June 30 - The lifestyle to which we have become accustomed

[Adele]

Ok, so I lied about the canned chili thing.

We haven't exactly been eating it every night of our travels through this rugged Montana terrain, as I'd predicted we would a week ago. Despite the fact that 2 cans of chili lurk in Brock's bag, waiting to be consumed, we haven't gotten the chance.

We've become accustomed to a luxurious lifestyle over the past 3 days replete with meals spanning all the levels of the food pyramid, as well as real beds and showers.

"It's going to be really hard to leave," Brock commented as we began packing in Missoula this morning. I too could have happily spent more time rambling round the town, but the inertia of the journey pulled us back onto our loaded bicycles.

After saying goodbye to the Flores family, Brock and I wound our leisurely way out of town via the farmers' market where we purchased fresh, crisp bunches of radishes and carrots.

Our route travelled through the vast, nearly level valley of the Bitterroot River; snow-capped and craggy peaks rose up to our left. Finally, these mountains look like them Rockies! We must be getting somewhere.

As we studied the map trying to decide where to camp for the night, we noticed something singular: the name and phone number of a woman in Hamilton, a town about 50 miles from Missoula. She apparently hosts cycle tourists. When I called to inquire, she apologized, saying that she was hosting family, but that she had friends nearby who would be happy to let us pitch our tent in their yard.

A few hours later, Brock and I show up at the stream-side property of the friends of this kind-hearted stranger. They turn out to be a quasi-retired couple recently transplanted from Portland. How can we refuse the offer of their guestroom and homemade chili?

"No thanks, I prefer to sleep in a smelly tent and munch my Nalley."

Ron, one of our hosts, believes that every bite of a good chili should contain at least one piece of steak, and after devouring a large bowl of it, I support his theory.

Root beer floats and a screening of the pivotal battle scenes in "Saving Private Ryan" (Ron wanted to exhibit the full capabilities of his sound system) completed the evening.

June 29 - New Friends are Old Friends

[Brock]

We've been honored to be the guests of Tito & Michelle here in Missoula, brother and sister-in-law of our good friend Aaron. Having an actual bed is great for a sense of rest, and being welcomed as a guest instead of buying your way into commercial hospitality is worth more than can be expressed in words. We feel totally at home here with their family and the many friends of their family that have passed through while we've been here.

Missoula is a city for which I have many superlatives. Adele and I compare it to the Oregon town of Eugene in that it has a flat plain upon which it is built, a substantial river with a bicycle path along it, and plenty of shops serving our various interests of caffeine, bicycles, books, and alcohol. College towns always hold a vitality that keeps their cores fresh and exciting.

We ate our requisite free ice cream at the Adventure Cycling Association headquarters, and checked out data with the map revisions and forest fire locations in their touring cyclists' lounge. A friendly staff member took our photograph with a polaroid camera and posted us on the wall next to the hundreds of others who have made their journey to this bicycle mecca.

I realized that as time has progressed I have felt less inclination to "talk shop" with other cyclists on the road. Somehow I expected this tendency to hide itself away when I got to the mother of all touring cyclists' destinations, but I realized that for so long I've seen my crazy hobby as just that – a thing that I do that no one else does. Because what I do is seen as so unusual in the circles that I run in, I've grown accustomed to the luxury of being an oddity, an eccentricity, and singularly unique. You would think that surrounding myself with people who are doing what I'm doing might seem encouraging, but in fact it's precisely the opposite; when I'm no longer the darling child of my friends' amazement and have to mix with other amazing folk, I nearly resent the competition.

Fortunately, I found a reserve of social energy within myself to muster up the goodwill and generosity of spirit to talk with other touring cyclists in a good-natured manner, both today and other times on the trip when my first inclination has been to avoid the chat. It's OK to share this passion with others, and in fact, the world I envision has many, many people traveling in this way. No thanks to my inner neuroses.

We spent the afternoon carousing in a city that could pander to our every desire; at the Oxford tavern we enjoyed pints of Moose Drool brown ale, and a friendly fellow named Thomas talked with us about bears in the countryside and routes through Yellowstone. Before it seemed we had merited it, he bought us a round and we gladly toasted our conversation with each other, he and I with well vodka and Adele with a honey bourbon from Kentucky.

We skipped over to the Iron Horse for enormous plates of food, our first real meal since breakfast. Afterward I purchased a bottle of bourbon for the next few days on the road, and we turned up at the Missoula Club where locals watch sports and celebrate their heroes from years past of Montana State football.

I met the new proprietor of the well established Bicycle Hangar, the longest running bicycle business in town since 1980 and heir to a long family legacy of bicycling, established several generations back in the 1880s, just as the safety bicycle was coming into vogue after the elite grew tired of their highwheelers. I can imagine the elder Mr. Kern following his blacksmithing brother into the fertile valley along the Clark Fork and envisioning smooth macadam paths for people on bicycles to speed down on their way to picnics, work, or a meal, hoping on the glimmer of a dream that his business would flourish and bicycles would fill the western town's streets. With great-great-grandson Peter at the helm of the shop (he sold me a good deal of contingency parts in case I need to do some more repairs down the road), that family legacy seems to be marching on into a future where bicycles remain a viable and reasonable option in this amazing place.

