T+31: Far from Kith and Kin

Entering the Skagit Valley

Mile 574: MAZAMA, WASHINGTON:  The last few days have been a helter-skelter of intense emotions.  The ride from the coast was beautiful and mostly easy, through the incredibly fertile Skagit River bottom, topped by craggy snow covered peaks.  Wes and I are riding easily and feeling a kind of simple joy at the activity and the environment. 

We are in and out of coverage for my phone, and in and out of keeping the electronics charged.  (Keeping things charged while living in a tent requires a variety of strategies with which I am only partially successful.)  All day Saturday, July 20, I think of my mother’s best friend Rose, whose funeral was that day.  I would have liked to be there to honor their friendship of more than 60 years, and to renew and strengthen the bonds of friendship and family that have united the Smith/Strand/Engen families.

Not only did my mother and Rose flee troubled family situations in the South together, travelling and gad-about working in the post WWII era, they came together to the small outback town of Centennial, Wyoming in 1948.  There, new girls in town, they soon met and married the most eligible bachelors in this ranch/logging/skiing outpost.  Best friends married good friends and soon there were babies and challenges and an intertwined life. 

Tragedy struck the Smith family, when my father was killed in a construction accident, leaving my mother with four children under the age of 6.  Without the support of friends like Rose and Bob Engen, it is doubtful we would have made it.   Through the Engens,  my mother connected to their cousin, a shy 39 year old bachelor named Berger Strand, who became my stepfather and dear Daddy. 

Through years of kids growing up both easy and hard, through businesses opening and closing, through divorces of young and old, through shared land, shared houses, and shared education, the ties that connect the Smith/Strand/Engen families are woven still.  I want to make sure those ties live on into the next generation.  But I am thousands of miles away, so all I can do is text my mother when my cell happens to work…and think about the choices each of us make every day. 
 
We have a wonderful camp on the side of the Skagit River, and meet two kids who remind us of ourselves at that age.  They are finishing a bike ride from Minneapolis to Seattle.  They have just finished their degrees.  She has a job on a boat in Seattle before beginning her medical studies; he’s not sure what he’s going to do.  They thought a ride across the country would be a good way to transist from one phase to another.  They are fit and fearless, broke and brave.   They remind us of the hitch-hiking trip we took around the US on our way to my Fulbright Fellowship.  They are up and gone before dawn, zooming off to their new lives, glowing with excitement and promise.


We make our way to the oh-so-plastic general store in the little town of Newhalem where we must make sure we have supplies for the challenge that awaits us.  A bit before Newhalem, we saw a sign, “Last services for
 74 miles.”  Our bike map tells us “Take extra food and water!” We are excited and nervous to begin our foray into the wilds of the North Cascades National Park.   In the store, I plug in my phone and to my great surprise, I have a voicemail from Wes’ brother, from the previous night.
When I check it, he says, “I am sure you have heard the news about Judy, and I just wanted to see what you guys are planning.”  I call back as soon as I can.  We tell him we have heard nothing, and he explains that our sister-in-law, Judy Nethercott, has just been killed in an auto accident.  At the same time, the emails from home, some from two days ago, start to appear on my phone.   I send emails, and texts, as best I can, but hear nothing more.  

Wes and I are stunned.  Judy’s husband Jimmy, Wes’ eldest brother, had just passed about 18 months ago.   The family was still adjusting to that loss.  We worry about their kids, and grieve that their kids will never know their grandparents. 

We stay in the horrible plastic store for as long as we can, waiting for further news that does not come.  When we go out and get on the bikes, we immediately have a small wreck that topples me onto the road, and leaves both of us yelling at each other, inappropriately displacing our emotions.  Just a mile outside of town, I lose all phone service. 

The ride is rough, steep, and in places, quite dangerous.   When we enter a long, unlit tunnel with a steep uphill grade, I scream and hug the walls when cars pass within inches of us pushing our bikes.   We feel the fragility of life. Our emotions are raw. 

At camp, I leave Wes to set up the tent while I get water; I return to him openly weeping.  We don’t know what to do.  We have no phone service.  We don’t know what is going on.  Even if we did, what could we do?  We are in one of the most remote regions we have ever encountered.   The closest airport is probably 120 miles away.  How could we get there?   

We spend a sullen, quiet evening, staring at the beautiful, ice-cold Diablo Lake.  In addition to the strong emotions tied up in these two family deaths, I am also quite concerned about the ride ahead.  When we leave Diablo, it is a climb into the mountains, where there will be no stores, no services, no water stops, and two mountain passes.  There is not even another campground for nearly 40 miles.   

We sleep poorly and get up before dawn, anxious to start this long climb before the heat of the day.   It is a long climb all right, punctuated by incredible vistas and breathtaking beauty.  We push our bikes a lot.  The day stretches on and still we climb.   We can only ride for a few moments, it seems, before we have to stop and catch our breath. 

There are numerous cascades and rivulets pouring down the steep canyon sides.  At one point, we are so hot and tired, we simply go stand in a glacier-fed waterfall, letting the icy water pour through our helmets and down our shirts.

The day goes on and on, and so does the hill.  We have been climbing steadily since leaving Newhalem.  By this point, we cannot ride much, so we must walk.  It gets hotter and hotter.  We now scurry (as much as one can on a steep hill, pushing a bike with 40 lb. trailer) from shadow to shadow. 

Exhaustion fueled irrationality becomes a real presence.  I start making plans to hitch a ride.  How many vehicles can pick up two bikes, two riders, and two trailers?   Wes starts searching in the cliff-sides for a camping spot.  I tell him not to waste his energy, but he insists there must be a camping spot on these 45 degree slopes.

