The Best Laid Plans...

From: El Burgo Ranero, October 5, 2016
About: Estella to Logroño, September 14-18

We are in a tiny bungalow on the banks of the Ebro in the northern Spain town of Logroño, after a comedy of errors. We have had 2 long days of hiking and are now more than 100 miles into our journey. I thought I was such a smarty pants, booking our place to stay 2 nights in advance….but…

We are depending on an online app to provide inf about distances and lodging. It requires flipping back and forth between various screens and keeping the distance on the maps clear in my head. Once Again, I have misread/ misunderstood/misused the maps.

After our lovely 2- day stay in an apartment in Estella, where I was proud to have negotiated the purchase of new boots, socks, and underwear for Wes, as well as the makings of our dinner—in Spanish.  It was fun stepping out of the Camino bubble and moving through the city like residents. I  It was nice to experience simple, homely things like cooking and setting the table after being on the move for nearly a month.

Outside Los Arcos

We had again booked an apartment in Los Arcos. It was more expensive, but OK, we liked our last apartment the day before.  The walk is fine: high, dry fields in which we walked in the company of older Brits on holiday, traveling without packs.   The high point of the day, however, is watching 30 griffin buzzards, with their 4 feet wingspread, fly in from all directions and squabble over a dead something (probably sheep) at the base of the sandstone cliffs across the valley.

When we finally get to Los Arcos, we can’t get in. The landlady has to come 20 miles to work the glitchy electronic entry system.

As we are finally getting in the door, who do we see but the Asian women with whom we had been traveling. It was really exciting to see them. The apartment, however, is not so exciting. It was about one third the size of the previous apartment and cost more.  What the hell?

After our trip to the alimentacion to get supplies for a simple dinner, we are just settling in, when we hear a knock at the door.  It is Jian, Mei-jiang, and Fan-yi, come for a visit.  They bring a photo of me coming up the Hill of Forgiveness, which they had made in Estella.  As it turns out, they had been  in the same apartment complex we were in Estella. We never saw them! 

We make plans have dinner together, and begin sharing travel arrangements.  There are surprised we planned to get to Logroño the next day.  Upon further inspection,  we discover I have once again made a mistake with the confusing route maps.  Viana, where our friends will be going tomorrow, is a manageable 11 miles, but Logroño is 8 miles beyond.  Rats!

We have already booked a bungalow on the river in Logrono for tomorrow.  Now what? 

Even though the news upsets me, I don’t want to interrupt our conversation with these charming women.  Mei-Jing is clearly the leader of this trio.  She tells how Jian came to be traveling with them.  Mei-Jing, Fan-yi and her uncle (Waun-ju?) are all from Taiwan, and had been planning their Camino for some years.  They had booked an albergue in Pamplona, the first time they had stayed in a dormitory. 

Jian, a tiny, sweet faced Korean, with pale silken skin and wide smiling eyes that look perpetually surprised, was traveling alone.  She had the bad luck to be sleeping on the top bunk above a freaky male pelegrino who not only masturbated in the dorm, but also stood over Jian’s bunk and made sexual gestures and approaches.

From the adjoining bunk, Mei-Jing jumped into action, putting herself between Jian and the freak, shouting in his face, “No Touch!  No Touching Her!”

From that point forward Jian began traveling with the Taiwanese.  They communicate in English, as best as they could.  They are good hearted and funny.  When we are with them, we laugh a lot.  I am touched that they made a photo of me with hopes of seeing me again.

We make plans to have dinner together.  Not in Viana.  Not in Logroño, but we should all be in Najera in a couple of days.  Great!  We exchange numbers and look forward to sharing a home cooked meal together.

The next morning, we send our bags to Logroño and set out to walk to Viana, 11 miles away.  We will need to figure out how to catch a local bus to Logroño, then get to our little cabin.

We walk nearly alone on the chilly damp pathway, most of yesterday’s group of bluff Brits driven onto mass transit by the discouraging conditions.
However, we like the walk a lot; the vistas are opening up and we enjoy the rolling environment with views of the mountains all around us.  We are also grateful that we not walking through these fields of  grapes, olives, figs, and almonds in the beating sun.

When we get to Viana, Wes is surging ahead of me—for the first time of the trip.  His new boots are working well and he is no longer hobbling along, every step a pain.  In Viana, we need to find the bus station and my phone is dead.  Wes walks up to various strangers and says “Autobus?” A French worker from one of the albergues comes out and tells us in almost comprehensible Spanglish, “Go left, then right by the big wall, it’s there.” (or something like that.)

