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.
No comments:
Post a Comment