July 8 - A little piece of Paradise

[Adele]

The wails of a distressed child woke me this morning well before the sun began to warm the high hills we were camped in. I groaned and turned over, determined to sleep for another two hours.

Our campsite at Yellowstone's Grant Village was situated beautifully among dwarfish pine trees, with snow-capped mountains set alluringly in the distance and the great dome of sky above. Perfect, with one exception.

The wailing. Now, I love kids. I spend the better half of my waking hours with them, when I'm not on a bike trip like this. I thought I could handle noise. Hellbent on testing my limits, two small children belonging to the families across the road had not ceased shrieking at the top of their lungs from the moment their families' vehicles pulled up around 10 pm until, I venture, midnight when they must have reluctantly lost consciousness and silence permitted me to finally sleep.

I suppose the nice way to describe these families is that "they have a different parenting style" than Brock and I would ever adopt. More "laissez-faire" than "savoir faire". To be prudent, I will not disclose the country that I guessed them to be from so as not to incriminate an entire race.

At any rate, I couldn't wait to hit the road again. After a breakfast of Hostess raisin danishes and coffee from the Grant general store, and a chat with a grizzled motorcyclist from Texas, Brock and I coasted south towards the rocky spires of the Grand Tetons.

Immense Yellowstone Lake shimmered under the cloudless sky as we slipped past. While on the map everything in Yellowstone looks fairly compact, the scale here is far grander than I'd imagined. Maybe it's because we're traveling at 12 miles per hour, but we've spent 3 days here and only covered less than 1/4 of the park's roads.

Yesterday's consistent climbs now yield us miles and miles of breezy downhill coasting. The grade never drops so steeply as to really scare me, which is good because I need all my wits about me to align my bulky steed to the shoulder's white line as traffic whips round. I try to dismiss the possibility of a bison, bear, or moose loping casually across my path, sending me to my doom. This may sound extreme, but it's on these long downhill runs that I start imagining what songs I want played at my funeral.

So far so good. We fly alongside the Lewis River, pausing to watch it tumble and froth over an abrupt ledge. Finally, we leave the park and cross the Snake River. We pedal up the John Rockefeller Jr. Parkway, a no-man's land between Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. As I lever my chain into a lower gear, I scan the surrounding slopes for black bear and grizzlies, half hoping and half dreading to see one; I've heard they're quite common here.
Common or not, I see nothing but squirrels and birds.

Rounding a bend, we encounter a sight I would only have before imagined: breathtaking white-capped peaks rise above an ocean of a lake, punctuating the cornflower blue sky.
The Grand Tetons.

We're swept away by the grandeur of our surroundings until reality hits: we've eaten nothing by saccharine Hostesses, potato chips and fake cheesy salsa all day, and it's 3:30 pm. We stop at a gas station convenience store, and I run in to buy egg noodles, pop tarts, and more chili.

When I emerge, I encounter Brock sitting on a bench, listlessly staring into space. Scarcely a moment after I yank out the trail mix and we commence to munch, a lone touring cyclist pulls up next to us, hungry for conversation.

As he animatedly regales me on cycling the Alaskan highway beneath the midnight sun, I glance anxiously at Brock who sits there silently and mechanically shoving trail mix into his mouth. Is he mad about something? I wonder. Brock's usually game for conversation.

It isn't until the loquacious cyclist heads into the store that Brock tells me he had hit a wall and was experiencing the proverbial "bonk", wherein insufficient body fuel results in sensations of utter incapacitation.

We decide to end our day's journey right then and there at Colter Bay campground. After scoping out the resort's lake setting and views of the mountain range, it only takes us a few more minutes of deliberation to settle down for a two nights' stay and a much-needed rest day.

As Brock rests in the tent, I bike down to the pebbly beach to take a swim in Jackson Lake. Floating in the cool deep water, the blue sky and green slopes mirrored in the water's surface seem to swirl and flow around me. I gaze up at the glaciers and steeply carved valleys riddling the maze of gray stone, savoring the sensation of weightlessness and freedom.

Later in the evening, we meet a self proclaimed beat poet named Seamus who is camping in a nearby site. On learning that we're from Portland, he informs us that he has a poem about our town, and we accept his invitation to eat some steak (once we've assured him that we're not vegetarians) and listen to his poetry by his campfire.