We trudge on.  We are at our wits’ and bodies’ limit, when we finally reach the Rainy Pass summit.  To our great relief, we see a picnic grounds.  It is neglected and the water taps don’t work, to our great surprise.  We are grateful we still have spring water gathered from the mountains.  Our tap water from the campground was long gone.  Wild gathered water is always a risk, but dehydration is a bigger and more immanent threat.

We eat a meager, but delicious, dinner in a pestilence of mosquitoes and biting flies, and look where to make our illegal camp.  The tent, somewhat hidden on the edges of the picnic ground, is a blessed relief after the rigors of the day and frustration of mosquitoes in our eyes, ears, and everywhere.   We had come 29 miles, all of it up hill, and much of it walked.   We sleep almost immediately.

The next day—today—we wake up, eat the last of our supplies, and begin the trudge up the next mountain pass.    It is only 5 miles—a veritable lark after yesterday—and when clear the top, we are astounded.    We are in a cirque of straight walled peaks whose serrated jaggedness is both appalling and wonderful. 

The ride down is something else.  It is a straight shot down the mountain: 16 miles.  We have to pull our bikes to a stop every so often because our hands have gone numb from the shaking and braking. Wes and I agree, during one stop, that it would be terrible to have to go up this steep hill.  At one point, I note that it is a good thing I have brought the speed down to a more reasonable level, and when I check it, I am still going close to 27 miles an hour. 

We have already decided we are going to take a room when we get to the bottom.  I saw Freestone Inn and Cabins on the map and said, “Let’s try there.”  When we pull in, we see it is a lovely resort next to the Early Winters stream.

We get a cabin next to the creek, wash ourselves, and happily drink a cold beer.  We wash our stinky bike clothes in the sink and put them out in the hot, dry air. (I’m sure our neighbors like the look of clothes strung on the porch of our cabin).  We enjoy a wonderful meal and visit at length with the other guests.  It is really nice, especially remembering that just twenty four hours earlier, we were lurking in an illegal camp with no food or water, after a long brutal day.

We still have no phone service, but the inn has Wi-Fi, so I am able to get email.  The services for Judy will be in Riverton, Wyoming on Saturday, July 27, 2103  at 9 am.  There is no way for us to get there. 

We wonder about the curious ways we make it through our lives.  There are no promises.   Whether our lives stretch through years and years, and slowly wind down, like Rose’s, or blink out in an instant in a bizarre accident like Judy’s; whether we rush toward them in great hope and expectation, or slog our way through duties and obligations, it still is just as Samuel Beckett said, “The light gleams for an instant, then it’s darkness once more.”

T+30: We Turn the Corner

Mile 444: SEDRO WOOLEY, WA.:  Last night was magical.  It needed to be.  After a fairly miserable night at Deception Pass State Park (we wuz deceived!—the camp is just few miles from the Evans Navy Base, where pilots fly supersonic sorties every few minutes  over our camp until late in the evening.),  we get a pretty early start.  However, we miss the turn off to the bike path to the tourist and ferry town of Anacortes, Washington.  Instead, we fought heavy traffic on WA 20 into town, where we did a variety of chores, then struggled our way out to the campsite. 

This was a classic example of going up to the sea, which we have experienced over and over.  We climb and climb to get to a ridge above a seaside location, then zoom down to the seaside, then climb the same damn ridge to get to the campground.

By the time we got to the camp, we were out of sorts.  We had been looking forward to this visit to Anacortes, the most western bit of our trip, and the point at which our travels north from Portland end. From the western seacoast, we will turn to the east and begin our travels along the Northern Tier route.

We sat in the gloomy (all these damn big trees!) and overcamped site (no grass, just earth beaten to dust by thousands of trailers, cars, and campers), thinking about what to do. Should we start our dinner of beans and rice?  Should we go for a walk?  All of a sudden a fellow named Brian appears from a camp-site just across the way.  He asks, “Have you all eaten dinner?”  We say no, not yet.  He says, “Wait just a sec.”

While he steps away, we turn to see a small deer right at our picnic table.   She looks at us expectantly, as if to say, “I’ve come for dinner, what are you serving?”  We toss her a few handfuls of gorp and are surprised to find out that she relishes the peanuts.  It is not long before she figures out that the plastic bag is the source of the goodies and she waggles her ears at us whenever Wes touches it.   This tickles us to no end.  For no good reason, I name her Mindy.

A few moments later, Brian appears with a plastic bag.  “I have some crab here.  It’s fully cooked.  Here’s the cracker and pick you need to eat it.”   We are flabbergasted.  I thank him and tell him I have never eaten fresh crab, only frozen.  His face brightens.   “You guys need to go out on the point and watch the sunset.  It is fabulous.  You can see the San Juans, and fishers, and when the sun goes down, there is hardly a sight more beautiful.  Take the crab and follow the scenic drive, you will love it!”  We visit a little more and find out that he had caught the crab earlier in the day, then given his extras to a variety of people in the camp, including another biker from Michigan. 

We had purchased a bottle of wine to celebrate the completion of this phase.  We also had fresh sour-dough bread recommended to us by the salesclerk at the bike shop.   We detach our B.O.B.’s, (what a relief!) and head down the road around the furthest west shore of Washington.   It is lovely and becomes more lovely with each passing yard.

