July 30 - All Schwinns Go To Heaven

[Brock]

We awoke within the boundaries of the San Isabel National Forest, where, as permitted by law, one may legally camp in the wilderness if at least 250 feet from any established roadway or stream or somesuch. We had driven ourselves somewhat against our will uphill against a gravel county road to the limits of private property and into the area that our tax dollars had proven were ours to camp in without dispute. After a quick breakfast of a toaster pastry each, carried from the mini mart at Hot Sulphur Springs and forgotten in my front right pannier, we quickly broke camp against the influx of mosquitoes and coasted downhill to the highway.

After 8 miles of paved riding we encountered the one-man dictatorship of Parlin, CO, an RV resort with a post office attached. The owner was from New Jersey and peppered us with questions about our bicycle adventure, to my taste a tad too long before ringing up our purchases of iced tea and packaged muffins. I opened mine and took a swig while he asked us about our travels. He was good natured enough, but I was ready for breakfast and wasn't entirely prepared to outline out travel plan before eating what little could be found in his shop. As a conciliatory gesture I made grand theatrical thank-you speeches as I returned through his western kitsch shop to fill my water bottles.

Another ten miles or so down the highway was Gunnison, home of Western Colorado University and a fine coffee shop in which we spent a few hours catching up on our communication and enjoying coffee and bagels. Afterward we dropped into a bookstore to gather a new set of novels for our entertainment when each other's company ran short. I also dropped into the local bicycle shop to replace a bolt that had been slowly loosening on my front rack.

From Gunnison, we rode north into the high country of the county and traced the road up to the vacation mecca of Crested Butte, a destination for those with resources form parts spread wide around. The only stipulation seems to be that you need to be able to afford the rent needed to live there in the summer.

We had an early dinner at a burrito shop recommended by the New jersey Man from Parlin that morning, a littel shop on the main drag through town that wrapped delectable ingredients in an enormous tortilla. Ten dollars worth of food weighed in for a satisfying stomach-filling meal.

I should note that in Salida as well as in Crested Butte, there are more citizens rolling around on old cruiser bikes than in almost any city I have been to that I can recall. I love the widespread acceptance of bicycles as a practical method of transportation, and yet the embodiment of my personal ideal has struck me as eerie or creepy, thinking that there must be something sinister just below the surface, even if that reality is the simple economics of wealthy leisure. I keep thinking of the 2009 remake of "The Prisoner," in which James Caviezel is trapped in a desert resort town he knows he doesn't belong in, and yet is assured is normative. Is this realization of an ideal so hard to believe in that I can't accept it when I see it?

Adele dropped into a few thrift stores while I spent an hour at the local brewpub, sampling their Cascadian Dark Ale and finding it to be sufficient for an afternoon's imbibing. We departed for the town park to listen to a military brass band performing for a crowd that seemed to number into the thousands. I dropped into the restrooms to wash the sticky off of my skin, and we found a large tub of peanut butter to coat our insides for the next few days at the local grocery.

As the sun sank into the western horizon, we pedaled into the hills west of town in search of free camping in the national forest. We alit on a hill above the stream along the highway overlooking the valley and the butte the town was named for. Lighting storms illuminated the eastern sky as we prepared to turn in for the night, proud of our accomplishments in mileage and free accommodations. They remind me of the storms I used to watch with my grandma as we pretended they were the forces driving the waves in the paintings on the wall.

July 28-29 - Salida and Monarch Pass

[Adele]

Our tent is an REI Taj 3. It's made to hold three people in a tight spot, and two comfortably. One person can set it up in a pinch, but two is better.

When I purchased it 6 years ago at the summer REI garage sale in Denver, snatching it from the grasp of other gearlusty hounds, I never imagined the places it would house me. I bought this tent because it was the first one I could grab from the cart an REI employee had just wheeled into the salivating crowd; I pressed it close and elbowed my way to the checkout line, rejoicing in my find.

Now, 6 years later, the Taj has acquired new smells and new stains, but the fly still stretches tight as a drum, keeping us dry through terrific downpours. This evening we dove in to escape hordes of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. Pitching the tent is the first order of business once we arrive at the day's final destination. Whether we end up in an aspen grove, RV storage lot, or town park, once we've set up the tent, I call the place home.

Yes, I love my tent. But I need to get on with recent anecdotes. Brock and Adele were last known to be wild camping on a bluff overlooking the rushing Arkansas river, 17 miles north of Buena Vista. From there, the road stretched lazily downhill and eased us into town on Saturday morning, where the Buena Vista Roastery awaited us. The town is a mecca for white water adventurers, rock climbers, and mountain bikers; it seemed as if everywhere I looked, someone was on a mission to go do something adrenaline-inducing.

Leaving Buena Vista, we rolled through the broad Arkansas river valley. To the west, the imposing Collegiate Peaks rose above the grasslands: Mounts Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and Princeton, all over 14,000 ft.

To the east I could see countless hills of reddish rock dotted with dark green pines. The Arkansas river flowed first sedately, then energetically as it tumbled through Brown's Canyon.

As an adventure camp counselor 6 years ago, I rafted down that 10 mile Canyon stretch with dozens of shrieking middle schoolers. Although the monetary pay that summer was negligible, the white water rafting trips helped to recompense me for my efforts.`

Eager to take a dip in the cool water, I eventually steered us down a gravel road that led to a small pebble-strewn piece of shoreline. I recognized the spot as where the rafting guides would pull out years ago. We waded in up to our wastes and lingered in the swirling current until quickening raindrops chased us out of the river and under the shelter of the outhouse.

By 4 pm we reached Salida. It's been the most talked-up town of the trip, and I have to say it lived up to my high expectations. The grid of streets were lined with old brightly painted buildings which housed artists' studios, beer gardens, coffeeshops, and boutiques.
We were pleasantly surprised by the number of folks cruising round on bikes. Brock surmised, however, that Salida was too perfect: "There must be some dark secret here," he declared.

As we leaned our bikes up against a storefront, a woman in bike shorts approached us and asked the predictable questions: where did we come from, where were we going. Although mountain bikers and road cyclists alike flock to Salida, we were somewhat of an anomaly with our hefty bags of gear.