After a relaxed evening with our hosts and some phone conversations to friends at home, I'm ready to turn in. However, the story of a man we met on the road resolves in my mind with a question mark since I don't know how it ends. We met a man named Joe on the road as we were leaving Kamiah a few days back. Some people traveling by bicycle aren't doing it with fancy gear and expensive bikes, but with whatever they can cobble together in to a rolling caravan of two wheels. Joe was such a traveler, appearing to carry all he owned on a sturdy frame nearly obscured by luggage. As I greeted him from behind, he turned to reveal a white beard cascading down his chest in ringlets, as though he were a grecian marble statue or a painting of a biblical prophet. He told us he was traveling from northern California and on his way to see his brother in Pennsylvania. He had, he mentioned matter-of-factly, come from Florida before this trek and his time on the west coast began. We talked shop about his rig and the weather – strangely, I find much more satisfaction in chats with marginalized types than I do with bicycling vacationers – and bade him good luck and farewell after passing him a few small tokens of our well wishes.

The next day we passed him again, apparently keeping pace and surprising ourselves by how he exceeded our expectations for endurance and strength. I shouted a hello to him, but we did not stop to talk this time around. The day after that we were making our descent toward Missoula when we passed him once more; later in the day as we were taking a rest at the site of the sardonically named "Fort Fizzle," Joe rolled in behind us.

He told us that his traveling companion, a black cat of about 9 years of age, had finally left him; whether that meant it had run off or expired I wasn't sure, but either way the telling was emotional for him. He blinked the tears back quickly and changed the subject, speaking on the heat, the condition of the roads in Montana, and fixing a punctured tube with electrical tape ("the tire's holding 80 pounds of pressure!" he exclaimed). He outlined his plan to make it into Missoula and catch the motorcoach to Pennsylvania to reconnect with his brother after a long absence. He'd pass his trusty rig on to someone else since it wouldn't be worth the effort to try bringing it along on the bus. We wished him luck on the journey and passed off a few more tokens of gratitude for the glimpse into his story, hoping he'd make it back to family and friends in what was, seemingly, another world.

Tomorrow, we ride south and into the unknown.

June 28 - Lolo Pass and Beyond

[Adele]

This much is true: after filling myself to the brim with a "choose your own destiny" taco dinner and Dairy Queen blizzard, I am far closer to nodding off to sleep in blissful food coma than writing about the day's journey...let's see what I can remember.

For the first time in Ditti memory (at least while camping), I awake before Brock and soon begin to cram my down sleeping bag into its stuff sack; I know that coffee waits for me 3 1/2 miles up highway 12 at Lochsa Lodge, and I have little patience.

We roll slowly out of the now-empty campground; our neighbors on either side have already left: on the one hand, an old guy whose generator sent a gentle hum pulsing through the forest, and on the other, the couple who drove their ATV in raucous loops throughout the evening, eventually hauling back a voluminous pile of timber to stoke their gigantic fire.

Lochsa Lodge stands on a generous green lawn surrounded by pine trees with green slopes undulating in the background. As we roll up to the lodge, we again encounter the father/son duo and learn that we missed out on an opportunity to camp there for free, and also that the lodge serves a fantastic breakfast.
I am irrationally seized by remorse at having paid for camping last night, (a paltry sum of $8, at that) as my penny-pinching side gets ahold of me. Fortunately, we decide to head into Lochsa Lodge and the feast of french toast, eggs, sausage, hash browns, bison links, and coffee is an antidote to my miserly inclinations.

I feel mentally prepared for the big climb up from the lodge to the top of Lolo Pass, and my legs match my will to reach the summit. Again, as on the Winchester grade road a few days ago, the sun beats down on our backs and soon we're drenched in sweat. I swap out my bike helmet for my broad brimmed hat and soak my tank top in a roadside stream to fight the blistering heat.

On the Winchester grade, I made the mistake of plugging into my ipod to escape the pain I knew would ensue as we climbed up the winding 8 miles. Entertained by NPR's Snap Judgement, I drowned out the "help me" messages my body was sending me, and after an hour, bolts of pain shot up my lower spine so that when I'd get off the bike for relief, I could barely straighten my back.

Today, I decide that I will listen better to my body. No ipod for this climb. My knee begins to complain, telling me to shift into a lower gear. My lower back tenses with the strain of the uphill, telling me to channel my stress and energy into my legs. My shoulders begin to hunch up to my earlobes, letting me know that I should lengthen my spine and square my shoulders back before my neck cramps up.

So much to think about!

My body rewards me for not ignoring it, and I find myself at the top of the pass, weary but not wracked by pain.

Despite the large breakfast, Brock feels low on energy. Still, he turns his pedals steadily in granny gear to reach the summit at over 5,000 ft.

We snap a photo in front of the "Welcome to Montana" sign, congratulate each other on our mutual awesomeness, and then let gravity pull our wheels down the other side of the Bitterroot Mountains into Montana.

The country opens out from close-in folds of high hills to far-reaching mountain vistas, as if a landscape artist has swapped out a fine paintbrush for one with a broader stroke.

After about 45 miles more, mostly on level or a gentle downhill, we reach Missoula. Our friend Aaron (hi, Aaron) has family here who have graciously agreed to host us. We'd been told that their house is at the top of a big hill, but we're stubborn and turned down the offer for a ride up to the top. This stubbornness only added to our overall sweaty funk when we reached the summit as the hill was, indeed, long and steep.
Tito, Michelle, and their girls didn't seem fazed by the arrival of us funky cyclists, however, and it's been a lovely and relaxing evening. I'm excited to explore Missoula tomorrow.