We go left, then right, and there are two big walls. Wes asks another man, who answers in rapid Basque/Spanish. I don’t understand anything but his gestures.

We get to a corner which seeks like it should/could be a bus stop, but there’s no sign.  I say go down to the main highway.  Wes says, “Go up to the main town.” We try the highway, but still don’t see any bus stop.  We are now getting nervous because the bus comes at 4pm and the last time my phone worked, it was 3:25pm.

We are making our way to what may be a stop, when a young man (double earrings, drooping skinny pants, and short hair) comes tearing along, being dragged by a 100lb Rottweiler.  Wes hollers, “Autobus?” and the young man, unable to stop the dog, points us up the many stairs of the escalera, to the street leading to the town center.  We thank him and off he goes, running after the massive black dog.

Up about 50 steps, then a climb to the center of the town leads us to a group of people with luggage sitting on a concrete bench.  No sign, of course, so Wes asks, “Autobus to Logroño?” and gets a  “Si!” and a bevy of words and a sign to “Sit, sit!” Before long, the modern bus arrives and we pay just 1.30€ for our ride to Logroño.

As soon as we get off the bus, we can tell there is something going on.  We hear lots of noise and there are all sorts of people on the street.  Oh, well, what do we know?  Maybe it’s market day.

We follow our map to the center of town, where a big gathering is just ending—perhaps a concert in the park.  There’s a big group of people dressed in red and white following a brass band.  There’s all sorts of energy in the air and all of the restaurants and cafes are jammed.  My plan for a long awaited lunch in Logroño is thwarted.

We start making our way to the park where we will cross the river and get to our little bungalow.  As we move that way, the streets become more and more crowded—and more and more rowdy.  All sorts of young people are drenched in red wine and the drunkenness in the crowd is frightening.  

We have to move through the packed, agitated, inebriated group with our backpacks and walking sticks and not lose each other.  Most of crowd are very young and very drunken.  Many look like teenagers.

In the distance, we can see a bridge blessedly free of the drunken mob.  Just as we clear the crowd, I ask a drunken fellow, “What is this?”  He shouts over a young man bellowing into a bullhorn,  “La Fiesta San Mateo!”

We finally get to the park where we can cross the bridge.  It is now raining in earnest. There’s a knot of drinkers lurking under the pediments.  We give them a wide berth.  Next, we see a young man trying to get sexual with a young woman who clearly doesn’t want it.  She pushes his hands away, and tries to move him back towards the crowds.

Near our crossing, we spot a desolate restaurant just about to close for the day.  It’s only customer is an exhausted, dark-skinned vender still dragging his stack of hats and helium balloons.  We get a couple of cafe con leches and two tired sandwiches.

Across the bridge, we don’t know how to get to the bungalows, so I drag out my emergency power and call the office.  We are close….but….

Our reservation is for tomorrow.  What? 
I check my confirmation and sure as hell, the reservation is for Sunday!

It is now 6pm on the biggest day of the biggest harvest festival in the capital of Spain’s most famous and celebrated wine region. We scan Booking.com, TripAdvisor, all of the listings in the guidebooks. Of course, there is nothing available.  The woman at the desk apologizes and suddenly…  We are in Screwville.

The manager tells us she will check on one thing. Call her back in a few minutes.

Now what?  Our choices are less than limited.  Plus, we don’t even know if she has our sent-ahead backpacks. 

A few minutes later, I call her back and she tells me the only she has is a big dorm room with 12 beds, which she can let us have for 100€-more than twice as much as we had planned on spending.   And she tells us that our Sunday booking is non-refundable.  I tell her we will call her back.

A quick analysis of the situation tells us that something is better than nothing, and that we should take the next night in Logroño, as well.  So it's two nights in Logroño, the first night in wooden bunk beds in a big cold and empty dorm. And our dinner plans with our new friends are ruined, too.

We crawl into bed early and fall fast asleep…until I am awakened in the middle of the night with digestive upset from the tired sandwich.  The next morning, we are up early, with a Sunday ahead of us. We walk the riverfront, spot a stork on a nest at the top of tall brick chimney, and make our way to a perfunctory mass with no music, no deacons, no altar servers in a huge double spire cathedral with a sculpture by Michelangelo and yet another Baroque altar. 