At a corner, we stop to stare at the vista.  A few moments later, a balding man and a woman wearing a Detroit Lions fleece walk to the same corner 100 feet above the straits of Juan de Fuca.   I say to her, “We’re from Detroit too!” and take off my bike helmet to show my baseball cap with the old English D.  At first she seems surprised, and then says, she’s not from Detroit, but her son has played for the Lions for the past two years.  His name is Dylan (Dillan?) Gandy and he plays on special teams and was on 2^nd line for the defense.

They had spent a few months in Milford and had really enjoyed the area.  Originally from Texas, they were enjoying their retirement, which they were spending taking a 5^th wheel trailer to various spots in the nation, then exploring that spot fully for a couple of months before moving on to next.  I asked if they had found places they wanted to return, and they immediately answered, “This one.”   They told of their numerous attempts to see an Orca, and how they had learned to spot seals and porpoises.  At about that moment, they pointed, “Look!  It’s a bait bubble.” 

Below us, tens, then twenties, then perhaps a hundred gulls and terns began swarming a single spot in the sea, swooping in and out.  To my imagination, they are shouting like the gulls in Finding Nemo, “mine, mine, mine!” as they scoop little fish swimming ferociously in a circle to avoid prey.  “This is what the whale watching ships look for!”  Mrs. Gandy exclaims.  “Oh, I hope a killer whale comes.  I just want to see a killer whale so much.”

After a bit, we take our leave and ride a bit further on, to the apex of the scenic drive.  We have a panoramic view of the San Juans, the open sea beyond the islands, and fishing grounds below us.   We open the wine, slice the bread, and fumble as we pick the sweet, delicious, fresh meat from the Dungeness crab given to us by Brian.   We joke, “A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, a mess of crab, and thou.”  

The sky is deepening as we watch salmon fishers desultorily raise and lower their poles from their drifting boat, not catching anything, but also not seeming too upset about it.  A seal pokes his head up here and there; I am absolutely ineffective at guessing where the shiny black head will re-appear.

Two tiny tugs pull enormous container barges at a speeds that astound us.  We listen to the rumbly purr of the motors long after we can see the boats.  I go down to the edge of the sharp drop, and Wes calls in warning, “Don’t go any further!”  So I sit on the warm, volcanic rock, and for the first time in the trip, just sit.  Just sit and look at the beautiful world.  Sit and feel the warmth of the sun on my face.  Sit and let the tension leave my shoulders. 

It dawns on me that I have been going about this trip much like I have been living my life: getting to the next spot.  Making it up the next hill, making sure we have gotten ourselves organized and down the road.  Goals identified, goals achieved.  How little I have savored this trip.  How little have I just let things be. 

I stand and stretch in the warm sun, turn my mind off and just feel my body in  this magical healing spot.  As the sun slips behind the islands, and the warm golden reds transform into silky blues, Wes and I exchange one of the tenderest kisses we have shared in years. 

When we return to the camp, we are mostly silent.  Wes notes, “I thought it would be easier to shed the schedule than it has been.”  Our camp is still kind of cruddy, but our spirits have been lifted and we are learning that we have a ways to go…not just in miles…but in living fully. 

The next morning, it is hard to get moving—not only because I fought the sleeping pad and pillow instead of sleeping--but also because we want to hold onto that magical moment of repose and beauty.  We climb out of the valley, turn our bikes to the east and begin our passage to the Cascades. 

At the top of the hill, at the last sight of the coast we have been following for more than 400 miles, Wes sings, “So long, it’s been good to know you, So long, so long, so long.”  Another phase is beginning, that will no doubt bring new learning.  I pray we remember that journey has as much value as the destination.

T+22: Utterly Exhausted

Mile 333. INN AT PORT LUDLOW, WA: I am listening to Wes snore behind me and that’s a good thing.  We have been on the road for 11 days straight.  We had quite the day yesterday which left us gasping for air, and pushing our bikes up intense hills today.

We left our camp at Belair State Park fairly early in the morning.  We had been in the “hiker/biker camp sites”.  These are pretty marginal camping sites kept open for people who walk or bike in and who cannot be asked to go any further.  Unlike the other sites which are wooded, somewhat secluded, and with water taps.  The hiker/biker sites are glorified parking lots, next to the highway, but away from the 5 jillion families and their 12 jillion kids who are here to enjoy the beautiful scenery and play in a very gentle version of the ocean.

We have walked out to the shore, which is the furthest reach of the Hood Canal.   Thinking that a canal is man-made waterway, I have already embarrassed myself asking a local  “what the two bodies of  water does the Hood Canal connect.”  She points out, gently, that humans could not have dug the waterway we are viewing, where just a few weeks ago there had been a whale.  

There are visible oyster beds just off shore, and piles and piles of oyster shells showing that generations of humans and animals have been feeding here…and big signs warning people not to eat these oysters raw because of a disease called vibrio.  We don’t know the first thing about digging for oysters, or cooking them, so I guess we don’t have to worry about that risk.

When we return to the campsite, we see that other bikers have moved in and to our surprise, they are also pulling B.O.B trailers.  The vast majority of touring bicyclists use panniers.  David and Annie are very close to us in age and have made very many of the same choices we have.  We note the same choices in tents, in pants, in handlebar bags.  We compare choices for beds and cooking, and of course, share “war stories” from previous bicycle journeys.  They give us invaluable tips on using the trailers. 

They have a real estate and insurance business in Phoenix and are happy to be away from its heat in the summer.  They are stunned, as most people are, when Wes says we are from Detroit, “the greatest city on earth.”  A little while later, Annie says she always heard that Detroit was nothing but “abandoned factories, burnt-out houses, and (she whispers)….black people…”
I puzzle about this for miles.  I wonder why she thought it necessary to whisper “black people.”  Is it because she felt uncomfortable mentioning race at all? Is it because she can’t conceive of a place with lots of African Americans as having value?  Is it because she is uncomfortable with the idea of living with African Americans?

