T+44: Underserved and Overutilized

Mile 1006: LAKE KOOCANUSA RESORT, MT:  For reasons necessary and self-indulgent, Wes and I have been sampling accommodations from the high and low price points for the past few days.  Most of our experience has been unsettling, but for quite different reasons. 

After camping in the community park in Kettle Falls, we made an early morning run to the town of Colville.  Up before dawn, it was almost all downhill, and downright chilly, as we cycled as fast as we could to this supposedly bigger and better served town.  When we got there, two sights greeted our eyes. 

First was a Sprawlmart on the edge of town, almost right across the street from a massive lumber mill.  We stopped and stared at a giant machine, standing at least 100 feet high tall, on which 30 foot long pinchers moved back and forth.   The huge, claw-like pinchers, manipulated by a single operator in a cab high above the track, would reach down and lift the entire load of a lumber truck and convey it in one motion to the de-barking machine.  Logs came out, stripped of their outer skins about every second, fed by a fast moving conveyer belt.    A sign proudly proclaimed that this machine was the only one of its kind in the interior of the country.  

We have seen these types of machine on the waterfront, lifting shipping containers, but this was a much more dangerous and skilled use.  The logs were all different sizes and weights, and the operator had to determine where was the best place to grab to keep the logs together and balanced.   We could see the operator manipulate the giant claw, tenderly moving it up and down the load, testing it, then suddenly lifting the many thousands of pounds like so many pick-up sticks.  We were mesmerized and appalled by this process…thousands and thousands of trees per hour were being processed this way.

Going into town, it was just what we feared after seeing the Sprawlmart--another downtown full of empty buildings and/or second hand stores.  Clearly Colville once had a cute and productive downtown, but those days were gone.  We asked a few people for a breakfast café and received blank stares or suggestions for cafes five miles away.  We did spot a fairly unlikely looking restaurant in a disheveled former hotel.  The cook was outside, smoking a cigarette, and she called us over, when we asked if Wild Bill’s served breakfast.  “Come on in, store your bike in the front room, I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

Inside, there was a capacious dining room with plastic seats and tables.  Beyond a tattered curtain, one could see a stage and bar.  The cook/owner said it used to be night club, but it didn’t make it.  She had been the cook and then bought the dining room part of the business last year.  From the lack of customers and the lack of knowledge about café, it was clear that she was having a hard time of it.   Nevertheless, she made us an outstanding breakfast and delivered it to us herself.  She told us about her first grandchild and her hopes for the restaurant, which was her first effort at running a business.  We could see that she had known hardship in her life, but she was still in there swinging.

The ride out of Colville was tough and hot as we left the Columbia River Valley.   About 10 miles out of town, after cycling (and pushing) in the hot sun, I started to get overheated.  We had to stop and pour some of our limited water supply on my head and on my clothes to lower my body temperature.  We wound through various valleys and hills, ever climbing.  The country was populated, but there were no services of any kind along the way.  

Miles stretched on, with houses every few hundred yards, but not a small store, or local café or tavern or anything.  We stop for lunch at a Forest Service campground on the Little Pend Orielle River.  We look and look around the campground, thinking we might stay, but are put off by three factors.  The place has been over used and most of the campsites are pure dust.  When we go to use the water pump, there is a big sign: “This water is subject to contamination and must be boiled before use.”  Finally, the nicest campsites by the river are absolutely over-run with yellow jackets.  In fact, the sound of yellow jackets is the only sound we hear in this forest.   We know that these wasps are not particularly aggressive, but certainly will sting if provoked.  It is hard not to swat at them when they swirl around our eyes and ears and in and out of our food.   We boil some water for tea and to refill our rapidly decreasing stores, and decide to move on. 

Miles later, after continuing to gradually climb, we are extremely relieved to see a resort called Beaver Lodge which has camping, cabins, and a café/bar.  It is a beautiful setting, right on a small lake, with series of small cabins, and a deck overlooking the water teeming with all sort of watercraft.  We decide to stay and inquire about cabins.  As it turns out, all of the cabins are full, but we are invited to look at the campsites.   The RV portion is a mess, with lots of trailers packed in a small space, and every site containing not only a trailer and truck, but also ATV’s.  Many have several.  At one site, I count 4 ATV’s, two motorcycles, and a few bicycles.  At the far end of the tent site, we find an acceptable location.  Wes goes to get water from the standpipe.  From across the campground, a fellow yells, “I wouldn’t trust that water!”  He offers to give us some water, and engages Wes in a long conversation about the poor state of education for today’s engineers.