By the end of the mass, we can hear a brass band playing. When we step outside, we are right back in the middle of the festival. A big group of revelers, dressed in traditional maroon and white outfits, circle a small combo playing some kind of improvisational jazz, held together by a walking bass line played by a profusely sweating sousaphone player.

We wander a bit, until we come across the big town square. Yesterday, it was the site of a concert; today, it is covered with small white tents. Hundreds of people are going from tent to tent, getting tapas and wine in glass goblets and small white plates. Wes tries to get some, but is rebuffed. An older  man explains in slow Spanish that we have to buy our glass and plate, then we can get as much wine and food as we like.

Just at that moment, we get a call from the park manager, telling us our bungalow is free. We have to come right now to vacate the dorm and move into the dorm.  It is noon. As we make our way back across the river, we hear the sounds of the crowd increasing.  By the time we cross the river, the sound has become a roar.

Remembering our frightening traverse through the bacchanal yesterday, we decide to spend the afternoon sleeping, reading, and writing in the tiny bungalow.  We ask each other, “Do you want to back over there?” Not so much.  But we do think we will have a glass of wine.

T+55: We Leave the Mountains

Mile 1422: Chinook, MT

After leaving the home of the Snyders’, we travel up US 2 to Columbia Falls.  It is a fairly busy, four-lane road, but it has wide shoulders and is pretty flat, so we scoot along.  About eight miles outside of town, there is an old gold Dodge truck parked in the shoulder.  We check to make no cars are coming and move into the lane to pass the truck.  As I go by, I see that there are people in the truck.   Something is obviously wrong.

I go up to the driver’s window on the truck to ask if they need help. There are two young people inside and the young woman wakes up, startled, but has the presence of mind to ask if I have a cell phone.  I go around to the passenger side.  A young, handsome, Native American male, shakes awake.  I pull out my cell phone and hand it to him.  He is unfamiliar with the workings of my Windows Phone, and cannot get the numbers in, so I end up entering the numbers.  While all this is going on, they explain that they ran out of gas at 3 a.m. the night before, and had been sleeping in the truck until they could get some help.  While he tries to get someone in Columbia Falls to come bring them some gas, I have chance to get a good look at them and make small talk.

The driver is a young woman, quite small and slender, with tousled blonde hair. She has big hazel eyes, deeply sunk into her sallow face.  When she smiles at me, she has a pretty, orthodontically correct grin, but it is marred by the tell-tale black edges of heavy meth use. She is probably 25.  He is shirtless, and his smooth chest has numerous scars and scrapes.  His smile is not yet marked by black, but his eyes are not focusing correctly.  He cajoles his correspondent to bring him some gas, “C’mon man, I’m just out here by the airport…just bring me some gas, ok?”  It is clear that the person on the other end is reluctant, but eventually agrees to bring them some gas.

Hearing that someone is coming to help them, we take our leave, and wish them well. They thank us effusively.  As we pedal, we ponder.  The truck ran out of gas in a fairly busy area.  There are gas stations and phones within easy walking distance.  It is well after 10 am, so they have been in that truck for more than 7 hours.  We speculate that they ran out of gas, then ran out of high at about the same time, and just fell asleep there.  We wonder if we are being unfair.  We don’t understand why they didn’t leave the truck to make a call, or walk to town, or do anything to change their situation.

When we get to Columbia Falls, and stop to update the blogs, we encounter more signs of rampant meth. Wes watches, in horror, while one young man who appears to be the brother of young woman, attempts to get her to eat something and then get in the truck with him.  She is cadaverous and wild; he is doing all he can to stay calm and not make a scene. 

Here we are at the gateway to Glacier Park.  There are scads of vacationers, recreation vehicles, trailers---families out for a final hurrah before school begins.   They pass by, fully self-enclosed, most likely oblivious to the street level destruction taking place around them.

The bike route takes us off busy Highway 2 to a back way to West Glacier.  As we ride along, we realize that this is very route that we had taken into Columbia Falls, years ago, when we had taken our wonderful Great Parks tour.  On that trip, we traveled from Jasper, Alberta to Yellowstone.  We went the back way through Glacier.  It was one of the most trying, but ultimately wonderful parts of trip.  We laugh and re-tell our stories of the rain and the train in the deer graveyard, having to hoist our bicycles over a giant scree pile, following the bear, and then finally passing into huge magnificent, empty mountain valleys where the only noise is the greeting call of a giant bald eagle.