On the woman's recommendation, we went to the Fritz and downed a few beers while taking in the Olympic highlights on the screen. Across the street, performers put on a production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" for onlookers seated on the city park's grass. This is the second time on our trip we've seen ambitious thespians perform Shakespeare in unlikely places; a few weeks ago, we passingly observed "King Lear" in Lander, Wyoming.

Our host in Ft. Collins, Aaron "the Professor", had given us a contact in Salida to stay with. Brock arranged to meet Andy in front of the Safeway, so we waited by the bike racks out front for our host to show up.

Soon enough, a guy with long dreads on a tan cruiser approached us. Our gaze met and he grinned; assuming this was Andy, I stepped forward, introduced myself, and stuck out my hand. "I'm Mark", the man responded, shaking my hand. "Good to meet you...Brock thought your name was Andy" I responded. Mark explained that he was just heading into Safeway, and I realized my mistake.

The real Andy showed up a few minutes later.

Brock and I spent the rest of the evening luxuriating in the apartment that he shares with Aaron's friend Annie, a fellow New Belgium employee. The apartment, on the second floor of what must have been a 100 year old building, was as quirky as they come. The decor was a physical ode to beer and bikes, with timeworn wooden beams, brick walls, and numerous plants adding character.

To enter the guestroom, you had to step up and duck down through a dwarf-sized door. I promptly cracked my head on the lintel and threw myself down on the bed as stars danced before my eyes.

On Sunday morning we roused ourselves from the cave-like guestroom and breakfasted on burritos and coffee at Cafe Dawn around the corner. An hour later, the paved multi-use path led us westward out of Salida. Two miles out of town, I realized that I'd forgotten my tank top drying on a chair back in the courtyard of the apartment building. Brock settled under a tree while I raced back---we've already forgotten numerous articles on this adventure, and I'd hate to lose more! I found my quarry still hanging reproachfully on the chair, as if to say, I'm dry now and I want to go with you.

Monarch Pass was our goal for the day: a daunting climb up to 11,312 ft. We've tackled enough of these high passes by now that I've grown from thinking of them as my daily penance to just something I get to do, whether for better or for worse.

Andy had recommended the quieter and more scenic Cottonwood Pass 25 miles north; if this route hadn't involved backtracking to Buena Vista and climbing an extra 1,000 ft., we would have opted for it. After all, that's what Willy Weir and Clif Bar man would have done; but the Ditti are neither.

Groaning semi trucks and fast flying sporty vehicles shook me from contemplation (should my next tattoo be a fern? does my house need new curtains?) as I pedaled slowly up Monarch Pass.

As we obstinately gained elevation, I grew more and more dizzy and it became increasingly difficult to hold my front wheel to the white line by the almost nonexistent shoulder. More than once I swerved onto the washy gravel. I felt like I was drunk and trying to bike a tightrope. Still, we won the summit and once again crossed the Continental Divide, probably for the last time.

We rested and drank sugary beverages at the gift shop at the top of the pass, then donned extra shirts and rain jackets for the heart-stopping descent. 10 miles of weaving and winding and the wind rushing close and cold.

At the bottom we took refuge from a cloudburst in a gravel barn. I de-numbed my fingers and quelled my snappish sugar-low with a peanut butter and jelly tortilla.

The hope of free camping lured us far off the highway along a gravel road and deep into a narrow valley. My eyes played tricks on me as I didn't notice the ascending grade; only my tired legs told me the truth, and by the time we reached National Forest land six miles from the highway, both Brock and I were ready to collapse into our tent.

And that brings us back full circle to how much I love our little dome of poles and nylon.

July 25-27 - Time off in a classy town

We left Hot Sulphur Springs after a breakfast at the gas station of toaster pastries and gas station coffee. The ride was mostly downhill to Kremmling, in which we discovered a coffee shop that caters to the region's many tourists, most of whom are rafting on nearby rivers. While in the shop for a second round of caffeine, the regular pattern of afternoon thundershowers accelerated to deliver the first round of raindrops early. We sat and waited it out.

That afternoon we traveled slowly upward in elevation again, riding more slowly because of the incline. We reached Silverthorne and the Dillon Reservoir by 6pm and watched more threatening clouds gather over the surrounding mountains. The rain didn't fall, and we made it to our hosts' home in Frisco with ease along a separated bicycle path that skirted the lake.

We had met Bob & Dorothy's daughter in Fort Collins while hanging out at the New Belgium brewery, and she had recommended that we give them a call to ask about staying with them when we arrived in Summit County. The parents were obliging, and so we went to their condominium right off of the main street in town to meet them.

Kind and open-hearted recent empty-nesters, the couple welcomed us warmly and showed us to our quarters after the initial explanatory chat that is customary to give all hosts about our trip, where we had been and where we were going to go. They gave us a suite on the second floor of four, including a dedicated bath, enormous bed and armchairs. We felt like royalty, and assumed the roles with gusto. Showers and laundry were the first priority, and then we went out to dinner with our new friends at a restaurant they recommended; we all decided upon the same entree, a piping hot dish of lasagna.

I am often struck at how easily some people will fold strangers into their daily routine, and am inspired to retain the same openness to others in my day-to-day life at home.

The next day, having been told by Bob that we could stay "as long as we liked," we decided to add another night in Frisco to our itinerary and take advantage of the many diversions Summit County offers. The transit system runs free buses between the major population centers, and there is a well-designed system of off-road recreation paths used by bicyclists, joggers, and longboarders. We decided to board the bus to Breckenridge, the acclaimed ski vacation destination, bringing our bicycles along on racks just as we would in Portland.

Bob & Dorothy own a frozen yogurt shop on the main commercial street in Breckenridge, and we dropped in to see what it was like. The building has a history that is logged by the government's register and consists of hand-hewn timbers restored to their original luster. The yogurt operation is self-serve with toppings hand-picked by Bob and sold by weight at the counter, often staffed by young employees happy to have a first job so enjoyable. Adele and I both finished off a bowl each with great enjoyment.