Down at the café, we sit on the deck, drink a beer, and have a long conversation with a couple out celebrating his 71^st birthday.  He had worked for years for Boise Cascade in Kettle Falls.  His longterm girlfriend, originally from California and wanting to return there to be with her grandchildren, has been trying to sell her house for three years.  “I just keeping lowerin’ and lowerin’ the price, hoping someone will take it.”  He says, “Ain’t nothing sellin’ up here, now that the logging business is gone.”   Service is quite slow, and we gradually realize that there is one woman doing all the public work at the resort.  She is managing the front desk and store, as well as being the waitress and bartender.   There a cook in the back, and that is it.   As we look around, and especially when I use the disgusting and nearly dysfunctional bathroom, it is clear that no one is doing much maintenance on this place.  There are piles of buckets and cardboard boxes outside the kitchen door.  No one is limiting the use of the ATV’s: there are trails everywhere, beating the poor forest floor to dust.  I cringe when I see one young father taking his four year old son on a harum-scarum ride through the camp, neither in helmets.  Wes and I crawl into our tent are about to fall asleep, when we are startled to hear the sound of high powered rifle firing multiple rounds in quick succession, very nearby.  

When we leave early the next morning, we speculate how this resort came to have such an unhealthy and anarchic vibe.  At one point, it had been a nice, beautiful place.   The woman doing her best to keep the place going was not the owner.  No one was taking care of the place or putting limits on how the land could be used and it was slowly but surely being destroyed. 

A few miles later, we reach the top of the Little Pend Orielle, and bloop over a lip to see a sign that says, “Steep Grade, Dangerous Curves next 7 miles”.  They weren’t kidding.  Down we go through hairpin turn after hairpin turn to the spot called Tiger.  There used to be a store; it’s gone.  We read the signs around the store which says there are two resorts between Tiger and the little town on Cusick, 40 miles away. 

Off we go.  It is a beautiful, flat run with the Pend Orielle River on our left.  There are lots of houses and ranches in the narrow valley, bounded by steep sided mountains.   After about 10 miles, we come to first resort.  No restaurant and the store will not open for three hours.  They let us fill our water bottles and we are back on the road.  The next resort is another 10 miles.  It is closed.  We are starting to get concerned because we only had food for one day and it is gone.  

When we finally get to the store in the tiny town of Cusick, we have gone more than 70 miles in constant habitation and seen 1 store/restaurant.  This little store does a rocking business, as can be imagined, but it seems strange that it so far between services.  The salesclerk directs us to the other side of the river for a more quiet ride into the town of Newport.  Foolishly, we did not take her advice to stay at the Pioneer Park campground outside town, but went in, only to find that accommodations were limited, to say the least.

We stay at a small motel that was state of the art in 1964, and had barely been upgraded since then.  We are unnerved by one set of tenants, busily and grimly pulling pile after pile of bedding, clothing and equipment out of their truck and putting it in their room.  Another hyped up, super skinny woman comes seeking a room.  She was aggressively berating the Polish or Russian immigrant desk clerk and demanding to see room after room.  She yells, “Why are you showing me one room, then giving me another…you’re trying to cheat me, aren’t you.”  Wes and I pull all of our equipment, bikes, BOBs and all into our room.  It makes the room very crowded, but at least it felt like they were more secure.  I don’t trust the bed and pull our own comforter out to sleep.  Wes conks out, but I am anxious and have trouble sleeping.  When we leave the next morning, we pass a former motel that has become a tweakerville.  I think our motel was on its way to that status. 

The ride to Sandpoint is beautiful and fun.  When we enter outskirts, it is clear we have left the land of poor folks.  Sandpoint has amenities: big wide streets with designated and separate bike lanes.  There are enormous estates surrounding Pend Orielle Lake.  There are quaint shops, and cute little eateries.  We are thrilled to find a wonderful natural foods shop with handmade bread.  A patron directs to the county fairgrounds where there is camping.  When we get there, it is nice and clean and new.  All the lights are timers; there is recycling, the showers and rest rooms are clean and spacious.  The camp hosts warns us of upcoming rain and lightening, and tells us to camp on the group picnic pad, which has lights and power.  

We have a nice night, a good meal from the natural food store (so much better than the pre-fab food we have been finding at these little towns).  It rains all night, but we are snug and dry under the shelter.  The next morning, one of neighbors brings us coffee from Starbucks (she thought we looked cold).  It dawns on us we have not seen Starbucks in hundreds of miles.  The camp-host invites us to stay another night, warning us of more rain. 

Once again, we didn’t listen to the local, and followed our instincts, to bad effect.  When we leave, it is barely drizzling.  About eight miles out of town, it starts pouring, then pelting.  Soon we are soaked to the bone.  We find out our rain coats work well, but our shoes, pants, and side panniers are wet.  We pause for while under the elaborate gate of the Idaho Club.  There is a gatehouse, and it is open, but we are much too nervous to go in out of the rain.  We try calling the numbers on the board, but neither my or Wes’ phone work, and neither does their keypad.  We are now standing, wet and getting increasingly cold.  It is better to be moving.  The next town is called Hope.  There is a hotel there.  We will try for it.

TO BE CONTINUED…