This route ultimately turns away from the back country and through a hidden little housing development, then turns to gravel right at the confluence of the west and middle branches of the Flathead River.  We pause and look at the many, many people coming off their float and fishing trips right at this point.  A few more miles and we are back at the roaring traffic on Highway 2.  Our bad timing has us going to Glacier on one of the last weekends before school starts.  It is busy, so we better find a place to camp, and soon. 

Most of the campgrounds are full, but we happen to see one that says, “ RV Campground Full, Tents Only.”  It advertises something called a “Backcountry Bistro”.   It is a hard climb up to the site, but when we get there, we are very tickled.  It is run by two no-nonsense middle aged women, who from their accents and demeanor, could be Jewish matrons from Brooklyn.  They deal with a never-ending stream of vacationers, “How was your trip…oh you drove from Medicine Hat…that’s a long drive… you must be tired…well let us get you into your site.  It’s a good one.  You’ll have lots of trees.  Do you know where the restrooms are…”  Unlike so many campgrounds, there are flowers, a commons room with magazines and thoughtful seating arrangements around the children’s play area.  Attentive womanly touches. 

Although we are perched on a hill, and completely surrounded by other campers, there is privacy and it is a good camp.  Wes and I make our way to the bistro.  Wes says he is looking forward to being inside and that is one of the things he has discovered on this trip.  We laugh when we see the “bistro” is a bunch of picnic tables under a wood awning.  There is an open kitchen at the end.  The menu is pure Southern food.  We choose the catfish, grits, and greens.  They apologize profusely and tell us they couldn’t get the greens this week: would a salad do?  The food is delicious, if surprising, in very northern Montana.  Back at our campsite, I play my penny whistle and visit with the 70 year old New Yorkers who have come for the umpteenth time to backpack into the backcountry of Glacier.  I am filled with admiration at their gumption.

The next day, we are up early to begin our push over Marias Pass, which will take us over the Continental Divide and end our mountain sojourn.  Traveling in the mountains and trees, which have been doing pretty much since we left Portland, has been both beautiful and challenging.  We have been traveling very slowly and can see the time ticking away.  Once we cross this Continental Divide, we enter the miles and miles of the Great Plains.  We know the terrain will be easier, but it will probably be some of the hardest miles of the journey.  We are ready, but also nervous.

Marias Pass is the lowest pass on the divide at only 5200 feet.  We climb steadily, but fairly easily from West Glacier.  Through the park, there are minimal shoulders and it is not very pleasant.  We are following the Flathead River and seeing lots of floaters and fishers.   When we stop for lunch, we are warned to stop at the Halfway House in Essex.  If we leave there, we will be committed to make the rest of the pass without stopping as there are no services.  When we get there, it is still early afternoon.  We know we do not have the wherewithal to go another 20 miles over a pass.  There are no rooms at the motel, so they let us camp in their backyard.  We hang out in the restaurant, visit with the locals and travelers.  We are worried at how slow we have been traveling.

 

We got to Whitefish on Wednesday.  It is now Saturday: as the crow flies, we have only come about 50 miles.  This is not good.  The next morning, we are up early, have a hellacious climb out of the Flathead Valley, then a completely smooth and rideable, if long and uphill, amble to the Continental Divide.  We take the mandatory pictures and expect a big downhill to East Glacier.  No, the ride down is like the ride up.  There are no long coasts.  In fact, there are a variety of big hills. 

We make to East Glacier and decide to stay in the last Glacier Park Hotel, one of the grand edifices in the “Parkitecture” style.  We revel at the lobby with its twenty-four 40 foot Douglas Fir pillars, but are not so pleased with the high-priced, but less than average food, and the general lack of amenities and service in the expensive, old fashioned room.  We are not surprised when we read in the local paper that the concessionaire will be replaced in the next season.

When we climb out of the valley, we stop at look back at the mountains which rim the skyline from north to south.  Wes sings, once again, “So long, it’s been good to know you…”  We face the treeless east and push on.

***********
Posted from Saco, MT

T+49: Damn These Roads

Mile 1184: Camping in the yard of Halfway House Motel, Essex, Montana

Section 2: Northern Tier Route we're following

NOTE: The dateline reflects the place where I am write the blog-post.  Usually the blog-post is telling of events that happened a few days earlier.  For instance, today I will write about our life threatening ride into Whitefish, MT, which happened three nights ago.  There is also often a lag between writing and posting, both for editing and getting to a WiFi hotspot.  We go over Marias Pass tomorrow and will probably not have either phone or internet until we get to Cutbank, MT.