That afternoon we chose to ride the free gondola system that ferries folks between the town in the valley and the ski resort on the mountains. We forgot to factor in the amount of elevation we had gained so quickly, and by the time we reached the ski lodge both of us were feeling the effects. I was mildly ruffled, but this time Adele was the one who couldn't stomach the intense change, and so, after a little deliberation and a search for a bag to vomit into just in case of such an eventuality, we rode the gondola back down into town and ate a little food to strengthen our systems.

The bicycle ride back into Frisco was very relaxed; most of the ride was a clean and easy coast down a gentle grade that barely required any effort at all in the warm afternoon sun.

Adele headed back to the condo to rest up after her bout with altitude, and I hopped one more bus to Copper Mountain to see what the lay of the land would be for our departure route the next day. We would be climbing, but at the moment I would relish a long downhill coast on a similar path, along with about 7 longboarders who had been clued into the free lift up the hill.

On my descent, I ran into Bob, who was out for his afternoon constitutional on a light and speedy bicycle. I turned and rode to the trailhead of Vail Pass with him while we talked about the recreational possibilities of the mountains around us. I thanked him for the hospitality, and offered to reciprocate should he find himself in Portland someday. Bob was appreciative but emphasized that I should pay it forward to the next guests I encountered in need of a place to stay.

Adele and I had dinner at a brewpub that served a four meat pizza, and later added an order of the "9,097 ft. nachos" to our yet empty stomachs. An old friend of Adele's had made the drive west from Denver to reconnect, and we talked late into the night over pints of the brewery's fine products.

Finally, after a night of rest it was time to depart. We climbed towards Copper Mountain and stopped for coffee at the shop we found at the end of the path. A rainshower dotted with soft hail drive us and many other recreational cyclists into the couches and chairs inside the shop while we waited out the deluge. Once clear, we saddled up and rode uphill into the hills toward Fremont Pass on Colorado's highway 91. Lightning flashed around the surrounding peaks and we waited for the bolts to dissipate, but eventually we crested the pass and rode down into Leadville.

This evening we endure more rain while camping in a stand of trees just off the roadway. The tent provides a shelter from the rain and we will eventually get around to cooking some dinner once the patter of droplets oin the roof sounds less threatening. We were fortunate to avoid another lightning storm while in town, and there was a gentle downhill slope almost all the way to our landing point tonight.

We hope to sleep well and feel well-fed.

July 24 - The revolution will be hedonized

{Adele}

We started our day with one of those lazy mornings where the sun eventually heated up the inside of the tent enough to oust us blurry eyed from the depths of our sleeping bags and out into the wide-awake world.

The roving bands of dopey, emboldened elk had not decided to sample our tent material during the night as I'd feared they might; one, however, had chewed Brock's wristband, doubtless attracted by its bright hue. I don't know what sort of neon orange food occurs naturally in the Rockies, but this elk was not an adherent to native fare. Brock washed out the drool and put the band back on his wrist.

After packing up the tent and bidding farewell to the neighboring couple from Kansas, we downed quick spoonfuls of maple almond butter, (made by a small company in Boulder, it tastes like cookie dough and I can't get enough of it) and left Timber Creek Campground as more roving carloads of tourists snapped photos of the bandit elks.

The last stretch of RMNP was generous to us, doling out mile after mile of flat valley road bordering the Colorado River and flanked by mountain ridges. It's hard to imagine this small pristine waterway gaining clout as it winds its way through the southwest and eventually puttering out somewhere before it reaches the Pacific. (Neither Brock nor I can remember where the Colorado River becomes so robbed of its waters that it disappears, so please fill us in if you know!)

We propped our feet up for an hour or so in a spacious tourist-oriented coffeeshop in Grand Lake, just outside the entrance to the Park. Their thick, flavorful brew spoiled my tastebuds; I don't think I can go back to the Folgers, and maybe I won't have to.

Colorado seems to have many more cute touristy towns filled with creature comforts than Wyoming or any of the other states we've travelled through for that matter. This makes it more difficult for me to endeavor to be content in all circumstances, including slop coffee situations. There's a time to build character and a time to hedonize, and Wyoming build enough character to last me for 3 years at least.

At the coffeeshop, Brock and I looked over the maps and chose the tiny town of Hot Sulphur Springs for the day's destination, due to the fact that its city park offers free camping. It only lay 25 miles down the road, but after yesterday's epic 25 mile climb up 4,000 feet, our bodies thanked us.

(Sidenote: I felt like a celebrity pedaling up Trail Ridge Road yesterday. So much adulation from drivers. A man passing us took both hands off the steering wheel as he coasted downhill with a 1,000 ft. drop on his right, with no guardrail, to fist pump and cheer. Tourists at the top came over to tell us how much they admire what we're doing. I'm only surprised no one asked us to bless their babies.)

We cycled over gently rolling terrain past two expansive lakes, then turned west on a small highway that followed the Colorado River. Hot Sulphur Springs does indeed boast a resort of the same name, although the town has seen busier days.

After setting up our tent and washing up in the river (classy), we strolled the streets looking for a place to purchase alcohol. Of the five bar/restaurant establishments in town, only one remains open. Apparently the recession hit pretty hard.

Connecting with local residents can be the most enjoyable part of exploring a small town, and we discovered a posse of them ringed round inside the lone bar. They seemed happy to welcome new faces and we stayed for a few hours. Elsie, the oldest and quietest bar tender I've ever encountered, offered us generous beer samples and gamely put up with the good-natured teasing of her clientele.

We made the acquaintance of Steve, who's lived in Hot Sulphur Springs off and on for 30 years. A fellow Garrison Keillor fan, he happened to hear Brock on the Ft. Collins community radio Bikes and Beer show! Steve filled our ears with stories of working at the Hot Springs resort, water rights, and local history.

The rain came down in earnest as we settled in for the night. Now that we're a little over halfway done with our journey, I'm savoring the days more. And since we've made it to Colorado, I care less about the mileage we accumulate than the different kinds of experiences we enjoy.

July 23 - do not leave your bags unattended

[Brock]

First off, it's my dad's birthday today, and though I intended to phone in and wish him well we landed at a campground without phone service of any kind. So, with apologies, happy birthday, dad.

We rose feeling better about life after a raucous thunderstorm rocked our campground last night. I could see the brightness of the lightning despite being inside the tent with my eyes closed as I tried to fall alseep. By morning all of our things and the ground around us were dry. Mountains breed killer storms, but they pass if you wait it out.