June 27 - With the Greatest of Ease

[Brock]

We sailed up the Lochsa River canyon today as though we were nearly weightless. This is not the rocky mountain pass I was expecting, but as I understand that's yet to come. All in due time, I'm sure; the encouraging thing is that I have already ridden my bicycle up and over the highway 20 pass in Washington state's northern cascades, and the upcoming Lolo Pass is no higher than that, I believe.

After a day in which we ran from cloudbursts and set up our tent in a hurry to beat the oncoming raindrops, the weather dried out considerably and we watched the river sparkle in the evening sun as the rainfall steamed back into the air. Our empty campground was luxurious and we used an entirely different campsite for our dinner as its table and benches had dried from the rain while ours had not. A casual evening of reading closed out a day that had started far more uncertainly.

We stocked up on groceries and met the lady who ran the only store for miles (and the only one we saw today), friendly and recently moved in after a long career in car sales. She had lived in both Federal Way WA and Washougal WA, both places I've resided in the past. She had a cute story about the family car breaking down and getting to fish for steelhead while her husband tended to the repairs.

Outside the store we bumped into the dad from the father/son duo we'd met days earlier, and heard the news that his son was finally getting into the swing of the trip, what with the beautiful scenery and all. We were glad to hear it. Most everyone we've met so far on the trip had taken shelter in a motel during the rainy morning we endured in our tent, so we chalked up several more points in our favor.

Shortly after the grocery stop I heard the unhappy noise of a spoke breaking in two. I've had wheel troubles on tours before, but never had to repair them myself. I've learned a bit from my friend David about wheel truing, and realized this was my chance to put my knowledge to the test. Adele patiently waited with Tolstoy's War & Peace while I deflated my tire, removed the wheel's window dressings and got down to business in the shade.

Spokes are tricky little things, as they are small and seemingly insignificant on their own, but can really thrown off your game if they go awry. My friend Brandon describes the noise of something wobbling about as a sort of "wub-wub-wub-wub" ordeal, and that's what a wheel's rim does when just one of its spokes stops holding the whole thing together in perfect tension. The extra spokes I'd ordered from my local bike shop had been sitting in my pannier waiting for their shining moments, and one labeled "front" took center stage as I carefully wove it back into the hub among its dirtier, less attractive brethren.

I should note that this has always scared me; I figured this process needs the attention of an artist and a scientist, and while I have leanings to both, I assume I am neither.

The new spoke settled in well and bore the tension necessary for a true, even spin of the wheel with very little variance once I had tightened it with the spoke wrench. I watched, amazed, as the technical difficulty I had most feared resolved in front of me. A test ride proved that the grand experiment had worked and I loaded my panniers back onto the cargo racks, afraid the dream would end if I waited too long. We were off.

Pleasant surprises of babbling water, hoary white rapids, an enormous gathering of butterflies, friendly cyclists heading the opposite direction, et cetera met us at every turn from there on out. We soared through the passes with the greatest of ease.

Looking forward to another nice noght of camping tonight to be topped off with another chapter from Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby." My tradition of classic first-person narration fiction continues this year!

June 26 - Beside the Clearwater River

[Adele]

I surfaced reluctantly to consciousness in the wee hours of the morning as the wailing sound of sirens pierced the darkness. My eyeballs aching from weariness too much to care what was happening, I remained curled up in my sleeping bag as Brock scrambled out of the tent to make sure the townsfolk weren't bolting for the hills.

No such drama. The tiny town of Kamiah apparently is accustomed to the local lumber mill's 4:30 wake up call.

The pitter patter of busy raindrops and the inevitable need to find a bathroom woke me up hours later. After sweating and crisping under yesterday's merciless sun, awakening to a gray diluvian world was the last thing I would have expected.

By 9 am, Brock had moved most of our things to the nearby picnic shelter (we were camping in the town park), and by 10 we had the tent drying under there as well, the tent fly hung from the rafters, and the entirety of our belongings strewn over no less than 4 picnic tables. It looked like someone had busted open a pinata of camping gear, food, and bedraggled clothing.

Brock and I made a unanimous vote to hunker down and wait out the steady rain; this is vacation after all and there's no need to punish ourselves. (Alright, yesterday's 80 miles evolved into a torture fest by the end, but I have a really short term memory when it comes to these things).

I walked down the road and bought us some consolation mochas from a coffee stand, By the time we'd eaten lunch, the skies had cleared and we felt energized and ready to move on. Quickly we packed up our gear and pedaled across the Clearwater River and out of Kamiah.

From reading up on local area history this morning (I prefer to be called "placard-reading junkie" over "nerd")
I learned that the Lewis and Clark expedition sojourned in the Kamiah valley on their return journey in 1806. Sick and hungry, they stayed for a month to rest and stock up on provisions. I like that our experience paralleled theirs to a certain degree; in place of salmon and wild game, of course, we had huge hamburgers and mochas.

We travelled beside the fast-rolling Clearwater River on highway 12 for a few hours, marveling at the piney slopes and glinting river.