*****

After we leave Eureka, we have a 50 mile ride to Whitefish, MT, where we hope to connect to my niece Kelsey, before heading into Glacier National Park.  We are coming to the end of our mountain and trees sojourn.  When we cross the Continental Divide, we will soon enter a whole new ecosystem, the Great Plains of the United States.  It is true that the terrain will become less demanding, but we are nervous about miles and miles without shade.   It has been an exceptionally cool August so far in the Northern Plains, with temperatures in the 80’s instead of the 90’s.  We hope and pray that pattern holds for a few more weeks.

The ride to Whitefish is really good.  We are noticeably stronger.  Hills that would daunt us in the beginning are now chugged right up.  Our endurance, strength, and wind can now get us up hills we previously would have had to walk.  I continue to be faster than Wes, but with the changes on his bike (better tires, better free-wheel gearing), he is mostly keeping up with me.  He attributes it to my bike.  I attribute it to my more strategic riding…and my bike. (to be fair)

50 miles through hilly terrain is just at the edge of our capacity, so when we come to within 5 miles of Whitefish, we are already pretty tired.  We have been following the Stillwater River, which turns south right before Whitefish.  That means we have a big, twisty saddle ride up in order to change drainages into the Whitefish River.  Somehow, we didn’t perceive this essential fact as we were planning the day’s ride.

Whitefish used to be a small ranching town, but in the past 30 years, it has become a tony skiing and western lifestyle destination.  That means that we start to see big fancy estates the closer we get to town.  One would think that the increase in tax base would mean that roads would improve.  But that would be wrong.  The minute we cross into Flathead County, the two foot wide shoulder on the road, where we have been riding, becomes a sporadic 6” shoulder.  This isn’t fun at all, but at least there is clearance on the side of the road.  Also, the road is fairly straight, so vehicles can plan how and when they will pass the bicyclists gingerly riding their bikes at the edge of the road.

Things take a terrible turn for the worse at the beginning of the climb out of the Stillwater Valley.  The road narrows, and begins winding.  At the same time, the shoulder disappears completely.   In fact, the edge of the road is now a full 4 to 6 inches above the surrounding land.   Often that edge has deteriorated, so that the white line doesn’t even exist anymore.  As the road winds, the edge is either a cliff going down, or a cut into the hill.  This means that an error in riding will send us off the 4 inch ledge, which will either throw us off the cliff or into the cut, which would make us fall into traffic.  

As luck would have it, we are arriving in Whitefish near 5pm.  There is a lot of traffic, and it is moving fast.  One of the anomalies of Montana is that for years it did not have a speed limit.  Finally, the federal government forced the state to post speeds, but many Montanans disregard the posted speed as a mandatory political statement. 

We are climbing, slowly, steep hills with big, blind curves, and no shoulders and no escape routes.  It is terrifying.   Some cars and trucks refuse to move over.  Some can’t move over because of oncoming traffic.  We are incredibly exposed.  At one point, I try to ride in the soft gutter going down the mountain.  Wes is ahead of me, attempting to wave the traffic down as he pedals as fast as he can, occasionally yelling, “Hey, there are people here!” 

We are climbing a steep ridge.  I am pedaling as fast as I can, but I am winded and tired.  A big silver Dodge truck is right behind me.  The driver is impatient.  Just as we turn the corner and approach the parking lot for the Stillwater Fish restaurant, the driver guns the engine and I am forced to jump, yes, actually jump my bike and BOB across the gutter into the parking lot.  The truck misses me by less than 6 inches. 

I am left shaken and emotionally overwrought by this experience, but there are still miles to go to get to the town.  There is one small spot, just outside where a fancy subdivision has gone in, where there is a shoulder.   Wes pulls over and I go up to him and begin weeping in his arms.  At that very moment, he sees a big lumber truck approaching and fearful that my bike is too far out in the road, tries to drag me out its way.  Our bikes are tangled with each other, I don’t know what he is doing, so this only adds to the trauma and confusion.

I am still crying as we continue climbing up and over this saddle.  Where I am shaken and weepy, Wes is ANGRY.  He takes his bike into the lane and signals furiously for cars to slow down.  “WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO BE HERE!”  he yells.  Finally, there is one more big downhill before we turn off to the state park where will make our camp.  There is no shoulder along with a hard edge, but the way is little wider.   I tell Wes I am afraid, and in his state, he yells at me.  He makes his way down with no traffic, but as I go down, a car zooms right up on me and barely avoids me at the last second.