Two hours elapse as the night deepens and Seamus speaks of his months in Occupy Monterey, where he ran the library, his Grateful Dead days, his time in California prison for drug abuse, and his now-clean life as a street poet making decent money. While there are plenty of other touring cyclists camped out nearby whom we could chat with, I find Seamus' stories immensely more interesting than what I predict theirs to be. I suppose this is because his experience is so vastly foreign to mine, and yet his poetry and thoughts resonate on a raw and profound note that cuts through superficial acquaintanceship.

July 7 - Our European-Style Adventure Becomes the Quintessential American Experience

[Brock]

We woke lazily this morning to the sun that had risen several hours earlier. We tend to go to bed around 11:30pm and wake around 8:30, and I suppose our bodies deserve the rest after what we've been putting them through. Still, when the sun rises several hours before we do it's easy to think we should be sleeping in less.

The obliging employees working at the registration booth in Madison campground filled our coffee mugs again this morning. Their kind treatment is vastly different from the experience I had with their company at Crater Lake's Mazama Village last summer, and makes me wish more people were like this!

Fellow bicyclist John had been at the campground the night prior when we returned from our day ride to the Canyon area of the park. A man of few words and military background, he said that he does bicycle touring because it's not competitive like the triathlons he used to race in. It's better, he says, to actually be able to pay attention to the scenery around you. John also baked pizzas out of pre-made crusts on the grate over his campfire pit, an impressive bit of culinary skill, and he said that being in the military wore him out on eating badly while in nature. He also complained of gastrointestinal trouble this morning, but we're not sure if the two are related.

We set out down the road to Old Faithful following the Firehole River. Herds of bison grazed just across the water on the flatland of the lower geyser basin and the requisite crowds gathered to snap photos and admire the handsome beasts. I still haven't figured out if they are adorable or terrifying.

A gravel road led us through the geyser land past steaming pools of water and streaks of color across the ground from the geothermal features. We walked over the fragile landscape on boardwalks, elevated above the excitement and watching boiling water spouting up out of the deep. Some of the colors were so vibrant it was hard to believe they were real, or at least naturally occurring.

As we were munching on mixed nuts and strolling through the geyser basins, the heavens broke forth as they had been silently preparing to do all morning. We assumed at first that a passing shower would soon leave, allowing the sun to kiss away the droplets of rain. It turned out that more hail was in the works for us, but fortunately not nearly the size of the hailstones we encountered in Washington. Other park visitors scampered to their cars, but we, being without shelter and assuming the storm would pass soon, allowed the drenching to happen and stood in the steam trail of the geyser pools as the sulfuric air warmed us.

It became evident that the clouds were not going to part, and so we mounted our bicycles again and set out for Old Faithful's industrial complex of a visitor's center, soaked to the bone and cold. We sought refuge at the Sinclair station and bought fake cappuccinos from the automatic coffee machine while we waited for the downpour to dissipate.

When the rain stopped, we wheeled our bicycles over to the historic Old Faithful Inn to warm ourselves inside. Tour groups stopped on the porch in front of our spread of peanut butter, tortillas, and trail mix while the guide gave a serviceable monologue about this area's first guests. The famous geyser erupted with a column of water and a plume of steam before we were quite settled in, and so we did see the one thing that everyone who visits this Yellowstone Park must see, but we saw if from a distance, and partially obscured. Better late than never.

We hung around the Inn for awhile, admiring the craftsmanship of the building, and browsing the wares of the gift shop which was harangued by crowds of the same. I tried on a Stetson buffalo felt hat, but balked at its price tag and decided I'm not much of a hat person anyway.

We labored up to the Continental Divide for the second time this trip, climbing slowly out from under the perpetual cloud cover that had rested on the valley. A short downhill run proved all too short and we labored uphill again towards another curve int the Divide and we crossed once again from the land of waters draining to the Pacific Ocean into parts east and south where the waters drain to the Gulf of Mexico. Being gluttons for punishment, we will adhere to a route where we will once again cross this divide, the elevations becoming gradually higher until, as I hear, we will pass the 10,000 foot mark and presumably collapse our respiratory systems.