With sparse traffic, Brock and I were able to actually carry on conversation during the ride. Refreshing. Usually, trying to converse is frustrating, because just as you begin to say something the sound of a passing car drowns out your words, leaving the other person to shout, "what?! what!? I can't hear you!". Not good for any relationship. We've learned over the past few years of cycling together, and so we generally don't attempt to talk much on busy roads.

Our campsite tonight is perfect: the sound of the rushing river fills the otherwise pristine night air and we have the campground all to ourselves on a Tuesday night.

I won't go into detail about the huckleberry pie we consumed at a roadside cafe, except that it was the priciest slice a la mode that I'll ever pay for, but it was also totally worth it.

June 25 - Punishment for All

[Brock]

Having rested well at Hell's Gate (of all places), we set off on our most ambitious day yet this morning. On a tip from a local cyclist to one of the other bicycle tourists we met, we skipped our prescribed route because the county was planning to chip seal the road that morning; riding on chip seal is much like riding on a gravel road – not much fun. The route looped us through Lewiston, capital of the Inland Empire from which grain and other products are shipped out to sea on a long and winding route from the Snake and Clearwater rivers into the Columbia and out to sea.

I had a cherry tart and Adele had a scone at the Cafe Sage in Lewiston, and then we were off for well over 80 miles of riding through various terrains. Lots of farmland sits atop the sculpted hills of Idaho. We climbed a ridge, bombed down an enormous hill, rejoined highway 95 and pedaled to Culdesac, a town with an amusing name and a single grocery. The man running the grocery had recently purchased it and was still acquiring freezers for ice while we lunched there. His favorite color was orange, a good color for someone as outgoing as he and many of the installments around the store were this color. He directed us out to the old grade road that led to Winchester and we set out to climb it.

A grade road is a wicked climb. Whenever you see this designation and you're powering your own vehicle with your legs, know you're in for punishment. We climbed hard for 8 miles before reaching anything close to level ground, all in the light of an unobstructed sun that didn't care if we were there or not.

Winchester is a town named for a gun. Its population reflects that fact, we observed as we enjoyed pints of beer in the town's saloon. Local bearded men drank cans of the cheap stuff while making bawdy jokes about pole vaulting, and we got our water bottles refilled by the obliging bartender, a 60 year old woman who didn't seem to mind the men's jokes or the full frontally nude painting of a lady above the bar. Having slaked our thirst and cooled our tongues, we set out for the remainder of the day.

Most people we've met on bicycles traveling in our direction planned to stop at the park in Winchester for the night. We heard there was free camping in Kamiah (rhymes with "Jeremiah") and decided to push for it. Don't be deceived by the elevation profile on the cycling map; it looks as though you'll coast downhill for miles without any effort at all. Not the case.

I forget that there are places where you can look around you, a full 360 degrees, and not see a single building. This is the country's breadbasket and I salute those who till it. Whole lotta wheat.

Uphills and downhills were interspersed, but for a long while it seemed as though we would spend most of our time toiling uphill in the direct sun for the second portion of the day as well. We did, mostly. Water ran low on supply and we felt fatigued, and then there was the 8 mile stretch where the road had been returned to a graveled state for reconstruction. Slow going until we hit the downhill towards Kamiah and the elevation profile delivered on its promise.

When we rolled into Kamiah we found a bar and grill offering the necessary things: beer, food we didn't have to fix ourselves, and air conditioned cool for our tired bodies. We ordered enormous entrees and consumed them quickly.

Kamiah's free camping site by the river is a haven for drifters, and we fit the part. No telling if the lawn watering will miss us, it's promised from 3-6am every night. We tried to get as far from the greenest grass as possible.

A nice old man living in his RV helped us figure out the system when we arrived. Bill is a man prone to social anxiety and yet also extremely conversational, which makes for an interesting combination. He's planning to exit society for good at 70, scouting locations in the hills nearby while camping at the park until he gets chased off after the 48 hour limit. He knows about a tasty spring that gives fresh water, and since he was heading that way himself he offered to fill our bottles for us. We gladly accepted. He hopes to land in an Alaskan town far from the bustle and politics of the world. I hope he finds what he's looking for.

I spoke with my grandpa on the phone tonight; he's about to get an angiogram tomorrow morning. I assume he'll come out fine and knowing more about what his heart needs to keep beating well, but it's still hard to think about this big event happening while I'm far away. I'd be as far away in Portland if I were home, but living on the road adds a dimension of worry to that.

I hope we all find what we need, wherever we happen to be.

June 24 - Hey Ho, Idaho!

[Adele]

"We're friends," the little freckle faced girl announced to me, as we paddled around in the chilly Snake River under the strong evening sun.

I hadn't actually met her before, but I was willing to just let her ride with her assumptions; I was feeling too happy in that refreshing water to jade her young perception of life and break to her the hard reality that in fact we were not friends.

It's hard to imagine that only 2 nights ago I had finished my last blog post by the church where we had set up our sleeping bags and was waiting in dread for the sun to go down and for my imagination to run rampant.

Let me give you a word of advice: if you intend to bandit camp anytime in the future, DO NOT become a fan of "The Walking Dead". I lay awake for over 2 hours staring at a grove of trees, waiting for zombies to stagger out and eat me. And once I'd finally convinced myself that this was ridiculous, the coyotes starting howling. Sleep? Not happening.