Both Wes and I recognize that our ability to travel as we do is a function of our white privilege.  We can go into dive bars, or fancy restaurants, or some outback village, pretty much without fear of being harassed or mistreated.  This is not a freedom most people of color have---and a freedom European Americans take for granted.

We cycle 30 miles fast as we can to a bicycle shop in Silverdale, where Wes’ bike will get some much needed maintenance.  He will eliminate the balloon tires, change his failing free wheel, adjust his derailleurs and get a new chain.  The guys at the bike shop are stunned at his 30 year old all-steel Raleigh.  The owner makes sure a young guy works on the bike so he can experience what bikes worked like “when they still made sense.”

Silverdale is essentially a far-flung suburb of Seattle, so there is no camping near about.  The owner, who cycles 18 miles to work every day, asks us if we have another 10 miles in us.  There is a great state park just ten easy and flat miles away.

Well, ten easy and flat miles to a road bike cyclist who travels nearly 40 miles every day is not the actual 14 miles it takes for slow, fat, Midwesterners pulling their life in a trailer.  For one thing, Washington road planners apparently don’t believe in going around a mountain to go up it.  Roads go straight up, then straight down.  After the first hill down, I notice that I don’t have any front brakes.  I reconnect the brake, which the bike shop had disengaged to replace the tube we had repaired on our first day out.

The next seven miles are up hill.  Both Wes and I are getting quite tired.  Our exhaustion starts to be problematic, when we take a wrong turn (for the second time this day) and realize a mile later that we are in the wrong place.  We push on and on.  I can barely make it up the hills.  Even the down hills are not great and I think I am losing control of my muscles and bike because of exhaustion.
After we reach the much awaited Lofall Road and zoom down, expecting to find the camp at the bottom, I was disappointed almost to the point of tears, to see another big hill loom before us.   By now, the shadows are stretching across the road and it will not be long before sunset.   I can barely move at this point and while I am getting whiny and emotional, Wes is getting cranky and gruff.   We come to the main road, and still haven’t seen our camp.  Wes waves over a passing pick-up and asks where the camp is.

He points us back down to the previous corner,  to a street fortuitously named Wesley Way.  He tells us to take that hill, then the first right and follow that back road to the park.   After about another mile, we finally turn into the park.  We have travelled 44 miles this day, in addition to getting major repairs done on Wes’ bike.  It is late, the sun is almost down, and we are utterly exhausted.  We manage to get the tent up in this hiker/biker campsite with hard, hard ground.  It is all we can do to make a cup of tea, before we crawl into the tent and go to bed without any supper.
The next morning, we are both still dragging, but do take the time to go look at the inspiring view of the Olympic Mountains which are gleaming in the morning light.  Just as we get ready to take off, I check the brake that I had re-attached on the road.  It was deployed.  No wonder that last 14 miles was soooo difficult.  I was riding against my brake the whole way.   Sheesh.

The ride that morning, even though beautiful, was just plain difficult.  Neither Wes nor I had any strength to make it up the many steep hills that are the hallmark of this part of the country.   We use whatever adrenalin we have to ride across the 4 mile Hood Canal bridge, and then are completely disheartened to see an extra steep hill greet us on the other side. 
Every hill has to be pushed up and even though the scenery is stunning as we travel through Paradise Bay, we are having such a hard time moving, it is not fun.   We crawl into the little town of Port Hadlock, something of a planned community/resort for the well-to-do, just 12 miles from where we started.  We eat lunch, ask about local camping, and are told that the next stop is great, but….the whole road has just been oiled and it is pretty darn hilly too.  Our hearts sink at this.

Around the next corner, we look down and see the very upscale Inn at Port Ludlow.  I tell Wes I am giving them a call, just to see.  I tell the reservations desk we have been bicycling for 11 days, and we are just beat.   I quiz her about the rates, which are high.  We decide, “What the heck?”  Wes says, “Let’s call this your birthday celebration.”  So we zoom down to the pretty hotel on the bay.   The desk clerk agrees to lock our  bikes away, gives us a bottle of wine as birthday present, and before long, we are drinking wine, using the Jacuzzi, and looking out our balcony onto the marina and the view of the Brothers Wilderness in the Olympic Peninsula.  Free of what feels like our wretched bicycle clothes, we collapse on the big, soft bed and sleep.

When we wake up, it is nearly twilight.  We go the restaurant and have expensive drinks and delicious food.  Afterwards, I catch up on my blog, while Wes takes a Jacuzzi, reads the paper, and falls asleep early. 

The next morning, after a lovely breakfast and brief walk around the grounds, we load our bikes, and make our way back to the road.  We both feel 100% better.  The ride to the place to the recommended campground was difficult, especially the five mile section in which we were the only bicyclists following a pilot car on a single lane of the highway.  The trail of cars left us far behind.  We felt obligated to go as fast as we can, so as not to delay the drivers waiting on the other side.  After clearing the last hard hill, we are panting hard, and know we never could have made it the previous day.   Wes notes, “Even God took a day off.”  Maybe we should take a clue from that more often.

T+20: Happy Birthday to Me

Mile 245: SHELTON, WA: Today is my 57^th birthday and we have been on the bikes 9 days.  We are definitely getting stronger.  Yesterday, we came over Cloquallam Creek from Elma, to Shelton, Washington.  This was definitely an out-back route, with almost no services for 26 miles. 