Long climbs up the mountains were punctuated by breaks for spectacular scenery and inquisitive conversation with other vacationers. Steep climbs went slow but the views from the ridges we tackled were worth every pedal stroke. We climbed to 12,000 feet in elevation as we crested the highest continuously paved road in the country and high-fived each other in celebration. The Carpenters' "Top of the World" made a suitable soundtrack for the occasion.

The Alpine visitor center was swarming with visitors as we ordered sausages for a fancy cafeteria style lunch, and we ate while viewing the slopes that drop out from under the gift shop. Then we mounted our bikes again and dropped several thousand feet in glorious, victorious descent towards a campground we had seen on the map and hoped we would have a chance of staying in. We passed Poudre Lake, headwaters of the pleasant stream we had bicycled along in Fort Collins, and a predictable traffic back-up where two bull elk were luxuriating in the camera lenses of travelers like celebrities accustomed to attention.

Timber Creek campground in Rocky Mountain National Park is quiet on a weekday, and situated in the middle of a controlled burn site that had hoped to mitigate the spread of invasive pine beetles which are sapping the life out of the native trees in the area. It is quite near the Colorado River and haven to many woodland creatures who linger on the edges of the campground preparing for the occasional foray into our campsites to explore the human borne scents and tastes.

We enjoyed a campfire with neighbors Ian and Amber, Kansas natives on vacation to the mountains. While we talked, a good number of elk sashayed out of the thicket and poked or prodded our belongings on the picnic table. Ian had fended them off earlier and helped me persuade them to move on, though it seemed they were used to human presence. One elk nosed at our tent while another licked at my panniers, leaving a spot of its spittle and some chewed foliage. I did not want to get too close in case I spooked them into hurting me in an unpredictable reaction, but I stood at about 8 feet away and windmilled my hands while shouting at them to leave.

A few of the elk have been tagged with radio locators on neckbands, and we hear that one of them recently carried away someone's backpack, which a ranger dutifully retrieved from the surrounding forest later. We locked our belongings up in the bear-proof boxes to avoid such a fiasco tonight.

We've hit the western side of the Continental Divide, our last crossing on the trip, we believe. There will nonetheless be many more mountains to climb before we reach our newly decided end goal of Grand Junction to catch a train back towards Portland. We feel lucky to have nearly a month left to explore Colorado.

July 22 - Do I make you feel...awkward?

[Adele}

As I scrubbed my leopard print underwear in a Rocky Mountain National Park campground's communal sink this afternoon, a father with 3 young sons waited just behind me to wash their lunch plates. I realized that once again on this bike trip I'd created a socially awkward situation.

"Looks like you got done what you needed to do there," the man dryly remarked as I finished up and walked away.

To name similarly themed situations:

Shaving my legs with the help of a bar of Dr. Bronners and a Nalgene of water by Yellowstone's hiker/biker picnic tables.

Balancing acrobatically on the edge of the narrow lipped sink of a public restroom to wash my dusty feet.

Spreading out a dinner of sub sandwiches, Cheetos, and yogurt in front of a Ft. Collins Safeway, and obliging all shoppers to sidestep our sidewalk feast. (We've eaten at Safeways countless times, but there's always been tables or at least a bench.)

Strewing soggy undergarments and socks like Christmas tree ornaments on the pines at our Grant Village campsite.

Piling the entire contents of my pannier---bagels, "War and Peace", jelly, carrots---Mary Poppins style onto the table of Funkwerks brewery. I finally found my ID and proved my age to the server.

As I study my list, I realize that most of these hilarious and ridiculous predicaments result from a necessity to bring my personal needs into the public sphere. Without typical privacy to eat, wash laundry, or take care of personal hygiene, I've stepped out of the realm of "normal" American middle class social behavior.

I'm still getting used to it. Desperation breeds boldness, and of course a situation is only awkward if you believe in its awkwardness. Confidence, confidence.

Let's move on and talk about how far Brock and I rode today, because I know that's what you're really interested in, right?

We biked 4 miles.

This surprised me as much as anyone, considering we'd planned to push on 48 miles to the western gates of Rocky Mountain National Park (RMNP). I'd been eagerly looking forward to spending a few days camping and hiking in RMNP, but when we talked with a ranger at the Estes Park entrance he informed us that all the front country campgrounds were full.
Go figure, it's summer peak season and we're not the only people with a bright idea and hiking shoes.

Disappointed, we plunked down on the curb right inside the Park and munched on wraps. I gazed wistfully up at the beautiful peaks, hating to think that I'd never set foot on a trail.

The near-universal rule of cycle touring is this: if you look sufficiently down on your luck, someone will come to your aid.

In today's case, aid came in the form of a pretty young park ranger with a blonde ponytail, very white teeth, and a badge reading "Mary".
"Where are you headed?" she asked us in a Southern accent as she walked by.
"To Granby; we wanted to camp in the Park, but everything's full." I replied.
"I can get you a campsite just down the road at Morraine Park," Mary said. We immediately took her up on the offer.

Katie, the ranger at the campground's entrance booth and a fellow cycle tourer, set us up with a gorgeous site perched on a hill overlooking a sweeping green meadow. Long's Peak, the highest in the Park, reared tall above the timberline.

Brock felt low on energy, whether due to the altitude or lack of hydration or both. He rested at camp while I set off to hike a 7 mile loop up to Cub Lake. I returned a few hours later to find him feeling better and we both seemed happier to spend the rest of the evening together after being apart for a bit.

As I write this, thunder crashes overhead and wind worries at the tent. The rocks that Brock used to anchor down our little home have held, and we're snug inside except for a few rascally trickles of water seeping in the edges.

These thunderstorms are a whole new beast compared to the kind of rain we get in Portland. I love the drama of lightning, but I'd prefer to have the power to shut off the electric current when I want to go to sleep.

Tomorrow we go further up and further in.

July 18-21 - walking on air

[Brock]

It's been a great couple of days and a hard period of the trip to bid farewell to, but I will do my best to summarize.

