T+6: And so it begins...we hope

PORTLAND, OR:  We arrived today to sunny, hot Portland.  We had a magnificent view of Mt. Hood as the plane circled.  It is a huge massif, completely snow enrobed.  Wes spent the entire flight from Denver peering out the window.  We played a guessing game:  “Is that the Red Desert?  Is that Bear Lake?  Is that Boise, ID?”  The skies were clear and the view was amazing.  We saw the volcanic cones of the Cascades from our window and were immediately humbled.  These mountains are obviously named Cascade because of the roaring way the water comes off the steep sides.   We will have our work cut out for us on the first part of this trip.

We have been a jumble of nerves and exhaustion that reached a boiling point last night.  Since we left Detroit on June 22, our life has not yet slowed down.   It is always a fairly rough passage to get to the cabin two days, but we have done it often and know all our favorite stops along the way.   It has become a matter of ritual for us to stop at the Pioneer Co-op in Iowa City.  Here we pick up our fill of good Midwestern produce, fresh hand-made bread, and rich organic coffees.  We know well that such delicacies will be rarities in the wilds of Wyoming.  We stop in a park for a picnic, but are chased away by the swarming mosquitoes breeding in the remainder of the flooded Iowa River.

I ask Wes, “what will we do if we when we are on the bike and the mosquitoes swarm.  There won’t be a car to hide in.”  We remind ourselves other mosquito swarms on other trips and recall our cries for mercy, and our setting up and hiding in the tent for a moment of respite.

Then it is a straight push to Des Moines, where we always stay at a Candlewood Suite and eat some of the food from Iowa City.  One of the delights of this lodging is their video lending library.  We checked out The Way, which was particularly appropriate for us to see at this time.  In the movie directed  by Emilio Estevez, featuring his father Martin Sheen, the meaning of journey is explored.  Each of the characters takes El Camino de Santiago (The Way of St. James) in Spain, saying they are looking for one thing---to quit smoking, to start writing, to lose weight---but find that the journey brings the knowledge they need, not the knowledge they sought.  Throughout the film, the constant refrain and greeting is “Buen Camino” ---roughly good path, good way.   We are thinking a lot about the bike trip, wondering what we will learn, wondering where our tempers will break, and who we will meet along the way.

The next morning, we take a tiny detour to see a working Danish windmill.  As we take a walkabout the minute Iowa town, we see men two staring pensively into the southwest.   The wind is blowing sharply, so I ask, “Does it look like tornado weather?”  “The tornado sirens are blowing in Walnut” is the reply, which is supposed to tell us something, but does not.  We continue our walkabout, when strangers stop us on the street to warn us of “big storm coming”.  We ask where we should go, we are not from here. The answer is go to the Danish Immigration Museum, where they have a good basement.  

We start to make our way there, a good six blocks away, when another Iowa woman, appears at the door of her house and announces to us, “It’s a complete lockdown.  You need to get to shelter right now.”  She considers offering her place to us, but is relieved when we ask, “Should we go back to the Windmill?”  She agrees, “Yes, go there.”  The sky is blackening, and the wind is rising hard, when Wes and I begin running to the mill.  Giant raindrops are pelting when we duck inside, just in time.  A few seconds later, the wind is pushing the rain sideways, the trees are whipping, and it is impossible to see across the street.  The radio is screaming warnings of 70-90 mile hour winds.   We are glad to be inside, in a room far from windows and blowing tree debris.

As quick as it came, the storm left.  When we drove back to the interstate, the road was scattered with all sorts of tree debris, including a few big limbs.  Again, we wonder, what would we do if we were on the bikes during such a violent storm.   Again, we remember hunkering down under an overhang and watching a storm lash our bikes, but not us.

By the time we get to Sidney, Nebraska, it is clear that we have entered the West.  The hotel is full of oil field workers and the prices reflect it.   We choose to eat breakfast at the hotel and regret it.   Like the room, it is flashy trash: bad, cheap ingredients gussied up to look fancy, but in reality, plastic and shoddy and fake.   We are glad to realize that it is only 180 miles to our cabin.

When we get there, it is refreshingly cool, not more than 55 degrees.  The cabin is like a long cool drink on a hot day.  It takes us a little while to open it up.  I can’t rest until the full load of furniture, dishes, and whatnot has made it to its new location.    We are super pleased with how all of it works.  We argue about whether Wyoming looks dry or wet. 

Wes goes out to get a piece of lumber to reinforce our kitchen shelves, now sagging under the heavy load of dishes, and terrifies a young male moose who was quietly, and apparently habitually, eating in our yard.  Wes tells him that he doesn’t have to leave, and to our astonishment, the moose stops, seems to consider the proposition, before deciding that this yard was not big enough for the both of them.   He is a beauty, at least 6 feet tall, 300 or more pounds of moose muscle, with his 2 inch antlers still in velvet.  This is by far the closest I have ever been to a moose, and I was thrilled.

The next day is consumed by errands.   We have to get Wes’ bike shipped to Portland, and we spend hours, truly hours, trying to figure out Wes’  GoPro video camera.  The camera is communicating with the camera is complicated.  I fuss at Wes because I told him months ago to get started figuring out these systems.  He keeps saying, “Who thought it would be so difficult?”  I remind him, over and over, I did. 

The next day is the belated filing of our federal taxes, which goes well until it is time to submit and we realize that we are out of ink and the closest store is more than 40 miles away.  We don’t have internet at the cabin at this point in time, so we go to the nearby hamlet of Centennial and try three different locations before we are able to submit our taxes online.   The technology is difficult and balky, and requires downloads, and re-booting, and failures, and retries.  We are exhausted, stressed, and cranky by the time we are done.

Then we have to go back to the cabin and begin closing it up so we can be on the road by 5 am the next morning.   We work at it, and are so exhausted, we go to bed by 9, but are so keyed up, we are awake by 2 am.  We close up the cabin, (a multi-part process that requires draining all the pipes, among many other things).   Our dear friend takes us the 130 miles to the Denver airport, where with the exception of a difficult security clearance for Wes, we are happy to get on the plane to Portland.  I sleep much of the way.

When we land, we call the bike shop to get instructions and find out about the bikes.  We find out, to our (especially my) great disgust, that our bikes have not arrived. Wes’s is not due to arrive until tomorrow, but my bike and the BOB trailers should have already been here.  A call to Detroit confirms that our shipment, despite having been dropped off more than a week ago, was not sent from Detroit until Wednesday---two days ago.  It is highly likely that it will not arrive until early next week.

Wes is philosophical about it.  Perhaps this is the way the gods are making sure we get a rest.  We have been on the dead run since the first part of May and are truly beat down.  So now we chill in hot and humid Portland (who’da thunk it) and watch the funky street life.    The truth is: the trip takes you, you don’t take the trip.  Apparently, this trip is not quite ready to start…or a maybe the trip is not in the biking….but in the being on the path. That we are, that we certainly are.