A brief pelting of fat raindrops was visited upon us after our showers which we paid dearly for. The hiker/biker site at Grant Village is actually spare ground between group camps in the "L" loop, and so we are serenaded by camp songs and chants by boisterous teenagers on both sides. We are burning another campfire since we are in a position to do so, and also since it is the most patriotic sort of activity available to us; we are now at the heart of the American experience. We even ate sausages!

We haven't taken a real rest day fully off the bikes yet; it feels better to us to keep moving, even if it's only about 30 miles or so, and that way the scenery never loses its luster. We may encounter a weariness of legs or souls that will finally need a day without motion, but so far we feel good about our pace.

Wyoming is next. The Grand Tetons lie just south of us, a pleasant day's ride with plenty of room for relaxing built in. After that, we climb our highest pass yet and enter a land I have always considered to be "just on the way to somewhere else." I hope I'm proven otherwise.

July 6 - Is That a Hunting Bike?

[Adele]

I'm not even going to try to top Brock's foray into fantasy prose. Suffice to say I almost laughed up the Moose Drool brown ale I'd been sipping on as I read.

We have now spent 26 hours in the legendary, aye. magical land of Yellowstone.

I've observed that this place has two faces.

First, Yellowstone is Nature for Dummies. Most of the visitors here appear as if they'd be more at home on the golf course, at the mall, or at their local Applebee's. I saw copious amounts of inappropriate footwear and smelled superfluous perfume.

Here, without leaving the convenience of your motorized metal box, you can snap photos of monstrous bison, majestic elk, evil-smelling fumaroles and golden-walled canyons.
(Despite the ubiquitous warnings to stay a safe distance away from the wildlife, we witnessed something that appalled Brock and alarmed me. Next to the restrooms at the Lower Falls, a bison stood eyeing the tourists who jostled and crowded not meters from its face, taking pictures and then gleefully checking the results on their expensive DSLR screens. They acted as if the bison were some harmless museum display, not some living creature who could, if the whim took it, toss them all into the air like ninepins.)

The other side of this National Park is the unforgettable encounter with the wild, irrepressible force of nature. Fire and stone flex their muscles beneath the surface of the earth, sending up plumes of steam and literally boiling the clay earth. And as calm as the bison seem, some overly curious and imprudent visitor has already been gored this year. "They're half teddy bear and half devil", Brock remarked this afternoon. It's the combination of the cute curly fur and the horns.

I'd made a 24 hour detour to see Yellowstone on a cross-country road trip the summer after my sophomore year of college. One of my friends was working at the Old Faithful Inn (or Lodge?). While I enjoyed visiting with her, the crowds dismayed me and this time around, I feared that cycling through Yellowstone could turn into "a supposedly fun thing I'll never do again" situation.

Although a near-constant stream of cars flicked past us as we biked the 26 miles to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, I was surprised by how much fun I was having. Gentle climbs led to grand open meadows of tall green grass where bison grazed. Fly fishermen plied their skill in the meandering rivers which at intervals plunged through honey-hued canyons.

Vehicles, even the dreaded rental RVs, typically kept at a prudent distance from us, aided by the ample shoulder. I think there must be a difference between the drivers here, who are all visitors, and those on the rural roads we've travelled, who can adopt a "get off my road" kind of attitude.

Brock and I only carried what we needed for the day, leaving the tent and large bags behind at Madison campground. Freedom! "I actually feel like I'm on vacation", I commented, with only a hint of irony.

We pulled up to a long train of cars stalled in a flurry of exhaust, their occupants waiting to see the Artists Paintpots, a geothermal marvel located 1/3 of a mile from the parking lot.

As we wove through the traffic jam to the trailhead, I felt as if I were at Disney World and I could cut to the front of the line (the wheelchair trick) but instead of a wheelchair I was sitting on a bicycle. Passing the languishing crowds, we locked up our bikes and headed up the trail. I heard so many languages that I lost count: French, German, Russian, Spanish, Indian, Chinese; Americans are almost the minority here!

"You've sure got the right idea there!" passing tourists remark to us as we overtake them on our bikes past the Paintpots, Gibbon Falls, and Grand Canyon. Brock and I smile condescendingly. It feels good to have some payoff for the 8,000 ft. of elevation we've gained over the past few weeks.