After leaving Laramie, we were subjected to another punishing ride through barren desert until we arrived at a business which sold nearly nothing but fireworks. Rural Wyoming is a wild place, and the shop we arrived at shortly before Tie Siding did a large business in explosives. We bought energy drinks from their cooler, fortified with electrolytes, and chatted with the proprietor, an old, grizzled man who had made the sale of incendiaries his career about the lay of the land in parts south after using his bathrooms. We declined the 25 cent coffee advertised and continued south towards the border of the Cowboy State.

It's laughably green along the border between Wyoming and Colorado. It's as if someone drew a line where the land becomes green and decided that all the scratch and sage north of this line was to be the wastelands of Wyoming, and all of the life-supporting pine forest south was to be the highly preferable state of Colorado. The one one thing I can praise the Cowboy State for is the quality of their rest stops on highways, air-conditioned oases with full-service bathrooms and cool water from the tap, in contrast to the olfactory dungeons of Colorado's bathrooms with nary a cooling breezer.

A hot day's ride south against brutal headwinds dropped us off the Wyoming plains into the grassland valleys of Fort Collins and the even, pond-ridden flatlands that make up the eastern portion of the state (and, one assumes, the rest of the Union all the way to the mountains of Tennessee) that lie a few thousand feet below the cooling breezes of the higher country we had come from. We rolled into the metropolis of Fort Collins on the 287 highway as we marveled at the trees that provided a cool shade from the oppressive sun.

Our host, Aaron, known by his peers as "The Professor" for some hijinks several years past, left a key under his doormat for us to drop our belonging off before exploring the city, and we luxuriated in the 20 degree difference between the outside air and his basement apartment.

We rode back to the downtown area to meet Zach, a metal fabricator and radio host on the local 88.9 FM radio station for a beer at the local brewery before taking the community radio airwaves by storm with tales of our adventures on the road. Zach had met several other tourists by bike, a few of which called Portland OR their home, and we chatted together about our travels as friends in Portland listened via the webstream.

After the broadcast we rode outr bicycles to a local downtown legend called Surfside 7 to meet up with the bicycle enthusiasts of the city. After an hour of socializing over brews, we departed on an organized and themed ride to one of the dives on the outer edges of the city in a uniform of polor shorts, bolo ties and short denim shorts to continue the merriment.

We were out late that night and reitred to the Professor's apartment after a long night of making new connections.

The next day we rose late and followed the Professor to his workplace of the New Belgium Brewery where he gave us many samples of the wares of the company and led us on a thorough tour of the establishment. We concluded with a few rounds of a Belgian game involving a curved surface of concrete and many rounded wooden gamepieces that rolled lazily back and forth to an end near the goal on the far side of the track.

We rode that night to the Bar SS in LaPorte where we played games involving a ring on a length of wire that optimally would rest on a hook mounted to the fence, followed by a hilarious game of darts with a local who was already several sheets to the wind.

The next day found us in a theater to view the new Batman movie, followed by pints at another small brewery recommended by the Professor.

Leaving this morning was nearly painful after such a relaxed bout with great people in such an amenable city. We loved the connections with new friends and a new town to explore, but duty called and so we rode out with our belongings into the great wide open, relishing our new friendships and leisurely pace of life of the past few days.

The climb to Estes Park from the lowlands was a sweaty mess of persistence up several thousand feet of elevation. All of the campgrounds were full of tourists hankering for a glimpse of the Rocky Mountains, and we made our way to a private enterprise that directed our tent-pitching to the dry camp behind the greatly engorged campground, filled with RV campers and tenters by car. We enjoyed a leisurely dinner of potatoes and beans at a vacant picnic table after setting up camp in the RV storage lot.

We are gratefully indebted to the Professor and his friends for a warm welcome in Fort Collins, and the memory of the place will not soon leave our minds. The transition back into our existence as fiercely independent explorers is not without the sweet sorrow of parting.

Rocky mountains are next.

July 17 - bidding farewell to the cowboy state

{Brock}

For our last full day in Wyoming, we began by eating again at the Virginian Hotel in Medicine Bow WY, a hearty breakfast of pancakes and a breakfast burrito smothered in chili. We had eaten there the previous night and raided their salad bar with its withered lettuce and tapioca bowls, and decided that we would rather eat a fresh breakfast cooked from the griddle than reconstituted dried bean mix, all that was left of our food stores.

Packing the tent in the town park, we marveled at the free camping and gave thanks for a money-saving option that allow4ed for a luxurious breakfast.

We pedaled our of Medicine Bow and headed southeast towards River Rock, another small town across the county line with a single open grocery and a town park for eating our morning snacks in. We had chased freight trains down the Sand Creek Massacre Trail all morning. The lady at the grocery recounted her experiences fighting fires recently in the area, a common experience for many. we assume.

Twenty more miles down the road we arrived at a ghost town no longer the center of commerce for the region. Burned out husks of buildings greeted us with little exuberance. We sat in the shade of an aluminum-sided warehouse to enjoy a lunch purchased in River Rock of crackers, tuna, and mustard with pickle spears to garnish. As we sat, the legendary Doc pulled up to the warehouse with two rolling chairs loaded into his pickup truck and asked us if it was snack time, to which we replied in the affirmative. He told us about the town that one month prior had stood with facades of buildings lining the highway. Today, after the ravaging fire that had started in a garbage can, only his residence and a few other scant buildings remained.

We arrived in Laramie late in the day after threading the needle between two storm systems that were dumping rain around us. I thought we might get doused with a summer sprinkle, but as the day before we had avoided being soaked, this day also brought us between the clouds and safely into town without danger or relative discomfort.

We spent a few hours at a coffee shop in downtown Laramie, then cycled to the home of our hosts, Evan and Kennedy, whom we had connected with using the warmshowers.org website. They welcomed us with open arms, despite their basement's recent leaking problems, and gave us dinner, a social connection with some friends, and a bed to sleep in after an evening around the campfire in the back yard.

Tomorrow we arrive in the legendary Fort Collins and enter a mecca of bicycling and beer.

July 14-16 - It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

[Adele]

From Friday evening until 8:30 this morning, we were spoiled on good food, good friends, and extreme relaxation. After 2 full days off the bike, my legs had ceased to feel like jello and I'd mostly forgotten how frustrating the ever-shifting Wyoming winds can be.