When we turn to the state park, I am an emotional wreck.  I am shaking and weeping.  When we get to the gate at the park, I tell the gatekeeper, apparently as the representative of all Montana government activities, that the road coming into town is terrible and that someone is going to get killed and that SOMEONE NEEDS TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.  He basically says, “Yeah, that and all the other construction that needs to be done…”

I am still doing that hiccup-y little crying thing when we get to the biker campsite.  It is completely taken up by other bikers, who have strewn their shorts, jerseys, tents, and sleeping bags everywhere, apparently in an attempt to dry them out after the rainstorm of the night before.  Wes would like me to stop with the emotional upset already… “It’s over, we’re fine…” but I am still in full trauma mode.  It takes us a good 30 minutes before we can set up the tent… outside the bounds of the site.  

We have a quiet, sort of sullen night, drinking tea and eating reconstituted powdered hummus.  We make arrangements to see our niece, her new-ish baby, and finally meet her husband the next day.  The next morning is a rough ride through heavy construction, where the entire road is being torn down to the dirt bed and the cars are traveling in single file.  We are relieved to get the restaurant, which is right at the end of the construction.  

A new chapter begins as we re-connect with family and take care of quite a few chores.  The traumas of the previous day, while not gone, are yesterday’s news.  That is the reality of a road trip.  Each day is its own self, with its own blessings and sometimes terrifying and traumatic curses.

 

*****

Posted from Cutbank, MT

T:45: Underserved and Overutilized, Part 2

Mile 1054: Eureka, Montana

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST

In pounding rain, in what could have been a beautiful run next to the natural and deep Lake Pend Orielle , we drive on.  The road is treacherous with almost no shoulder and sight is limited by the rain.  We are ecstatic to finally see a pizza parlor.  We pull our bikes onto the porch, shed our soaking wet clothes, and enter the warm, dry, yeasty confines of this welcome refuge.  We find out that the hotel is closed and are puzzling about what to do, when a young couple comes up to us, “We saw you on the road, and just had to come and talk to you!”

Their names are Karen and David. They are from Virginia and are here to visit relatives and have Dave swim in the locally famous 1.75 mile swim across the lake.  He is an avid bicyclist, trying to convince her to take a long distance bike journey.  For their honeymoon, they hiked the entire length of the Appalachian Trail from Maine to Georgia, quite an impressive feat.  They insist on buying us beers and pizza—“So many people helped us when we were traveling.”  We sit and talk for hours about traveling, and biking, and bee-keeping.  They have warm, sunny personalities.  We are uplifted by their energy and positivity.   After they take their leave, we begin looking in earnest for a place to stay.  It is still raining.  Margo, the pizza cook, gives us the name of some upscale condos just down the road.  “Maybe they will take you for a night, if you explain your situation.” 

We make arrangements to stay at Pend Oreille Shores Resort.  It is more expensive than we want, but we need to get inside.   As we register, we are given a big stack of photocopied papers, mostly with rules, and a list of extra fees.  Even though the condo cost a ton of money, there are charges for using the internet, charges for checking out a video, charges for the wood in the fireplace, charges for using the game room.  It also has rules that say things like, “Your condo comes equipped with a dishes and pots and pans.  Your credit card will be charged if there is any change in the number or location of these materials.”

The condo is a nice, well-appointed apartment with a fireplace and Jacuzzi—and most important to us---a washer and dryer.  We immediately start washing and drying all our wet clothes.  It is nice to be out of the rain, and nice to be able to catch up on our blog, but we don’t really like it.  For an organization that is supposed to be in the hospitality business, it just doesn’t seem very hospitable.

The next day is a run to place we have been looking forward to since we heard of it, Bighorn Bed and Breakfast.  We had decided to stay at the occasional bed and breakfast on this trip.  This one situated on the Bull River looked intriguing.  Even though we just shelled out too much money for the condo in Hope, we decided to go ahead and stay at this planned indulgence.   We dropped off the road where we had been following this lovely small stream and entered Shangri-la.  With the Cabinet Mountains in the background, surrounded by natural meadows, this big hand hewn log mansion was elegant and beautiful.  Inside, there were numerous stuffed animals and the living room was at least 30 feet high.  There were expansive porches and decks, as well as a few large cabins with private decks. 