Fast forward 48 hours, and I'm still alive. We took it easy today: slept in, I cooked up pancakes and rhubarb compote (growing in the garden of the house we were staying in, what luck!) and then we strolled around the small town of Pomeroy until it was time to pack our bags and head out again.

After hours of rolling through nothing but hills and sky for hours upon hours, Pomeroy, with its population of about 1,000, seemed like a happenin' place! Its grocery store had more than 3 shelves and there were 2 grain towers.

Having just crossed the state line into Idaho this afternoon, we're about to head into the mountains towards Missoula.

This can only mean one thing: more canned chili! Paired with a steaming pot of instant mashed potatoes, chili has become our road meal of choice. You can find it even in the most god-forsaken high desert mini marts, it's cheap, and it's leg fuel.

I never dreamed that I would eat chili from a can 3 nights in a row and consider myself blessed, but yes, I have and I will.

(For those of you who need a reason NOT to be jealous of us as we jaunt about the country, I offer you the chili reason.)

June 23 - In Which We Run For Our Lives

{Brock}

Let's start with the experience of lving outside and being vulnerable. Many people I have met live without a guaranteed place to sleep day in and day out, but I've only been in the position to understand what it feels like a few times myself. Last night Adele and I spent the night sleeping behind a church just outside of Walla Walla, Washington.

We tried, anyway. A refuge from the deluge was a welcome prospect, and so we cooked our potatoes and chili over the camp stove while the rain came down in buckets outside. We had been anticipating a small sprinkle, but the sustained thunder and lightning persisted, and so we simply rolled out our mats next to the double doors under the covered walkway and laid to rest.

Your brain begins to concoct the craziest tales while you're sitting theree trying to be invisible with your eyes shut. Every passing vehicle (just infrequent enough for each to reboot the cycle of terror) sounded as though it was stopping to evict us. Coyotes howled out by the river and sounded like they were hungry for human flesh. The constant drizzle of the downspout forcing the rain past our heads masked the outside world and made it more difficult to understand what was happening around us. Settling and rattling noises brought on by water and wind sounded legitimately like gunshots at times. We lay in our corner waiting for dusk to end and for our hearts to beat normally.

Some would say we were overly paranoid, and that includes me. I KNEW that we were safe and had nothing to hide, and yet was still viscerally terrified of the prospect of being discovered. We fitfully tossed and turned on our mats until dawn broke and with it my alarm for 5:30am, early enough to avoid any programming the church might have for a weekend.

I could tell you about all of the nice things we did that morning to recover, and about the coffee shop and the Starbucks blend that I swear had sugar added already, and the bookstore and the farmers market and the bicycle shop and the racing peleton we saw outside of town, but that's all rather dull compared to the event that set us running for our lives.

Well into the day's ride and having already passed two cute prairie towns in Eastern Washington's rolling agricultural land, we were climbing out into the next set of farms and hills when I turned to assess Adele's progress behind me and whether I should wait for her or not. As we had been under warm and pleasant blue skies all morning, I felt no urgency as yet. Mid turn I recognized that all was not as it should be.

Above Adele's head, and above the horizon we were climbing away from, was a monster of a cloud system. Cumulonimbus and angry as all hell. This was what I had always seen on the silver screen and never thought could be my reality, seemingly a living being rising from the west to stretch its arms of destruction over us and sweep us away. It was like the tidal wave in a disaster movie, or the onslaught af a barbarian horde in a Roman empire period piece.

Our uphill progress was slow, and the map I was following indicated that we hadn't yet reached the crest of the hill. I called out to Adele to see if she was able to push on to try and outrun what would certainly be an unpleasant downpour, and she said she preferred that to the alternative.

I had been climbing with a lazy cadence, but decided to put myself into the task. Every minute I glanced over my shoulder to see if the thunderhead was holding its position or moving away from us. Like a determined predator, it kept advancing. The first tendrils of white reached across the sky above me to block the blueness of summer and the sun's happy rays. It was as if the season had never existed. The black and blue body of the monster was still somewhat far behind me, but as I watched the shadow extend over my trajectory, I knew that we would have to come to terms with the great storm that was hovering behind us.

I crested the hill and jammed my derailleur into my highest gear. While turning a corner around the wheat-covered hills, I stared into the maw of the cloud and marveled at its sheer size, at the nuance of color, the definition of its front compared to the haziness of its greyish train dragging across the unfortunate land we had already passed. This was a beautiful monster we were running from.

Reaching the last summit and preparing to descend into a valley where we hoped to find shade, I realized that the air around me was perfectly still and warm, and the headwind I had been battling before was no longer present. I could feel the warm air around me in perfect stasis with my speed and my pores began to flood my exposed skin with moisture, hoping to cool my body's temperature. It was strange, riding in the horse latitudes while the storm galed with a polar fury. I cranked the pedals hard and leaned into the descent.

The cold air hit me like a brick wall as the air patterns abruptly changed. I pushed against the icy gusts attempting to dislodge my wheels from the pavement and realized that there was a palpable force pushing me around on the road. I tightened my white knuckles onto the hoods and fought the drift with what seemed to be overly dramatic corrections, and yet my path still wavered back and forth between the shoulder and the white painted line. The first moisture dropped onto my arms and shirt with big droplets of fury.