I hadn't seen my college friends Marie and Joe for 6 years (with the exception of Brock and my wedding, but that hardly counts for quality interaction); I never really thought I would make it out to Casper to visit them, and so rolling up to their doorstep on Friday felt surreal. Marie and Joe fed us deliciously concocted meals that typically involved meat they'd hunted: mostly elk, and some antelope and pork sausage.

While we don't eat much meat in Portland, I could get used to this carnivorous lifestyle---I'd have to hone my hunting skills of course. Last night the Scotts took us out to the shooting range on Joe's family's ranch. I nailed a couple of milk jugs with a .44 magnum, sending a satisfying spray of water high into the air; Brock, however, smoked his target 450 yards away with some sort of huge rifle. On second thoughts, he can bring home the game and I'll cook it.

I alternated gingerly attempting to shoot the various guns that Joe brought out with playing with Joe and Marie's adorable 17 month old daughter Kaia, who sported "mouse ears" (earmuffs to block the sound). She is one badass baby.

If you live in Portland, you should ride bikes. If you live in Wyoming, you should shoot guns. Otherwise, you're missing out on a defining piece of culture.

Blue skies and stiff winds greeted us as Brock and I made our way back over the pass this morning. We had an 85 mile day of riding ahead of us; I had initially balked at the distance, but there lay the only town on our way to Laramie within a day's riding distance from Casper, and we need the water a town provides.

We paused for lunch at a rest stop, one of those godsends we've discovered in Wyoming where you can take shelter in air conditioning and fill up on water.

A stout climb led up to the broad expanse of Shirley Basin, where Joe had warned us the wind could REALLY kick up. We crossed the giant plain ringed by hills and inhabited by the occasional cattle---I've been told that it takes 40 acres of land to sustain one head of cattle in this area.

The calm air belied Joe's warnings and lulled me into a content mood, happy to be pedaling and gazing up at the expansive sky. There was more sky than land to look at. Puffy white clouds, looking like disheveled cotton balls, marched in battalions across the blue as far as I could see. After some miles, the road curved westward and I spied a foreboding storm cloud stretching its dark fingers over the yellow grassland, scattering sheets of gray rain.

While the storm was still many miles away, the force of the wind that swept it along soon hit us. We slogged across the open plain in low gear, and my spirits dampened as my muscles groaned.

Finally, I couldn't take my mind off the futility of fighting the ever-increasing wind. I was seized by the desire to leap off my bike and with my last ounce of strength hurl it into the ditch and stick out my thumb for a ride.

I knew I had to keep sane, at least for Brock. I pulled over to the side of the road and announced "I'm going to walk", which must have confused my husband but in my mind translated to "I'm giving my evil bike a timeout."

Brock suggested we find shelter and wait for the wind to die down. 10 minutes later, the wind hadn't calmed but my spirits were bolstered enough to push on. To Wyoming's credit, 2 pick up trucks pulled over to ask if we were alright as we rested by the road.

When the highway bent south once more, I finally felt the wind at my back. 2 thunderstorm systems had passed by either side of us but we received scarcely a sprinkle of rain. We were going to make it 85 miles after all. As we crested the final hill and looked down on the hamlet of Medicine Bow, Brock asked me "Are you ready for dinner?". Oh yes. It's Brock's 30th birthday after all. He earned every ounce of the chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes that the old Virginia Hotel served up 30 minutes later.

Maybe I'll learn some valuable life lesson from this fickle Wyoming wind. But it'll take me a calm spell to ponder that one out.

July 13 - Friday the 13th was unlucky but not entirely unpleasant

[Brock]

We woke in the shade of the Fire Department of Carbon County that had been our ad hoc campground the night before. A wedding anniversary spent in some of the emptiest lands we could envision was nonetheless a welcome holiday.

Jimmy at the 3 Forks Muddy Gap Service Station sold us our coffee beverages and filled us in on what we could expect down the road, then returned to training his fill-in employee for an upcoming absence. People have written their names on every exposed surface in the store and so we did the same in brown permanent marker vertically beside the candy bars.

Our first divergence from the established touring route led us east across an empty expanse toward Casper, Wyoming where one of Adele's friends from college lives. We traded the fancy maps from Adventure Cycling for a standard highway map of the state we had found in Twin Bridges, Montana.

The riding was flat and the winds were against us slightly but not oppressively. We passed the site of Devil's Gate, a cleft in the rock wall near a place where Mormon pioneers had rested on their flight to Utah, pulling their possessions in handcarts for the want of a horse. Over the ridge we found Independence Rock where travelers westbound historically knew they were on track for good weather in the passes if they had arrived by July 4. The pioneers had carved their names into the rock for perpetuity; we simply doused our heads and clothing with water at the tap where water flowed freely after twenty miles of parched and dry desert.

The highway climbed gently after the rest stop, not enough to discourage us all at once, but rather to spread that discouragement evenly over the entirety of the journey. Dead animals generously littered the shoulder, unfortunate deer mostly, who couldn't avoid a collision with a vehicle and were now slowly becoming one with the soil again.

We crested the high point of the highway near Alcova Reservoir and coasted down to the RV park and general store at the bottom of the gill. Tar patches over cracks in the pavement were soft in the direct sunlight and our tires would catch into the ruts with an alarming jolt if we were not careful to avoid them.

We sat in front of the store swatting flies and eating our impulse buys: corn chips flavored to "ranch" and tall cans of iced tea. Bearded local James regaled us with tales of the area and inquired to our status and direction while licking a strawberry ice cream cone. He talked steadily until we stood to continue our journey.

Going was easier after we hit the irrigated farmlands east of Alcova, if only because there were signs of civilization. We stopped at the Platte River to dip in and cool ourselves, a refreshing cool after a warm day. Water evaporated from us with alarming rapidity and we rode on again.

Construction had torn up the road approaching Casper and we waited for the flagger's sgnal (in Wyoming, it seems the flaggers are required to wave an orange flag as well as hold a stop/slow sign, which is an additional responsibility to those we have seen thus far) before we rode through clouds of dust over packed gravel against an increasing headwind. The highway was transitioning to a 4-lane ordeal after happily existing as a 2-lane for years.