I leave you with one parting gem that I overheard a young boy say to his mother as Brock and I pulled out of Canyon Village: "Mom," he called out, pointing to Brock. "Is that a hunting bike?"

July 5 - a fairyland of cycling adventure

[Brock]

We rose to the crisp yet dull morning light of a new dawn. The nymphs greeted us as we drew water from their river, rising as ghostly apparitions from the marbled surface of the Madison River. A short breaking of fast consisted of bagels from the previous town baker and a spread of marmalade.

We set out southbound along the banks of the Madison, swatting flying beasties as we slowed to observe Jim Bridger's pass over the divide of the continent. A great earthquake had unlodged a heap of rock into the riverbed, forming Earthquake Lake which now spread over the burnt trees of yesteryear. We toiled up the banks of the river slowly but with gusto.

A small ration of bread satiated us at the banks of the greater lake above the dam that had been built to keep the wild spirits of the river in check, shackled as they were by the crushing invasion of humans. I imagine prior to this they danced free, inviting Bacchus and his nyads to luxuriate along the river banks. Humanity's domination over the natural can squelch the free spirits of nature.

A black cloud poured its rain over the village of West Yellowstone, and we retreated to the library of an elven race who pressed the beans of a caffeinated fruit into a dark, black liquid that refreshed our spirits as the sky fell down in tiny droplets before us.. We sat for several hours waiting for the pressing weather to relent. Meanwhile, a troubadour with a luxurious mustache and a wide-brimmed hat drove through town advertising a "rodeo" in which humans subdued bovines by means of equine transport, blaring his advertisement of the spectacle loudly. People from many nations gathered on the streets to prepare for the venture into the wildlands known as Yellowstone.

We halted at the gate of the fabled land as a minotaur challenged our approach. He asked us for the gold we carried in our pouches for the right to enter his lands, and we gladly obliged him, for everyone knows that a minotaur is not someone to be trifled with. When a creature with the body of a man and the head of a bison asks for your treasure, you hand it over in fear of the consequences that might otherwise befall you.

We also observed natural bison on the banks of the river Madison grazing the fine green shoots along its shore, protectively guarding their young.

Metallic balrogs from states far and wide whirled past us, nearly catching us with the swing of their tails, and yet our savvy and careful attention spared us the cruel smack of perdition that could have been our bane.

We encamped in an enchanted forest where dwarvish folk charged us dearly from the reserves in our pouches, and yet this was preferable to the notion of spending the night in the wilds where great bears roam free. In the dwarvish village there are rings for your fires and boxes to store your scented possessions where the fearsome beasts cannot steal your morsels away.

We sleep now in an enchanted sleep, one that restores the spirits of those who lie under the spell of the magic of the yellow stone.

[with apologies to all of the fantasy writers that have shaped my young mind]

July 4 - This road is my road, this road is your road

[Adele]

Here's something that you don't know about me: I absolutely hate to sweat.

Portland, with its neither here nor there temperate climate, has babied me in this department; its environs have sheltered me from searing sun and sticky humidity for almost 6 years now, long enough for me to forget that there is another reality. I grew up in humid Maryland and muggy Boston---I shouldn't flinch at the onset of perspiration; I used to exist perpetually enveloped in its sticky, salty sheen.

How easily one forgets.

As I toiled up yet another 2,000 ft. climb this afternoon, I felt eddies of sweat trickle down the backs of my ears and cursed inwardly.

Then, I stopped myself. This is ridiculous. The sun is only going to gain force the farther along we travel, so I might as well come to terms with my perspiration now. It cools me down. I can pretend I'm swimming. Sweat, I call a truce.

Independence Day in the small town of Twin Bridges means only one thing of relevance to me: the good coffee shop is closed. Brock and I had ambled into town after a decent night's sleep in the Bike Camp's simple shelter. Finding the coffee shop, along with most other establishments in town, closed for the holiday, we happened upon a diner where the waitress gave us two steaming styrofoam cups of weak coffee. I have set my bar very low these days, and "gas station" caliber coffee will get me giddy if there's enough cream and sugar handy to doctor it up.