We left our hostel stay after a meager breakfast of oatmeal and one container of yogurt between us.   According to the Adventure Cycling map, there was a grocery stop about half way along the route.  We figured we would stop there for a break.   When we got to spot where to store was supposed to be, the building looked boarded up, and there was an older woman with scraggledy blonde hair in intense negotiations with a fellow in a beat up old pick-up truck.  She would reach into the bed of the truck, pick up something, and exchange a few words.  Wes heard her say “Who would want a moldy old board?”  We saw afterwards that the wreck of a building had an “OPEN” sign on it and we wondered if that was the grocery stop in question.

Neither of us wanted to stop, but this had consequences down the line.  By mile 15, our breakfast was long gone and we still had more than 10 miles to go.    This was definitely going to be a fat burning moment.  If only that stored energy were easier to access.  It just sits there on our guts and butts, as our energy drains away.

There is a growing mismatch between Wes and my cycling.  My months of training and the fact that my bike is much more of a road bike means that I am going much faster than Wes.  I have to stop every couple of miles and wait for him.  He comes plodding along on his heavy mountain bike with balloon tires.    We have an on-going discussion about the best approach to pedaling.  I say more spin, less push.  Wes says that means he goes too slowly, but I think he is coming around because pushing the pedals over and over is exhausting.

Speaking of Wes, he has been wanting to “guest-blog”, so I will turn it over to him:


Howdy. Some of you know, and some don’t, that I am addicted to speed. No, not the chemical kind, the kind that is generated by self-propelled movement such as skiing and, of course, biking. As it turns out, there are some ‘killer’ hills on this north-bound route from Portland to northern Washington. So, Shaun and I are having a hell of a lot of pain and a hell of a lot of fun pushing up and ripping down hills. One was two and a half miles at 6% grade with the added bonus of a coffee shop at the bottom. Whoo-Hoo!

My observations on the economy: In the Oregon/Washington corridor we’ve noticed the middle class is struggling to stay even and there is an unusual number of very poor people. Our conclusion; the poor are getting poorer in this area. I’ll make periodic updates as we move across the country.

Shaun again:

One of the ironies of this part of country-- We are in a huge forest and yet many, many people live in mobile homes.   One day a couple days back captured the yin and yang of this experience. 

We camped at the Lewis and Clark State Park, after a glorious day on the Jackson Highway, one of the original roads of the Oregon Trail.  It was clear and cool, and up on this high prairie, we could see for miles.  Mount St. Helens was on our right, snowy and misshapen, with its massive chunk removed from its conical shape.  We have seen this mountain from three sides now, and it figures very much in peoples’ consciousness. 

One sweet fellow named Fred, whom we met at the Columbia River camp, told us “You kids shouldn’t oughta drink that stinkin' camp water, you jist hep yurselvs to my 5 gallon tank.”  He also tells us that he and his crew had been watching the bulge grow on St Helens for days, and were about 10 miles away when it blew.  He shook his head sadly, “I tole my crew we had to go on inside, so we missed seeing the explosion by thirty minutes.  It lost a thousand feet in one minute and I didn’t get to see it.”



More stunning by half is seeing Mount Rainier, which is twice the size of St Helen’s.  I have never seen such big massif.  It looms in the north like some white headed mountain god.  I can see why the native people revered it.  Unlike the Rockies, which are a serrated chain of mountains, these are single, gigantic volcanoes.  Rainier must be at least 100 miles across the base, rising several thousand feet above that.  It has a sheer northern face that must be at least 1500 feet.  Most days are cloudy here.  The appearance of that massif must feel like the unexpected appearance of planetary diety.

We camp in the shadow of Rainier at a very little used state park called Lewis and Clark State Park.   The camp host comes to tell us that, once again, we have been unintentional scoff-laws, by camping in a spot intended for RVs and not in the hiker-biker site.  He recognized that this was ridiculous, as there was only 1 hiker biker site, it was filled and the rest of the camp was empty.  But rules were rules, and he had to get special permission from the ranger to let us stay there.  

Wes measures a giant Douglas fir
 

We asked why it is so little used.  His answer, “All there is is trees and hiking, and that ain’t interesting enough for the kids.”  It is interesting enough for us as this is an old growth forest.  We take a hike and see Douglas firs that are at least 120 feet tall, with trunks of at least  20 foot circumference.   We are agog at the western red cedar.  The bases of their trunks are as big as a small car.   The buildings of the park were made by the CCC’s in the 1930’s; they are well done Western heroic craftsman style.

We set our tent on a bed of moss and listen to the ancient trees whisper in the night.  The next morning we tarry and tarry, not wanting to leave this magical place of primeval energy.    But the road calls and we make our way to the fairly big town of Centralia.  

This is yet another lumber town, pretty much down on its luck.  Camping choices are limited, so we end up staying in the tent section of a fairly low end RV park.  We are right next to an industrial lumber yard with a rail spur, so there are regular train, equipment, and diesel truck sounds. 

I notice that the washing machines are reasonably priced, so instead of sitting at the picnic table in the shadow of the lumber yard, I decide to wash clothes.  We are digging through all of our pockets trying to find money for the machines, when an older man pushing a walker opens the door and shoves a plastic sack of books at me.  He pants, “Would you put that in ‘ere fer me?”

On the spur of the moment, I ask if he has any change. He looks stunned, but answers, “Yeah, but it’s back at m'trailer.”  I walk with him back to his home.  He apologizes, “My legs don’t work so good.”  At one point, his knee almost gives out and he grabs the wall of the wash house.  He apologizes again.  I offer my arm; he refuses.  We putter along, talking about his dog, Shadow, a snow white toy poodle.  He says, “It’s good for a guy to have some companionship—keeps him up and movin’.”  He says, “I spend too much time readin’, a guy’s got to have sumpin’ to keep him goin’.” 