Pushing downward at an unreasonable speed for the conditions, I knew that if the pavement became wet our speeds would become dangerous, and I looked for a place to pull over. Miraculously, there was a turnout ahead where a tractor trailer anticipating the poor weather was already pulled out, waiting for the storm to pass. I applied my brakes and drafted a priority schedule in my head: cover leather saddle, tuck iPhone into waterproof bag, make sure Adele sees me, don raingear. Adele pulled in behind me and hastily put on her jacket. Before we had a chance to grasp what was happening, the hail came with a vengeance.

Big, hard, stinging projectiles came flying out of the sky and onto us. The hailstones were between the size of a shooter marble and a golf ball and they were FALLING FROM THE SKY. I yelled to Adele to take cover under the stand of trees and we crouched beneath not enough foliage with our arms over our necks and our bikes lying in the undergrowth.

Even if you don't like to wear a helmet for safety on a bicycle, it's a damn handy thing to have on our head in the event of a freak hailstorm.

An eternity passed. We remained hunched in the bushes while the projectiles pelted us mercilessly. The white orbs piled up onto the ground and created a twisted snow globe diorama of pain. Traffic was not moving on the road and the roar of precipitation drowned out any other noise. I feared the sting of paintballs on my back in a regressive memory from a time when I thought I'd like the game.

The weather lightened up slowly. Adele and I clamored out of the bushes and watched the landscape shift surprisingly fast from a winter wonder to overflowing gutter streams. Steam rose from the ground as the sun emerged from behind the grey like a lazy husband asking if he can do the dishes as the last pot is being dried.

The county sheriff stopped by to see if we were alright. We assured him we were as our wet clothing clung to us on the side of the highway.

We dried slowly as we rode. 30 miles later, we turned the keys in the lock of a house lent to us by relatives of friends and sank, exhausted, into the couches. Sometimes it's nice to have a safe place to land after so much uncertainty.

Then again, any port in a storm.

June 21 - trying to appreciate the desert

[Brock]

This is a dry and arid country we are traveling through. I thought many times of how we might try wild camping tonight if there were only a tree or shrub to hide behind! I feel like it is far easier to find free camping in places where you can't see for miles without obstruction, but that remains to be seen.

We left Columbia Hills State Park this morning around 8am and powered through the day without too many stops. We were fortunate to find a gas station at the interchange between US 97 and Highway 14 at Maryhill where we immediately consumed an entire box of old fashioned donuts and our beverages of choice (coffee for Adele and Arizona tea for me). The lady at the register suggested we check out the Stonehenge replica on our way east, which I had already seen two years before on a trip where I made friends with some free spirits out to observe the solstice. Adele and I opted not to rise before dawn to see the sun poke its rays through the precisely arranged stones this year.

The sun cooked us intensely while we observed the passing terrain, riding up and down hills and parching the backs of our throats. The one thing that kept me rolling at a steady pace was to notice that a river ferry working its way upstream seemed to be traveling even more slowly than we were, and with some effort and a well-placed downhill slope, we outpaced it for a while. These are the small diversions that keep one sane in the heat.

A stop at the Roosevelt market was timed with the end of the workday for many orchard workers who were arriving to purchase their afternoon snacks and libations. We took advantage of the only store selling food in the 70+ miles that made up our trip today and relaxed on the porch of the store while people came and went in a steady flow. A well-intentioned motorcyclist was friendly and inquisitive about our plans, seeming to want plenty of conversation, but we were too tired to engage at length and sucked on our frozen treats while staring into the middle distance. It's surprising how sometimes I find myself so ready to chat with strangers, and yet how at other times I cringe and the oncoming socialites. I suppose there isn't too much solitude to be found at the only store in the middle of the desert.

A family across the drive from us in the campground we settled at tonight is riding their set of tandem folding bikes from Oregon City to Spokane on the premise that ice cream is something you should have every day. I applaud their commitment to principle and hope they make it where they want to go without incident.

Having showered (paid for by a few quarters in a sockfull given us by Aaron - thanks!) and eaten our cans of chili, it seems like a good time to kick back and wait for the humid heat to cool. I really ought to have packed a good book, but maps and some audio may serve as relaxers until it's cool enough to sleep. I feel so brain dead right now.

Cooler day tomorrow is predicted and with it our arrival at civilization, internet access, and a shorter ride.

June 22 - 12 miles west of Walla Walla...

[Adele]

To the congregation of the Assemblies of God church 12 miles west of Walla Walla, Washington: Greetings.

We are unrolling our sleeping bags beneath your covered walkway behind your main sanctuary building. We are grateful that, being a rural little community, you organize no Friday night bingo or youth group or potluck shenanigans and your premises appear vacant enough to entice 2 weary travellers.

Whew, did Brock and I ever luck out on this one. With dark ominous clouds closing in fast behind us, we were getting anxious to find a place to bed down for the night, and since there are no campgrounds in these here parts, we had been looking in vain for a good place to wild camp, but all the land is privately owned ranch or farmland.

Then, about a mile from rejoining the highway, we spotted this church, and took shelter just in time as the rain hurled down in earnest. It's been steadily pouring now for 2 hours and we're as cozy as can be.

In spite of our plans to take it easy today, we ended up riding about 75 miles. How could we NOT, when an immense tailwind practically carried us out through the Columbia Gorge? You can't say no to that wind. Thank God we were riding with it; we had to turn south a few times, rather than move east, and it was all I could do to fight my bike through that wind.