The Ruby Valley stretches out wide before us as we continue down the two lane highway. Soon, a lanky middle-aged man with a touring rig approaches us from the opposite direction; he pulls over to our side of the road to chat. If a westbound cyclist stops to swap some conversation with us, we've discovered a trend: they're not American.

Mark, it turns out, is a Brit from London with a quick wit and a gracious, easygoing manner. "We're celebrating kicking you out of the country", I tease. "This place?" he gestures to the green valley and hills. "We didn't want it!"

More jokes ensue concerning liters, meters, and the daftness of our imperial measurement system.

Mark works 6 months of the year and gets to do whatever he wants with the rest; bicycle touring, usually. "My wife and I biked from the northernmost part of Europe--Norway--to the southernmost in Greece." When Brock asks him why his wife isn't with him now, Mark replies "She's too afraid of all the Rednecks."

While almost all of the drivers who've passed us so far have been courteous, we've crossed paths with a few irate ones. This morning, as I follow close behind Brock hugging the narrow white line of the shoulder-less highway, a pick-up truck hauling a big trailer passes us. The passenger rolls down her window and yells incoherently, her face made ugly by spite.

I know better than to take it personally, and I've learned not to respond or just to wave back; throw a kiss, maybe. Still, encounters such as these make me chafe at the injustice of the situation. We're all going to get where we're going eventually, and no one could be in such a rush that we're ruining there lives by causing them to slow down for a few moments.

After the angry pick-up lady passes, I chuckle to myself because I know that there are about a dozen more cyclists she'll be obliged to maneuver around.
A big group of cyclists had passed us earlier, and all morning we played tortoise-and-the-hare as Brock and I would go by them as they rested by their support vehicles. Then, with their unburdened bikes, they'd fly past us again.

I begin to tire of the peloton leapfrog as Brock and I take a break in a small market. To my surprise, a woman from the group comes into the store. "We're having lunch out there under the big trees, if you'd like to join us." Half an hour later, we're stuffed on beef and veggie wraps, monster cookies, chips, and fresh fruit. Most of the touring folks hail from Fort Collins and Wyoming, and Brock and I get some tips on routes to take to get into Fort Collins, as well as breweries to visit.

While Brock and I tend to cast a critical eye on supported cycle touring, preferring the independence and survivalist challenge of carrying our own gear, I do see the perks of traveling light and fast. At the very least, it gives people who don't really enjoy camping a way to get out and cycle long distances through gorgeous scenery.

We climb into Virginia City, a gold-mining-town-turned-tourist-haven, just as the sun really begins to heat the air. We're about to head into a cafe for ice cream when a woman, overhearing the words "ice cream", enthusiastically recommends a creamery up the street. After moving up the line that snakes almost out the front door, I order a heaping bowl of cherry cheesecake, strawberry, and chocolate almond ice cream. Happy Fourth of July!

Fast forward 8 hours. I'm typing drowsily in our tent and Brock is sound asleep, exhausted. To my left is the Madison River from which we purified water to drink this evening; to my right, its somber outline barely visible in the dark sky, a stately ridge of mountains. Then there is the highway leading to West Yellowstone, on which the wind fought us for every inch of the last 13 miles of chip seal.

July 3 - May the Road Drop Out Beneath You

[Brock]

We rose sort of early, but not early in any appreciable sense. I woke to the dawning light, but after a trip to the outhouse, I slipped back into the tent until the sun was well above the high horizon that the hills surrounding Bannack State Park form. The previous night we had reveled in the luck we had happened upon to pitch our tent quite literally on the edge of the beautiful and babbling Grasshopper Creek, even if it had cost us $23 USD for the privilege. Montana is the only state I've noticed in which the camping fees are higher for nonresidents than for Montana's own citizens. I recall cycle tourist par excellence Matt Picio's observation that this is a high sum for one lone cyclist to pay for their own patch of ground, but I believe he and I agree that the cost of admission is well worth the beauty of the natural setting, pit toilet and tap water access, and, hey, ghost town to explore.

As we packed up, our friendly and drawling campground host Paul offered us a cup of coffee before we departed. He did so with the same warmth and genuine care as his check in with us the night before as we arrived, telling us to knock on the trailer door if we needed anything. Adele asked for cream and sugar in her coffee, and I, assuming by our host's age and our location deep in rural Montana that the coffee would be of the instant variety, requested the same, although I usually drink my strong brewed french press black. The warm beverages turned out to be quite tasty and of a good quality, and I chastised myself silently for a foolish assumption as we accepted the to-go cups with thanks.