The owners were a bit frazzled because they had just hosted a wedding and reception that had gone bad and had made a big mess.  They were upset and felt put upon because they had made a special deal for a local couple whose family and friends had become disrespectful and destructive.   At first, they were not going to accommodate us because we had no reservations, but because we were biking, they decided to make up a room for us.  We waited happily on their deck, contemplating the beautiful scenery and drinking glass after glass of water.    We find out that they bought this big building fourteen years ago.  It had been the private hunting lodge of a zillionaire…hence, all the stuffed animals.   They had been running it as a bed and breakfast since then.   It was not inexpensive to stay there, but it was not over-priced, either.  These hosts would never have thought to tell us to return glasses to where we found them.  They were gracious and welcoming.The next morning we visit at length with the other guests, who are here from Spokane to mountain bike and hike in these steep and glorious hills. 

The ride that morning was fantastic.  We felt good; it was beautiful…truly our souls were uplifted.  We sang “How Great Thou Art” at the top of our lungs as we tooled down the highway.   We made our way to Libby, MT where found a cute campspot in the Fireman’s Memorial campground, just a few feet from a great home owned grocery store (with lattes!).  We spent the night talking to a lonely fellow, who made one racist and sexist remark after another (which we gently demurred every time.)  He wouldn’t leave until we got into our tent, despite several hints we had given him.  The last thing he said to us was, “I’m not a racist, but, don’t ask any Indians for directions.  They don’t like the white man and they will tell you wrong.”

The next morning is a slow and glitchy start.  There are problems with Wes’ rack.  I am having trouble with my shorts. My clip breaks and needs a roadside repair.  It is hot and there are numerous big hills to climb.  It is slow going.  We are traveling up the beautiful Kootenai River, then will follow the Koocanusa Reservoir nearly 70 miles, turning off it just before the Canadian border.  According to the maps and signs, there are numerous campgrounds and one restaurant/marina along the way.   We plan to get lunch there, and then camp further up. 

We stow our bikes at the top of the hill, knowing that the marina will be down a steep hill at the lake.  When we walk down, we see that the road is being re-surfaced, and we congratulate ourselves for being so smart to leave our bikes up top.  To get to the restaurant, we must first cut through the campground, which is jam-packed with boats, and trailers, and ATV’s.  The camp spaces are minute.  This place is 10 times more crowded than any neighborhood in Detroit ever thought of being.  We have a perfectly average lunch on the deck and visit with the cook smoking a cigarette during his break.   He tells us that they have added 50 camp spots every year since he started working here.  When the campground is full, there are more than 2000 people packed in there, making it one of the largest towns in northern Montana.  There is constant noise from the road surfacing.  Afterwards, we are joined to by two older ladies, along with their very wet Cocker Spaniel.  They now live in Hope, ID, but were originally from Memphis, Michigan.  We have a pleasant conversation about the Michigan, Arizona (where they formerly lived), and Idaho.  They bemoan the state of the campground, saying it used to be quiet and wonderful, but now it is just too crowded.

We stop by the store and inquire about the camping up the road.  The staff says, “They aren’t really campgrounds, more likely, jis’ places to park.  They don’t even have water.”   This is not good.  It is hot and we will have to be able to replenish our water before tomorrow’s ride.  We inquire about tent sites, find out there is only one.  It is terrible and right next to the construction.  We ask about cabins and find out that they have one of their least expensive cabins available.   We decide to take it.  Of course that means we have to walk up through the road construction, and ride our bikes through the newly laid tar and gravel.  So much for outsmarting the system. 

It is a beautiful location, with a great view of the reservoir, but it is dusty and beat-up from too much ATV use.  The furniture is mostly pretty broken down, and the whole thing is just kind of ragged and worn-out.  I drag our comforter out, go up in the loft and take a nice long nap.  We make numerous cups of tea.  Wes reads our rotten novel and I catch up on the blog.  We will get up early to try to get the next water before the heat of the day. 

We can hardly believe that we have been inside four of the last eight days.   As I ride along, I think about the economics of this situation.   At the Koocanusa Campground, which was full, there were 250 campsites each paying $15 a night.  That’s $3750 maximum gross.   Even at Beaver Lodge, there were 6 cabins each paying $85, plus 30 campsites each paying $20, that’s $1090.   If there are so many customers in these small spaces, why is there no maintenance and so few staff?  Where is the money going?  Why do these customers get so much less for their recreation dollar?  These are the questions I am pondering.