not riding your bike off into the sunset? I don't think so...
I've got my proverbial ducks all lined up, and most loose ends neatly tucked away in places where they're easily forgotten. I've completed a hard month of work, the Oregon Country Fair has come and gone, and I just finished a few weeks of dad time with my daughter Maia and my nephews. The weeks before me are free free free, and I shall utilize them to the fullest; it's time to hit the road once more. This time, though, I shan't be riding by myself, but rather in the company of Shannan, my dear friend, fellow nerd, and heretofore riding partner. Shannan is currently in graduate school at the U of O, and she likewise has several weeks before her erstwhile academic responsibilities resume once more.
As some (such as myself) might remember, my sister Amy is spending the summer working in Glacier National Park, having graduated earlier this previous spring. Shannan has never been to Glacier before, a situation which we both agree must be immediately remedied, so the solution is obvious. I did, however, just ride from Portland to Missoula a few months ago, and am not terribly interested in retracing the same route so soon after, so we've been shopping around for an exciting new route. And I ask you, dear readers, what could possibly be more exciting than traveling in another country?
Yes! Canada, a foreign a place as can possibly be conceived of: who knows what bizarre customs we will encounter? What exotic faunae permeates the landscape? Hell, I'm not even sure what language they speak. But I do know that I'll be showing up on their doorstep, embiggened with an adventurous spirit, passport in hand, ready to embrace my northerly neighbors. In the meantime, if anyone reading this has ever heard of Canada and knows anything about its backward ways, I'd appreciate any advice you have to share. I'm already bringing my tiger spray, though, so I've got that part covered.
The basic plan has us heading from Eugene to the coast, up to the Olympic Peninsula, ferrying to Vancouver Island, over to the mainland, and across BC, eventually dropping down into Glacier from above, where I fully expect my sister to serve me some pie when I get there. I'll be hungry, dammit.
A notable difference of this trip for me will be my relative lack of portable media, given that my stupid iPod Touch bit the dust about a month ago, less than a year old (mandatory e-waste rant excluded here for brevity). I will still try and blag when I can, but I'm not even sure if Canada has the internet yet, so we'll just have to see what's possible.
If all goes according to plan, I hit the road on Monday. See you out there, eh?
I've got my proverbial ducks all lined up, and most loose ends neatly tucked away in places where they're easily forgotten. I've completed a hard month of work, the Oregon Country Fair has come and gone, and I just finished a few weeks of dad time with my daughter Maia and my nephews. The weeks before me are free free free, and I shall utilize them to the fullest; it's time to hit the road once more. This time, though, I shan't be riding by myself, but rather in the company of Shannan, my dear friend, fellow nerd, and heretofore riding partner. Shannan is currently in graduate school at the U of O, and she likewise has several weeks before her erstwhile academic responsibilities resume once more.
As some (such as myself) might remember, my sister Amy is spending the summer working in Glacier National Park, having graduated earlier this previous spring. Shannan has never been to Glacier before, a situation which we both agree must be immediately remedied, so the solution is obvious. I did, however, just ride from Portland to Missoula a few months ago, and am not terribly interested in retracing the same route so soon after, so we've been shopping around for an exciting new route. And I ask you, dear readers, what could possibly be more exciting than traveling in another country?
Yes! Canada, a foreign a place as can possibly be conceived of: who knows what bizarre customs we will encounter? What exotic faunae permeates the landscape? Hell, I'm not even sure what language they speak. But I do know that I'll be showing up on their doorstep, embiggened with an adventurous spirit, passport in hand, ready to embrace my northerly neighbors. In the meantime, if anyone reading this has ever heard of Canada and knows anything about its backward ways, I'd appreciate any advice you have to share. I'm already bringing my tiger spray, though, so I've got that part covered.
The basic plan has us heading from Eugene to the coast, up to the Olympic Peninsula, ferrying to Vancouver Island, over to the mainland, and across BC, eventually dropping down into Glacier from above, where I fully expect my sister to serve me some pie when I get there. I'll be hungry, dammit.
A notable difference of this trip for me will be my relative lack of portable media, given that my stupid iPod Touch bit the dust about a month ago, less than a year old (mandatory e-waste rant excluded here for brevity). I will still try and blag when I can, but I'm not even sure if Canada has the internet yet, so we'll just have to see what's possible.
If all goes according to plan, I hit the road on Monday. See you out there, eh?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
That's All, Folks!
Total number of miles: 921
Total number of hours: 81
Oh, right, I'm still maintaining a blag. Funny how quickly the mind moves on.