A brief turn through the ghost town followed; even though we had been through it once, a combination of real fascination and wanting to get our money's worth drove us to take one more exploratory stroll down the wooden sidewalks and into the unlocked doors of buildings that had once housed revelry, riot, and rampage before aging to dusty noir as they sit today.

The climb back to the desolate highway was four miles of gradual uphill, and we rode it slowly as the green oasis of the park fell behind us and the prosperous sagebrush farms passed behind miles of barbed wire fencing. When we reached the highway we received our allotment of pain for the day early in another over-thousand foot climb to the top of Badger Pass. Luckily, this morning provided a tailwind in stark contrast to the battle we had waged in the same direction against an easterly. While the gentle breeze buoyed us up the incline, we passed a real-life, honest-to-gosh cowboy who was driving a herd of black cattle away from passing vehicles on the pavement. I hadn't been on the open range with bovines since 2009 when we encountered a lazy herd ambling about the steep hillsides of Sonoma County in northern California, and wondered how they would react to our presence. Fortunately they acted as they always do when we pass, fence or no, in a lazy curiosity combined with what could be imagined as annoyance by the grizzled Montanan on horseback behind them. I greeted the old timer as we passed, and he nodded a silent but not unfriendly reply.

The climb was brutal and deceiving as they tend to be when you're not surrounded by trees and rushing water, but, after a toiling stretch of uphill where the sweat beaded on my brow and slipped into my eyes despite my attempts to brush it away, we reached the summit and felt the wind howling strongly at our backs.

Wind is a funny thing; when it's against you, there's no possibility of ignoring it. It rages against your efforts at progress and is constantly whispering discouraging nothings into your ears, coaxing you to give up now and go back to where you came from. If you're going uphill on a bicycle, the siren song is nearly irresistible. However, wind at your back is barely noticeable until you come to a halt, and then it is the one to feel disappointment, tugging at your shoulders and teasing your hair onward. At the top of Badger Pass, this was the temperament the wind took. Feeling obliging, I decided to cooperate.

The first bit of level ground at the top of a hill is intoxicating, since you feel empowered to movement for the first time in a good long while. The rushing wind becomes less an adversary than a mischievous companion making sport of your sluggish pace. Then, as you begin to keep pace with the air you discover an eerie calm, like the eye of a deadly storm, where nothing seems to be moving except the scenery around you and you can hear all of the tiny noises close to you: the beat of your heart pumping blood through your ears, the creak of your bicycle's components, the nagging tick that's been complaining from somewhere in your drivetrain. If you've been working hard, the absence of breeze leads to a resurgence of your body's temperature and another erarnt trickle of sweat passes your eyes. Then, with an unspeakable rush, gravity and the elements take over and your legs cease to find traction as you begin the long descent.

I noticed the wind as almost a hand on my back at this point, encouraging me to defy physics. Rolling downhill went from leisurely to grippingly exciting. I knew that I had not, until this point on our trip, achieved this kind of speed and the dopamine centers in my brain fired with gusto.

The Beaverhead Valley opened up before me like a panoramic photograph, widening from the edges of the road into a vista that couldn't be contained. This was a good example of why Montana is called "Big Sky Country." I surrendered to the pull of the earth and resisted the urge to apply my brakes, knowing that this might be my closest experience to flying without wings in life. As I rounded the wide curves of the highway into even vaster expanse, the view went from unbelievable to unreal, the road dipping out of ordinary slope and whisking me through absolutely barren hillsides of remarkable earth-toned color.

The wind at my back was joined by small gusts from the side as the landscape opened ahead, and the exhilarating rush of the ride was mingled with small doses of terror each time I suspected that these gusts from the side would pull my steed out from underneath me. I imagined the fatal mistake that would send my handlebars just the slightest bit errant, grounding my luggage and steel frame as I hurtled forward, headfirst into pavement.

At least I was wearing a helmet.

I resolved to steer curbward if my doom appeared near. Strangely, no thoughts of my life flickered in the theater of the mind. Either I wasn't close to death, or that's just not what happens in reality.