When we get back to his home, I see that is a small motor home, hardly bigger than a van.  He apologizes again.  “Jis'  big enough for one.”  He rummages about, then gives me five dollars in quarters.  I ask him about his reading.  “Oh, I like mysteries, and westerns, and suspense. I don’t like the same thing over n' over.  I get bored.”  I look at his big luminous, rheumy blue eyes behind big metal glasses.  I ask, “Do you have any family around here?” “I got a sister over n' Chehalis…I got a kid in Portland…”, he answers vaguely.  It is obvious he hasn’t seen either in quite a while.  I leave Walt to his dog, books, and tiny trailer, and wonder what will happen when his legs completely give out.

A little while later, when we are leaving the laundry room, we see an elderly couple with a small spaniel taking a walk.  They give us a little wave as we go by.  Back at our table, we are fixing a cup of tea, when all of a sudden we hear a little dog barking and barking.   Wes looks up and says, “Did that guy just fall?”  Across the way, the little spaniel is barking, and the old man is laying on the ground. 

We hurry over there and find a frail old man lying on his back.  Wes asks if we can help him.  He says his wife has gone to get the car, He was "just plumb done in.”   We stay with him until his wife comes.  He asks if Wes was ever in the service.  Upon hearing that he was not, the thin, neat, white haired man tells us that he served in Iwo Jima in ‘42, Okinawa in ‘44, and Nanking in '46.  “I 'spect you two were not even born then,”  he guesses.  When the wife arrives, Wes gently puts his arms around the tiny frail man and picks up him in one smooth motion.  They thank us for our concern and we watch them drive away slowly.

We return to our camp abashed.  How can this camp be full of so many old, frail, and rather impoverished seniors?  I spend the rest of night wondering about our country’s values.  I am still wondering.

 

T+16: Creep Up, Zoom Down

CASTLE ROCK, WA, Mile 132:  We set a new record today:  33 miles.  We are in a fancy-schmantzy RV park, where in a few moments we will go sit in the hot tub to massage our sore and tired muscles.  Wes’ back has been talking to him for a couple of days, and my gluteus extra-maximus runs in and out of spasm.



When we left Portland, we wanted to go to the coast, to begin on the actual Pacific, so we followed the Columbia down the Oregon side.  Just outside of a little town called Rainier, we encountered our first big hill.  The road left the lovely cool confines of the river, and climbed up on the coastal range.  In the space of a few miles, we had an elevation change of more than 725 feet.  This required something we have done a lot of in the past few days---getting off the bike and pushing it up the hills. 

The Columbia Valley from a Rainier Ridge overlook

This was so steep and so long, I resorted to my tried and true, “I can get through anything strategy.”   100 steps…stop and breathe…100 more steps… stop and breathe again.  There were numerous turnouts where we marveled over the beautiful Columbia River valley.  I took a great panorama photo with a program on my phone.

We walked and pushed and sweated up this big hill, watching trucks gear down and down as they too struggled up the top.  At the very top, we cruised for a very little while before we saw signs warning us “6% grade next 2.5 miles, trucks use lower gear.”  

Zooming down a mountain on a bike on this grade is both exciting and dangerous.  Focus is essential, because the littlest piece of gravel can upend you, and flying off your bike at 30 miles an hour is a particularly bad idea.   I roar along, barely aware of the passing scenery, braking just enough maintain control of my bike.  After about a mile, my hands are completely numb from the vibrations of my front wheel.

There’s another warning about the grade: “6% grade-- 1.5 miles.”  I keep my wits about me and hope Wes is making it down ok.  I dare not look back or even to the side on this descent.  When I make it to the bottom, the first thing I see is a coffee house called Latte Da and roll in there as smooth as can be.   Wes comes charging right after.  We didn’t need to exchange a word to know that this was our next stop. 

We are utterly exhilarated, and perfectly exhausted. We take our coffees to the edge of Klatskanie Creek, look at the dairy cows, listen to the trilling birds, and feel pretty darn good about ourselves.  We are up the ridge from the Columbia Valley, and this has a remote mountain town feel to it, though it is 72 miles (by our bikes) from Portland.

We decide to get a motel room because we and all of our clothes stink.   We rent a room at the Northwoods Inn  from an East Indian woman whose kids are raising hell in the next room and keep distracting her.  A big family of Latinos, presumably Mexican by their Spanish dialect, are cleaning and painting the building, which looks not all mountain town, but somehow just right in mango and tangerine. 

The room has a microwave and refrigerator, so we decide to finally make the rice I have been carrying since Portland.  We walk all around the town and see that there are many empty buildings and closed businesses.  We have seen this pattern throughout the area: a side by side mix of cute, quaint, and yuppified right next to the vestiges of what looks like a more working class and resource based economy. 

We see it in the people too.  American made pick-up trucks, some of them quite old, being driven by what Wes would call “Red-neck hippies” are interspersed with many Toyota sedans, especially Priuses, driven by people who make us feel fat and unfashionable.   In this neck of the woods, it seems like working people are lot poorer than they used to be and middle class folks are just holding on.