We met a father and son bicycling duo this morning as we devoured sausages at the only store/restaurant in Patterson, WA (it boasted 3 shelves of canned food and a kitchen where they deep fried or microwaved your food to order).
The father had apparently been one of the first to cycle across the country with Adventure Cycling's routes in the 1970s; now, he and his just graduated from college son ("and he's employed!!") are doing a trip together to Montana. This was the first time the 2 had bike toured since the son was 12 years old; his parents had, before then, done many ambitious trips with their young offspring.

There's a point to this anecdote. I began to wonder how things would have been different if my parents had been crazy people on bikes hauling me around the globe---would I still enjoy cycle touring? Cycling, and touring in particular, has played such a huge role in defining me as an adult. It has given me an independence and self-confidence that I only dreamed of possessing as a child. If this had been my childhood norm, would I think that it sucked by the time I reached adolescence? In this family's case, it seemed as if the son was going on this trip to humor his dad---he didn't seem overly excited or to take nearly as much ownership or enjoyment in the adventure as his father was. I'm fascinated by the way each generation reacts to the previous one and in the process eventually rejects or embraces the example set by their predecessors.

For example, I grew up being fed tempeh and seaweed and miso soup and now I have fully embraced this into my culinary repertoire after a brief infatuation with cheese quesadillas. Wait, I still love cheese quesadillas.

I'm sure many of you can relate to this phenomenon.

And now, I raise my almost empty 16 oz. can of Budweiser, King of Beers, to you all in farewell.

Prost.

June 20 - Fish have Ladders and we have Headwinds

[Adele]

It's past 10 pm now, and finally dark enough to start feeling like calling it a day and going to sleep.

We're camped in an oasis of well-kept grass and non-native trees with the Columbia River to the south and the dry rugged hills of Washington to the north. Strange but wonderful to arrive here after a day of hot sun and headwinds.

Brock, Aaron, Meredith and I got off to a record late start this morning, mostly due to the fact that I refused to sleep for anything less than 11 hours! I've been so jittery and go-go-go for the past week, scrambling to wrap things up at home, say goodbye to my students and friends, and squeeze in a few Pedalpalooza rides, that I lost the ability to truly sleep.

It was nice to regain that skill.

This morning we checked out the fish ladder at the Bonneville Dam, and then Brock and I said goodbye to Aaron and Meredith as they pedaled off across the Bridge of the Gods to the Oregon side of the river. I felt sad to see them go.

But the stiff headwind that fought us as we continued to head east soon drove any other thoughts from my mind. Fortunately, the scenery was breathtaking. It almost made up for the wind. Green forested slopes gradually gave way to bare red rock cliffs and golden hills. In a car the change from lush to dry seems to happen all of a sudden, but on a bike you have time to notice the subtle shifts.

That's all for today! 15 miles from here, at the Stonehenge replica out by Maryhill, there are doubtless some crazy revels going on for the Solstice. We couldn't quite make it there. End of story. Happy Longest Day of the Year.

June 19 - Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

{Brock}

After months of preparation and planning, we finally made our way out the door and onto the road today. It's great to finally begin the adventure I've been anticipating so much, but not without its hardships.

I recognized last night after completing all of the running around that must precede a departure like this one that I often book myself out of time to reckon with the unpleasant nature of coming events. When I realized I was going to turn 30, I planned a music festival so that I wouldn't have to think about it. For this journey, I had many other distractions like lining up episodes for my podcast (thesprocketpodcast.com) and disassembling our living space so someone else can live in our office while we're away for the summer. Even the act of packing was ironically a distraction from the reality of leaving home for several months. Perhaps getting older has turned me into a homebody, but in contrast to years past when I've been excited about the prospect of a long trip by bicycle from parts known to those relatively mysterious, this year the drive to get away has lessened and my attachment to the friends I've made in Portland has made its way to the front of my emotions. I suppose it stands to reason that when you spend time with people you grow fond of them, but I was a little surprised by the strength of my feelings as I stood outside my house in Lents and realized that I would miss these people and wished that I had more time to bid a proper farewell to more of them. The feelings were surprising, but as Adele and I were talking in the herb garden she had meticulously sculpted under a moonlit night sky, she mentioned that it's nice to think that we will be coming back to this place and these people that we love at the end of our trip. Some people do not have this luxury and are continuously in transit from place to place, like long haul truck drivers or businessmen on airplanes, or – as much as I respect and admire the gusto it takes to travel adventurously on one's own schedule – long term world travelers by bicycle or on foot who haven't made plans to return to a place they call home. The security of a family to return to seems very empowering to me; they share our joy in a new adventure, and we share their joy when we return with new experiences and wisdom from breaking the mould of our usual routine.

This trip also gives us a few opportunities to reconnect with friends who live farther away from us, like the Califf and Winegardner families who are graciously providing us with beds, beer, and banter tonight. Some friends have ventured out with us to help ease the transition into solitude as well: Aaron rode with us out the historic highway today past waterfalls and over bridges, and Meredith rode public transportation to meet us in North Bonneville, besting me by riding the Skamania County bus before I've had the chance to do it myself, a coup de transit if I ever heard one.

Now to the last night in a proper bed for some time... sweet dreams of home and abroad await.