Small seams in the pavement felt like earth-shaking tremors as my rubber thudded over them.

After the descent passed through multiple false endings and my white knuckles begged for relief, the road straightened out into a long, unbroken ribbon toward the valley that our lunchtime city of Dillon rested in. An eternity of relaxed coasting with the ever present wind carrying me on relaxed my mind into a state of nirvana and I hung, in midair, in stasis of mind and soul.

We had a similar benefit of tailwind on our way to Twin Bridges, the city with an established Cyclists' Camp in its only park; the open-air structure is screened to ward off insects and sits on the banks of the river that wends through town. Showers and restrooms accompany the facility and we did our laundry in its outdoor sink, making use of a drying line in the still gusting wind. The man that built this, now deceased, is a saint and a hero to touring bicyclists, and we are grateful to his pioneering foresight.

Now the wind has died down and we prepare to sleep inside the structure before continuing toward Yellowstone National Park tomorrow. We dream of downhill runs.

July 2 - Self-Therapy

[Adele]

I am still 40 miles from a Montana ghost town where I intend to stay the night when I realize that I'm sick of spinning my pedals around in endless circles.

Gazing ahead, the slim ribbon of road unfurls endlessly before my front wheel. The flawless blue sky should lift my spirits, but instead I only feel worse because now I feel guilty for not appreciating the perfect sun and the snow-capped mountains ringing round every vantage of the horizon

Time for some self-therapy.

"Why are you in such a crappy mood?" I question myself.

Well, first, you woke up late because you couldn't put down "War and Peace" until midnight, then you left camp at an unnaturally late hour for a cycle tourist. You feel bad because your competitive mind knows that other bike tourists are already halfway through their day's journey and you've just brushed your teeth.

Second, you just visited a site of absolute tragedy: the Big Hole National Battlefield where the US army ambushed and killed a record number of Nez Perce as they fled their homeland in Eastern Oregon.

Third, there is a headwind, that invisible beast that makes you feel like a sluggish fool.

Fourth, you really didn't want to leave camp this morning and were irritated to have to shut up "War and Peace" into your pannier just as the heroine's life was about to fall apart.

The problem with biking all day, day after day, is that once my mind finds something to chew on, no matter how trivial, there is little to distract this train of thought and so it festers for hours. Never do I have this amount of time to ponder back home in my busy everyday life. I've found that the great emptiness of my surroundings while I cycle can give me space to untangle thoughts either for good or for ill.

As I pull up to Brock on his bicycle and we take a breather, he admits to having a rough day of it, too. I try his strategy for the next few hours: plug in.
Snap Judgement, the Sprocket podcast, and On Being lift me from the endless spinning circles of my mind and give me something fresh to think over.

A crisp Big Sky IPA also helps. We linger for almost an hour at the bar of Jackson Hot Springs lodge. "You should stay here", the friendly elderly gentleman bartender tells us. "You can pitch your tent and enjoy the hot springs."

Although quitting now sounds tempting, the 98 degree hot spring doesn't, and I tell him that we'd just feel bad about ourselves if we didn't make our self-inflicted goal of the ghost town, Bannick.

28 miles and one more big climb later, Brock and I set up our tent by chattering Grasshopper Creek, then meander down the gravel road to explore Bannick.

Once a town of 3,000 people and the territorial capital of Montana in the 1860s, Bannick now lies silent and empty. Its main street boasts a large brick hotel, a Masonic lodge and school, multiple saloons, stores, and Hurdy Gurdy houses where off-the-job miners could dance with the girls for 50 cents a dance.

In 1862, gold was found in Grasshopper creek and the hopefuls flooded in. Soon, the town turned ugly as men shot each other in the street in broad daylight and roving bands stole prospectors gold.

The town's population had dwindled to nothing by the 1940s, and now a campground serves as an excellent base from which to stroll through the once bustling streets.

