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| 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 for74 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.”