Preparation: Tolstoy Gets the Axe

[Adele]

Leo Tolstoy, please accept my sincerest posthumous apologies.

But you failed to keep the cycle tourist in mind when you penned over 1,000 pages of "War and Peace".  Desperate to shed some weight from my panniers, here is what I did:
I went to Powells this afternoon.  I selected and purchased a lightly used copy of the venerable tome.  Upon arriving home, I reached for the kitchen shears and carefully severed the spine of the book so as to relieve the volume of 460 pages that I've already read.

Being a pragmatist more than a sentimentalist, I plan to use the pages that I've read as starter fuel for the evening's campfire.

This sweeping, rambling novel about 19th century rich Russians and their love woes and triumphs and faith crises, has nothing to do with travelling through the great Western States.  In the past, I've chosen my reading material to match the place.  "The Grapes of Wrath" for the West Coast.  "The River Why" as I biked through Central Oregon.  Perfect.  I was experiencing the landscape both through beautiful prose and my own eyes.

For this trip, I couldn't come up with the perfect literary match.  And honestly, I didn't try too hard, since I've been immersed in "War and Peace" for the past month or so, and I'm afraid that if I put it down now I'll never be able to keep straight again the outrageously difficult (for an American) Russian names.

If you have any suggestions for the perfect book to match a trip through the rugged American West, I welcome your input! But only after I've finished all 1.455 pages of Tolstoy.

Packing: Phase 1

[Adele]

Bags.
Bags inside of bags.
Bags inside of bags inside of bags.
Bags inside of bags inside of bags inside of bags.

I am not going crazy.  No, I am getting all Type A on this situation.  In my typical, everyday life, I would describe myself as, well NOT Type A.  I laugh at my friends who are (sorry if that's you, I still love you.)

But as I prepare to set off on the epic-est bicycle trip of my life thus far, I need to plan ahead.  Way ahead.  And this stuff needs to be organized.  I will need to know precisely where my dental floss and toothbrush is when we are bandit camping in the dark of some vast wilderness somewhere in Wyoming with wolves howling in the hills.  (Did you know that only about 500,000 people actually live in Wyoming? I can't wait to meet them. All of them.) I cannot get away with throwing everything into the panniers willy-nilly and hoping for the best.

And so, I have been getting cozy with my sewing machine over the past few days.  In typical Portland fashion, I am incapable of throwing anything away, and thus an old pair of rain pants has been re-purposed into:

2 tool bags
a sunglasses case
mesh toiletry bag

Furthermore, I have stitched together a small canvas cover wherein dwell my credit cards and ID (because I get embarassed every time I pull out a ziploc baggie at the grocery checkout; my regular wallet is too huge for a bike tour) and a cloth bag which I can stuff with my clothes and use as a pillow.

Tomorrow is the last day we have to pull everything together.  Whew.  Deep breath.  Drink another glass of wine, and keep packing.

Wherever you are, I hope you have a good bag by your side.  I have 20.

Just a test, sorry.

Checking to see if the twitter and Facebook integration is working successfully. Until then, here's a picture of me wearing wooden sunglasses:

Preparation: loading the new panniers

[Brock]

The trip begins in just a few short days now! It's exciting to think about heading out on a new adventure after a year in which neither Adele or I did much in the way of bicycle touring or camping. We enjoyed a three night trip with friends to Cape Lookout State Park over Memorial Day weekend, and we had an exciting week bicycling through eastern Oregon over the Spring break week, but our ordinary spring seasons have usually seen us getting out of the house far more often. This time we will be making up for quantity with quality and blowing all of our travel excitement in one big lump sum.

The trip we have planned is to leave Portland, OR next Tuesday and make our way out the Columbia River gorge towards Idaho. We intend to cross the Rocky Mountains into Montana and land in Missoula, then turn southward towards Wyoming, Colorado, and, if all goes well, possibly New Mexico. We have 9 weeks at our disposal and plan to make the most of them.

This is the first trip in which we have used the Adventure Cycling Association's printed maps, and I'm looking forward to seeing how they serve a touring cyclist. The benefit of having mostly current information on a physical piece of paper is not lost on me, since most often in the past I've done most of that research myself, which is not only time consuming, but also redundant if it's been done for you. Perhaps this is the first time in my life that I've also seen the money spent on the maps as "worth it," or had enough income around to justify the expense. At any rate, it's nice to have these to refer to on the road, and for that reason this will be the first tour in which I've tried to plan as little as possible beforehand to allow for as much unpredictable or spur-of-the-moment decision making as we feel like experimenting with, rather than having a single route and itinerary blocked out that must be rigidly adhered to. Frankly, I think my healthy fascination with maps and logistics may have limited our possibilities on the road on previous trips, and I can't wait to see what the universe throws at us this time around.

I loaded my new set of Ortlieb panniers up with all of the extra linens in our closets today and attached them to my Jamis to see how they felt with some cargo in them. Made a leisurely circuit through town of about 30 miles or so and met up with Adele on her commute home. I recognize now that the reality of the shape my legs are in will set in soon enough, so I'm hoping to get out again for a few more test rides over the next few days to get used to it before the actual departure.

The next trick will be figuring out what I need to bring and how to pack it all into the bags... Always makes me a little nervous.

Also included: a photo of my traditional year-end ritual after my last day of work before the summer break with friends Aaron and Charlie.