We frequent a few dive bars and talk to the locals. At the Pastime Bar, established 1928, decorated with tens of deer, elk, and caribou racks, in Castle Rock, the cook confirms what we have been seeing.  The timber industry went through a near death experience after 2008 meltdown, and even now most of the timber is being sent overseas, loaded on giant barges as raw logs and shipped to China and Japan to process into lumber.    A long haired fellow laments, “I don’t know why we can’t do that millin’ here, ‘sted of shippin’ it over there.”   The accent here has long, soft vowels, but with very strong “r’s”  “Over there” is rendered “ovr eyar”

This is some amazing tree country.  I have never seen such huge cedars.  Right now, I am sitting under some kind of straight trunk spruce that must be 80 feet tall, even if it is only 2 feet around.  We constantly look at the trees.  Michigan is good tree country; we always remark how small the trees look when we start to get into western Iowa or western Minnesota.  But this stretch of the Columbia is full of giant Douglas firs, and enormous white (like) pines.  We know this is mostly second, or perhaps third growth timber, but it looks pretty vibrant from our limited bike view.

This is also really fun and great bird watching.  There are lots of osprey all along the river.   They are great talkers, and will sit high on a tree, whistling and calling like a song bird, before jumping to soar along the river, then dive falcon-like, into the water to catch a fish.

There are also many bald eagles, and huge, ancient nests along the river.  We hear lots of singers, recognize a few species like gold finch, swallows, and larks.  There are many more we don’t.  I wish I had loaded my on-line bird book on my computer before I left

I note that many of the flowers I am trying to grow in my yard in Detroit are wild flowers here.  The stands of sweet peas bring vibrant pinks and reds to road-side culverts.  There are coral bells, and wild raspberries, and astilbe bushes.  (Who knew astilbes could even be bushes?)  The hydrangea, rhododendron, and holly are epic.   Roses thrive here.

We see few mammals.  In the 132 miles we have covered since we began, we have seen two deer, a few road kill raccoons, but no squirrels, no rabbits, no chipmunks—even in campgrounds where there is plenty of food for scavenging rodents.   We see lots of very small dogs and few horses.  This is quite curious to us.

When we get to the estuary of the Columbia, it was great to take the ferry to Puget Island, then cross the high and windy iron bridge over the main channel of the big river.  Wes asks, “Wasn’t the river going backwards?”  I ask at the next diner, if the river is subject to tides and am surprised to hear that the tides are over 15 feet at this juncture. Cathlamet is the furthest west we go, just across the channel and a bit upstream from Astoria.  We can smell the sea breeze and the talk in these towns is all about fish, not logs.

All along this route back from the sea, we see lots of weekend fishers and hear lots of talk about the steelhead salmon run that isn’t.  In the papers, there are notices that the sockeye salmon fishing is reduced to two days a week within a greatly reduced season.  None of this is good news for the earth or the people who depend upon the fish.

Wes is much better at engaging strangers in conversations than I am.  He has had some doozies-- with Daryl Carson, a direct descendent of Kit Carson, who has spent his life in group homes, but has some sort of photographic memory.   Wes also engaged a grump of a fellow named Larry, who when we told him we liked his little town, told us that he didn’t like living there.  The people were insular and wouldn’t know a good idea if it bit them on the leg.  He’s lived there close to 30 years and they still haven’t accepted him.  This leaves us speechless and mumbling how everyone has been kind to us.  There are more, but I will let Wes tell the tales in a “guest post.”

Right now, the hot tub is calling and the mosquitos are starting to swarm.  The last two days of pushing our bikes up steep hills (none of them as bad as that first one) and screaming down the other side is ready to be bubbled off in a nice warm tub.  I can hardly wait.

ps. Went to the hot tub and it was out of order.  Sigh.

T+10: The Adventure Begins

ST. HELENS, OR: We mounted our bikes about 2pm yesterday afternoon, and after a few wobbles getting used to our loaded BOB trailers, zoomed down the hill to the river, then over the Hawthorne Bridge, and through downtown.  The north end of Portland is an industrial zone, with no trees and blazing sun.  We were starting our day in exactly the wrong time of day: when the sun is hottest and the holiday traffic most intense.

However, we just buckled down and pushed forward, so glad to finally be underway.  Everything is going swimmingly until about mile 16.5, when I feel a funny clunk in my tire.  I slow down, and sure enough, I have picked up a roofing nail in my front tire.  We have to cross the busy highway, which is not so easy with the bike trailers. 

On the other side of the road, blessedly in the shade, we remove the bike wheel, then spend at least 30 minutes trying to get the tire off the wheel, so we can fix the flat.  Three tools and a few cuss words later, we have the inner tube out.  The hole is a double piercing on the side of tube.  Fixing it permanently is going to be a challenge.  I get the patch kit from my bike and discover the glue is completely hardened.  Thank goodness, I had the foresight to put another patch kit on Wes’ bike. 
We patch the holes, get the tube and tire back on the bike with less difficulty than getting it off, pump the tire, and remount the wheel.  It has taken us at least an hour to do this, during which the road has emptied and entered the shadow of the trees to a greater degree.

It is another 5 miles to the first little town.  We are out of water and pretty darn dehydrated by the time we pull into the Fred Meyers in the little town of Scappouse, OR.  In the store, we drink an iced tea while shopping, order smoothies, get more glue, and pick up a few supplies for dinner.   It is a bad sign, we note, that my tube in not available at this store and I regret not getting one when we were at the bike shop.  While drinking a smoothie, still feeling dehydrated, we call the only camping nearby. 

The camp host is friendly and lets us know that there is lots of room, but that we have to go another 5 miles to get to the camp.  We’re beat, but looking forward to our first camp of the trip.  We get there about 30 minutes before sunset. Setting up camp goes very well.  We eat a good dinner of pumpkin soup, hummus, and hot tea.  We are tired and can feel strain in various muscles. 