During my final few days in Tum Tum, I kept a constant eye on the weather forecast, which prophesized endless weeks of rain, all across the dreary state of Washington. It was an easy decision to make: I'd ridden my bicycle, I'd gone the places and seen the people I wanted to; I had nothing to prove to myself about my abilities as a cyclist, and no particular "completist" mentality. And, perhaps most importantly, I had myself a free ride to Seattle, since Katherine would be returning from one home to another soon. I tossed my bike in her car, blew a kiss to the land, and trundled across the state, tracing the sodden path that I would've otherwise pedaled.
I spent a luxurious few days in Seattle hunkered down at a friend's house, avoiding most any sort of notion of responsibility before my inevitable return to the innumerable loose ends that comprise the tapestry of my life. By a rather uninteresting set of circumstances, my car was waiting for me in Seattle, and it was thus a quick and easy jaunt back to Eugene, save for a stopover in Portland for some birthday bowling with the nephews (happy birthday, Eamon!).
And here I am, back to life as usual. Kind of. If there's one thing I've noticed, it's that I don't seem to excel at holding any kind of "usual" pattern to my life; the stream of ideas, passions, inspirations and adventures flow as steadily as time, guiding me ever onward to new horizons and new places. When I first started this trip, I said that it couldn't've come at a better time for me, and in retrospect, it's easy for me to say that it couldn't've served me better; these short few weeks have provided me with no less than two major epiphanies about the course of my life, and I'm returning to the fray with a sense of clarity that has escaped me for months. Perhaps a river would be a more apt metaphor than the simile of time: as Heraclitus said, you can never step into the same river twice; indeed, the life I return to now, the life that is before me, feels ever different than the life I left behind just a short month ago. If I've been carried away in the current of the last half-year, this month I learned how to swim again. This, as much as anything, is what makes it all worthwhile.
Thanks for reading, everyone. You can probably expect another trip sometime later this summer, if you care to check back in. In the meantime, let's all try and be conscious of the long-term consequences of our actions, however small or insignificant they may seem, and think good thoughts about the ocean; it needs some serious lovin' right now, just like the rest of us.
Love,
Scott
View Portland to Missoula in a larger map
Total number of hours: 81
Oh, right, I'm still maintaining a blag. Funny how quickly the mind moves on.
During my final few days in Tum Tum, I kept a constant eye on the weather forecast, which prophesized endless weeks of rain, all across the dreary state of Washington. It was an easy decision to make: I'd ridden my bicycle, I'd gone the places and seen the people I wanted to; I had nothing to prove to myself about my abilities as a cyclist, and no particular "completist" mentality. And, perhaps most importantly, I had myself a free ride to Seattle, since Katherine would be returning from one home to another soon. I tossed my bike in her car, blew a kiss to the land, and trundled across the state, tracing the sodden path that I would've otherwise pedaled.
I spent a luxurious few days in Seattle hunkered down at a friend's house, avoiding most any sort of notion of responsibility before my inevitable return to the innumerable loose ends that comprise the tapestry of my life. By a rather uninteresting set of circumstances, my car was waiting for me in Seattle, and it was thus a quick and easy jaunt back to Eugene, save for a stopover in Portland for some birthday bowling with the nephews (happy birthday, Eamon!).
And here I am, back to life as usual. Kind of. If there's one thing I've noticed, it's that I don't seem to excel at holding any kind of "usual" pattern to my life; the stream of ideas, passions, inspirations and adventures flow as steadily as time, guiding me ever onward to new horizons and new places. When I first started this trip, I said that it couldn't've come at a better time for me, and in retrospect, it's easy for me to say that it couldn't've served me better; these short few weeks have provided me with no less than two major epiphanies about the course of my life, and I'm returning to the fray with a sense of clarity that has escaped me for months. Perhaps a river would be a more apt metaphor than the simile of time: as Heraclitus said, you can never step into the same river twice; indeed, the life I return to now, the life that is before me, feels ever different than the life I left behind just a short month ago. If I've been carried away in the current of the last half-year, this month I learned how to swim again. This, as much as anything, is what makes it all worthwhile.
Thanks for reading, everyone. You can probably expect another trip sometime later this summer, if you care to check back in. In the meantime, let's all try and be conscious of the long-term consequences of our actions, however small or insignificant they may seem, and think good thoughts about the ocean; it needs some serious lovin' right now, just like the rest of us.
Love,
Scott
View Portland to Missoula in a larger map
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, May 14, 2010
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.
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.)
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.
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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