July 1 - in which I lay aside my disdain for Frenchmen and other travelers

[Brock]

We left our jovial and sociable host Ron's house this morning. We spent the evening chatting with he and his wife over root beer floats, and then woke to omelets prepared with the precision of his engineer's mind as we discussed our lives and our trip plan from here. Ron is the kind of fellow who has opinions but lets you have yours as well, and as we discussed the journalistic slant of the newspaper in Portland I smiled to myself at the common ground that liberals and conservatives can find when they leave the mud-slinging to others. The omelets were flavored to each person's taste with Ron's homemade hot sauce from the impeccable garden outside, Adele's less zesty and mine with, as Ron put it, a bit more "pizzazz."

We cruised down highway 93 out of Hamilton on a bike path that stretched to the crossing of the Bitterroot River, and then began our dogged ascent toward the Chief Joseph Pass, an altitude of above 7,000 feet where the air thins out.

Arriving in the appropriately named Darby – an old-fashioned name for an old-fashioned town – we weathered the first cloudburst of the day at the local grocery. Adele picked up two coffees for $1 each at a drive-up espresso stand and we sipped them while waiting for the skies to clear. Thunder rolled ominously but the clouds never assumed the demoniac shape of the hailstorm that chased us through eastern Washington, and soon the sun was steaming the fresh rainfall off the pavement before us. There was a siren similar to the one in Kamiah ID (I learned it's actually pronounced KAM-ee-eye) and shortly afterward a fire truck raced by on the highway, perhaps in response to an accident on the road after the slickening of the pavement. I don't mind sirens being used, but it would put my mind at ease if I knew why they were sounding with an ever-alarming rise and fall in pitch.

We encountered a friendly Frenchman descending against us later in the morning named Etienne who had sealed off four years of employment in Virginia with a nice long bicycle tour across the country. In regards to the climb before us he said that we would "need courage," a rough approximation in the French vernacular for good luck.

Beautiful weather persisted as we toiled up inclines that didn't appear to be as steep as they were until we reached Sula, the last store on the highway before the climb in earnest to Chief Joseph's summit. We pulled off the road for some tasty cold beverages we purchased with cash from the kind-looking old ladies behind the store counter, intending the stop as simply a rest before continuing, but the dark black clouds amassed above us while we were stopped and we decided to wait out their impending break on the covered porch of the store that was Sula.

We met a young man named Cory who was waiting for a rescue from his girlfriend making the drive from Great Falls through Missoula to where he waited. Hailing from Tennessee, Cory was on a trip to a competition in Great Falls, riding his motorcycle with his mountain bike mounted to the rear so he could take advantage of the forest riding to be had in the surrounding countryside. He suspected a bearing to be the problem that troubled the motorcycle's engine, and had fortunately been able to coax it over the pass before coasting it down to the tiny outpost we met him in. He convivially chatted with us for a long while about our journey, his travels in the Smoky Mountains, and culture differences between the country's coasts.

Tim arrived from uphill as we were waiting for the rain to pass, a jolly fellow with the gift of gab and a classic Ghostbusters t-shirt on a Trek touring bicycle. He appraised the coming Yellowstone country and we shared out collective disdain for Xanterra, the contractor that operates many of the National Parks' visitor facilities. He reminded us of the "no-drop" clause written into the Park Service's code that allows people arriving by bicycle or on foot the right to a place to camp even if the campground is full. Tim had a canister of bear spray mounted to his belt and warned us that grizzlies were not to be trifled with. I noticed the stick mounted to his pile of travel gear on the back of this bicycle, and he explained that he spins fire, much like the fire dancers one would see on Portland's Alberta Street on a Last Thursday, sometimes for fun and sometimes with his cap out for spare change from the appreciative.

The clouds seemed to be carrying their rain elsewhere even though we hdan't glimpsed blue sky yet, and so we turned down Tim's invitation to camp there and drink with him that night ("you look like the drinking type!" he complimented us) and decided to press on. Tim and Cory waved farewell.

The summit climb was brutal but lovely, and once we passed the summit we descended gloriously into the valley of Trail Creek. Our original goal of the town of Wisdom seemed too far to us given the time, and we made camp at Mary Creek Campground, another USFS gem tucked into the mountain pines. Fire and insect repellent held the mosquitoes just hardly at bay while we ate dinner, washed up and hung out food from a tree using our bicycle cable locks out of the reach of bears.

Yellowstone now seems more a reality than a dream, and we are looking forward to exploring the land bubbling geysers and queued up cars staring at lazy moose.

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.