In the tent, we stretch out, adjust our blow-up pillows.  After a good rub down with Aspercreme, the sore bicyclist’s friend, we conk out.  We sleep soundly, only waking up to the chorus of two owls hooting away in the giant Douglas firs above our tent.  

The next morning, we are creaky, but not terribly sore, but our moods are right on the edge of cranky.  Little glitches in the packing seem downright irritating, and we are still learning the easy and smooth way to deal with the equipment.

However, we are on the road by 8 am.  It is beautiful and cool.  We zip along until we find a Starbucks, where we will charge our electronics, satisfy Wes’ coffee addiction, and see how our first filming on the bike went.

We feel so glad to be out…proud of ourselves for changing the tire…already feeling the effects of taking an adventure.  Wes keeps saying: “You know what is great about being on the bike….just being in the moment.”  He is right.  We are in this moment, in a small town in Oregon, on the Columbia River, about to take in the 4^th of July festivities.  Our adventure begins.

T+9: The Not-So-Blue Portland Blues

PORTLAND, OR:  We are now on our 4^th day in Portland, and our moods are mixed, mixed, mixed.  Wes, who had been quite tolerant of the situation we find ourselves in, woke up this morning agitated and ready to go.  We wonder what do.  Should we rent a car and go to the mountains, away from the heat and into the cool beauty?  How would we get all our gear to a car rental place and back?  Should we get a better place to stay?  We are at the Hawthorne Hostel and it is pleasant enough, though it was difficult sleeping the first two nights because of the heat and noise.  Last night we moved into the dorm where, ironically, enough, both of us slept like rocks.

We have been exploring Portland.  It is a very nice, somewhat surprising city.  Some surprises reflect more on us as Detroiters than anything else.  Case in point, in the funky, hipster neighborhood of Hawthorne, where we are staying, there are three---count ‘em-- three---excellent grocery stores within walking distance of the hostel.   They are stuffed full of beautiful, fresh produce. 

I am almost embarrassed to say that I made Wes go look at the Fred Meyer store that I chanced into on our way to the hostel.  We were hot and thirsty, and I popped into this store for something cool to drink.  I wandered around, like some third world refugee, amazed at the range and excellence of the products, and the beauty and cleanliness of the store.  It is full pitiful for two full-grown adults to be oohing and aahing their way around a grocery store, but that is exactly what we did.

We notice Portland folks are much more rule adherent than we are.  If there are no cars coming at a crosswalk, Wes and I cross the street.  We have often left compliant Portlanders staring at us, as we blatantly crossed the street without the light.  At the hostel, we take responsibility for our comfort, and move our base of operations into the cool basement meeting room, only to realize later, that we were supposed to ask permission to use this area.   We are aware in many subtle and not so subtle ways that Detroit’s pioneer ways make us seem like scoff-laws in this more tempered and managed environment. 

We people watch incessantly and are surprised by the number of homeless individuals soliciting on the streets.   90 percent of these panhandlers are young, European- American males.   In every part of town, though certainly more numerous in the Hawthorne District, we see young men, often with companion animals and instruments, soliciting donations from passersby.   Wes stopped and asked two young men, bewhiskered and crusty, why there are so many homeless young people in this city.  These young men said they had been hopping trains, but that Portland was the end of the line and many folks got off here.  They weren’t sure they were staying. 

A fairly big number of mumblers and screechers make their way up and down the streets.   The disinvestment in mental health care is as fully apparent here as it is in Detroit, though the demography is different.  

In general, Portland strikes us as a very youthful city.  We wonder where their seniors, the middle aged, and children are.  We have not yet travelled more than 3 or 4 miles from downtown, and assume that families and elders might be seen in the more far-flung neighborhoods, but it is strange to us to see so many young folks.

It is true, as our friend Gail said, Portland is the epicenter of the piercing and tattoo culture. Inking is ubiquitous, pegged ears, commonplace.  We wonder if we are prejudiced when we find male fashion and bearing here a bit too geeky/nerdy for our Detroit muscle car and street cred eyes. 

But boy oh boy, is this a place for Wes’ coffee addiction.  We wander from one incredible coffee house to another, and are in fact, enjoying a beauty called Palio in a leafy arts and crafts neighborhood just off Hawthorne, as I write this blog.

This is also a wonderland of gardens.  Many people have given up on their lawns and established beautiful flower or food or shrub-scapes.  The trees are big and in the neighborhoods we have explored, there are many wonderful old houses.  Both Wes and I really like what we see, but for reasons we don't understand, it just doesn’t resonate for us. 

Is it the lack of an edge?  Is it that people are courteous here, but not particularly friendly---unlike Detroit, where folks are friendly, but not particularly courteous?   Is it that there are so many choices, so many options, for food and drink and shopping, that a sense of privilege is part of the package? 

Is it that we don’t sense the ferment and self-conscious path-choosing that makes up conversation after conversation in our delightful and dysfunctional city?  It seems the struggle for identity here is an individual quest expressed in body art and fashion.  As always, I pick up the local newspapers and rags, but don’t see many signs of collective action or identity.  Or perhaps I don’t recognize their form.

Or do we miss the presence of African Americans and African American culture?   While we perceive that this town has very many Latinos and Asian Americans, somehow, it doesn’t feel like their place, although we recognize we might not have the eyes to see it. 

All in all, we like Portland as a place to visit, but don’t feel any pull to stay here. We hear the call of the road louder each day.  When- oh- when will the bikes arrive?  We are ready to be in a more wild place.   This place might be a little too civilized for us Wyoming/Detroit pioneers.