Casper's west entrance is blocked by an enormous pass. The climb was not steep but the wind consistently blows from the east, and our gears were shifted as low as possible. The water in our bottles was warm again, good for the body but not quite refreshing for the spirit anymore. We worked hard to complete the climb.

We've been resting at Joe and Marie's home near the Platte now for several days, enjoying the benefits of a roof overhead, friends, food, and laundry. Soon we'll depart south for Laramie and Fort Collins.

July 12 - We need showers

[Adele]

Slumped in the tent after a long 80 mile day, we are the stinkiest pair west of the Mississippi. 2 days without showering can do much to ripen one's personal aroma, no matter how much you try to fight it with wet wipes. Does this lend itself to romance as we celebrate our 4th wedding anniversary?I hold onto the hope for a shower tomorrow evening when we arrive in Casper.

We began the day much as we ended the last: enjoying the culinary delights of Safeway. Donuts, coffee, bagels, wifi, bathrooms, Safeway seems to have it all for the traveler. A friendly young rock climber situated near our table, evidently also savoring Safeway's comestibles with a quart of milk and box of cereal, chats with us about the climbing scene in Lander and shares sugar-encrusted blueberry muffins with us. I like climbers. We were surrounded by them at the park last night and I envy their rippling arm muscles; however, I lack the dedication to acquire some myself.

We don't break away from the air-conditioned grocery until 11 am. The road abruptly leaves the bustling town and ushers us into an empty landscape of sage-covered rolling hills. About 10 miles down the road, a man loading a mountain bike into a white VW van calls out to us, "Need any water?" "No thanks, we're set, " I shout back. Not to be turned down, the van sidles up alongside us 2 minutes later. "Want some bacon?"

That invitation brings us to an abrupt halt. A guy slides open the van door and pulls out a ziploc of crisp bacon. "We thought bacon might be code for something else," Brock jokes. Mac turns out to be travelling from British Columbia, which his accent would have betrayed had not I first noticed his license plate. He slices cold slabs of cheddar cheese to pair with the bacon and offers us his "shower," a plastic jug filled with river water with tiny holes in the cap.
"It must be nice traveling with someone else," Mac remarks. "I met a guy cycling on I-90 who talks to trees."

"Remember, bacon is the secret to a happy life," he calls out to us as he maneuvers his van back onto the road.

The next 2 hours are a blur for me as the temperature soars above 90 and the road bends upwards. I stubbornly refuse to listen to my ipod until cycling at least 30 miles. The white orb of the sun, unfiltered by clouds, gazes down on us like the lidless eye of Sauron.

The breeze, which until now had cooled our bodies, disappears and the still air infuses the whole landscape with a feeling of lifelessness. The stench of rotting animal fills my nostrils, although I can't see the carcass.

Finally, we reach the high country and a blessedly air-conditioned rest stop. The Oregon Trail, Mormon Trail, Pony Express, and California Trail all traced this portion of our route. I'm glad to at least be moving more swiftly than the pioneers through this sun-scorched highland.

As we continue pedaling late into the afternoon, I find it easier to appreciate the beauty of the bare landscape. Dramatic rocks lie in the distance; a particular formation, split rock, served as a waypost for Indians and explorers.

We stop for drinks at one of the only establishments in Jeffrey City. This place once boasted a sizeable population, but once the uranium supply dwindled, almost everyone moved away. The town still has an annual cribbage tournament. While the Guinness refreshes my spirits, I'm too tired to do more than toast to our anniversary with Brock and then sit quietly sipping.

Our goal for the night is a crossroads where our map indicates camping. We can find no other details besides "camping at the junction of 297 and 220," the vaguest description I've ever seen. We arrive at the junction, Muddy Gap, right before the only store closes and much to my relief the friendly employee informs us that yes, we can camp by the fire station. No water or bathrooms, but it's free and the store reopens at 7 tomorrow morning.

I don't think I've ever felt more in the middle of nowhere than I do now. Maybe it's the lack of trees. The only sounds are the infrequent passing of vehicles on the highway and the occasional roar of the transfer station in the distance.

July 11 - clear skies from here? perhaps.

{Brock]

We woke after a night of sleep at the KOA in Dubois. I really, REALLY wanted to pronounce this "doo-BWAH" but apparently it's "doo-BOYS." There's no accounting for taste.

We stopped in to the local club for a pint before bedtime and learned two things: you can't take your beer into the square dancing room (I hope desperately that Wyoming law mandates a separation of drinking and dancing), and the Rustic has more cowboy hats and Wrangler jeans than anywhere else we have yet been. It didn't happen, but I assumed that if I was to get beat up on this trip, it would most likely have happened here. Fortunately indifference trumped animosity in spite of my socks + sandals combo, cycling cap, and shorts.

A car alarm went off in the neighboring campsite around 11:30, and was met with audible cheers when it was silenced. Unfortunately, the keys to disable the alarm were not found until two more alarm cycles had passed. Camping in the great outdoors this was not.

Morning meant coffee at the local shop across the street from our campground and a breakfast of bagels, peanut butter and marmalade. I was sure to eat three of these combinations to ensure I didn't repeat the performance of my "bonk" where I lost all of my energy and composure a few days before.

We set out between the painted hills outside Dubois and marveled at the natural colors. I listened to the new Lyle Lovett I had downloaded at the coffee shop and realized that there is no better country to enjoy his stylings in than these parts we were traveling through. We enjoyed a long downhill stretch out of town before grudgingly applying ourselves to the exercise needed to proceed to Crowheart, Wyoming.

At the only business in town we met up with a group of cyclists who were traveling the opposite direction on a supported ride to raise funds and awareness for childrens' cancer research. One of the riders had a stuffed Pokemon toy that he was snapping pictures with at various notable locations for a child afflicted with the disease. The group was 27 riders in all and bound for the Oregon coast.

We stopped later at the nicest rest stop I've ever been to on a highway in any state in the union – air conditioned, enclosed bathrooms with fresh water and information posted on bulletin boards for reference.

On the last major climb of the day we had a repeat performance of running from a storm. The air behind us was a solid blue wall reaching to the heavens, an obvious sign that two weather systems were vying for control of the atmosphere. I've heard it is said somewhere in Africa that when elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. In our case, when weather systems collide, those on the road without shelter are at the disadvantage. I feared that, as before, the hill we were climbing between sagebrush-covered flanks would be our undoing. We labored to the top and found our momentum as the ground slanted down beneath us, and a long descent carried us parallel to the massive blue and purple storm front that hung over the mountain range in the distance to the west.

I pumped in high gear down the hill (the only time I engage my highest gear) as Terry Gross interviewed the man behind LCD Soundsystem in my ear. The clouds overhead rumbled with loud claps of thunder, but no rain fell. The support van for the cancer riders slowed to warn us of the storm, but we were already painfully aware of the possibilities.

8 miles slid beneath the tires in an uncertain run from the weather. We rolled into the fuel station at Fort Washakie at the very moment the rain began to fall with a fury. Winds blustered at a high speed as we stood beneath the eaves of the service station. A good half hour passed as we waited for the storm to blow over. The employees at the station seemed indifferent to our presence and so we waited until we thought it was safe, watching the wind bend the branches of the trees around us violently. A UPS employee gave us his take on the climate and we thanked him for the advice.

The rain had largely finished, but as we hit the road again, large gusts of wind required us to bank heavily to our right as the westerlies attempted to push is into the traffic lane on the highway. A solid hour of battling the winds brought us to Lander, Wyoming just as the sky was clearing.

The city park offers free camping to anyone who needs it, and this week a rock climbing festival has brought many people into town. We pitched our tents between verdant trees and enjoyed to company of climbers and fellow touring cyclists.

Safeway furnished a dinner of potato salad, all of the fried chicken that the climbers hadn't yet purchased, and ice cream that we enjoyed on the park lawn.

The sky grinned innocently on us as the sun set, pretending that nothing had happened in its blue expanse.

July 10 - Kamping is Kool

[Adele]

Have you ever camped at a KOA? For the uninitiated, that's Kampgrounds of America. We don't make a habit of it, but tonight we've pitched our tent on a grassy field in the middle of Dubois, Wyoming under the sanction of the nationwide vacation chain. Although I find the price borderline outrageous---$25 for a humble tent spot---I justify the cost as it includes showers and swimming pool, and we're close to the town's attractions.

Or, should I say, we're klose.

We're living it up today in all sorts of style (yes, it's amazing how things that seem like luxuries now would be trivial back home). Our day began with an all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast at Colter Bay, our rest day's last big hurrah.

Buffet breakfasts. These gorge-fests were a childhood festive ritual of both Brock and my families, and while I haven't treated myself to one in years, today the time had come.

We were joined by Kyle, who'd just finished grad school and was taking the interim between school and work to bike the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route. This trail traces the Continental Divide from Canada down to New Mexico and it requires a certain breed of crazy to attempt it.

While I'm envious of the solitude and beauty that the route must dole out in bucketfulls, after listening to Kyle's experiences of filtering water from cow ponds, fighting off clouds of flies and mosquitoes, and pushing his rig up a 30% grade for miles, I'm happy sticking to my road bike for now.

Our stomachs stretched to full capacity with pancakes, biscuits and gravy, sausage, bacon, and everything else that constitutes a classic American breakfast buffet, we amble over to our bikes, bid Kyle goodbye and good luck, and pedal eastward.

The Teton range grows smaller with each glance that I cast over my right shoulder. I hope that we can come back to this amazing place someday and explore the hiking trails. For now, I need to content myself by filling my vision with them as often as possible.

Togwotee Pass gives us our dose of uphlll medicine for the day. At 9,600 feet, it promises to train us for Colorado's elevations. We wind up through the mountains for about 5 miles until the road turns to gravel and a flagger stops us---a pilot truck needs to take us 2 1/2 miles up the pass through a construction zone. While the flagger informs me that one staunch cyclist insisted on pedaling himself through the hazardous construction stretch, I am not so stubborn.

While it must have been about 90 degrees in the full sun and Brock and I were both pouring sweat by the time we once again reached the Continental Divide, our rest day had given new vigor to our legs and spirits. 25 miles of downhill led us through forests, past dramatic mountain pinnacles, and beside broad verdant meadows.

So far, Wyoming is treating us well.

July 9 - a much-needed rest day

[Brock]

What is to be said about a rest day? Not much. We take it easy.

After a long, long sleep to rest our bodies from the constant berating we have subjected ourselves to. We outsleep the kids in the group camp sites nearby as they rise early for breakfast and pile into vans to explore the great outdoors. We outsleep the touring cyclists that have fallen in around us and have another destination in mind. We even outsleep beat poet Seamus, although we pass him on the way to the general store and bid him a fond "good luck!" as he beats the pavement in search of another ride north.

Coffee from the store holds us over. I barrage my followers with twitter postings of pictures from the many days we have existed outside the connected world. We read messages on our electronic devices.

A lazy ride back to the campground gets us to brunch, consisting of a few things purchased from the store and some leftovers that another camper left in the bear-proof food storage box earlier. Corn on the cob makes for a great brunch when paired with a three-egg omelet prepared in a pan over the fire (Adele's been adding steadily to her repertoire of meals that can be prepared over a campfire) and sausages.

We make our way back to the lakeshore and enjoy the water, both aesthetically and as swimmers. I try a few phone calls from the pay phone with a sock full of quarters that our friend Aaron gave us. Here's a trick with pay phones for all you kids that haven't had to deal with them: dial the number and stick your quarters in. If your party doesn't pick up by the fourth ring, hang up and your quarters will come rushing back to you behind the change door on the bottom of the phone. Beats paying $1 to leave a voicemail saying very little.

We hiked along the peninsula near the visitor center and swatted insects. The little varmints are persistent.

We buy postcards and plan to mail them to friends. Adele grabs a frozen ice cream treat from the store and I opt for a bag full of salty corn snacks. We steal the wireless network again.

I finished reading Around the World In 80 Days by Jules Verne as Adele cooked another dinner over the fire, this time butter fried onions with sausage and eggs. Delicious.

Tomorrow it's back to the grindstone of long distance bicycling, but for now I am enjoying my time off. And after all, what a pleasant grindstone it can be.