T+133: Up and down and all around

Laramie, Wyoming: Wes woke this morning and just had to have a proper café latte, so we are sitting in Coal Creek Coffee in Laramie, Wyoming.  The place is full of all sorts of people enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning in this college town.  We were greeted by a well-behaved Shepherd/Terrier mix dog, who was waiting for his parent, and sat untethered and patient outside.  It is hard to imagine our dog Louie ever being that calm and focused. 

Animals are such a feature of Wyoming life.  Dogs are ubiquitous and welcome in shops, bars, and some restaurants.  This is mid-size dog territory with lots of Australian shepherds and cattle dogs, boxers, Labs, border collies, and all their mixes.  This is in contrast to New England, which is big dog territory.  Big chocolate labs and squirming mastiffs wriggled through social gatherings and traveled in cars.  In Washington State, little dogs like terriers and Chihuahuas were common.  Even the biggest, burliest (former) lumberjack carried tiny, often yappy, dogs.  Dog discrimination was in full force around Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, where there were often signs forbidding dogs on paths, in parks, and in public places.  Dogs were definitely not welcome in bars, cafes, or stores.

Here in Wyoming, we also have daily contact with a range of wildlife.  As we went up to town (so-called for this tiny village of 100), we drove past a gathering of 60 deer, feeding on the sedges at the edge of an irrigation ditch just north of our cabin.  There is a group of 5 mule deer who are permanent residents on the 6 Bar E Ranch where our cabin is located.  We see them every morning on our sunrise walk.  They stare at us, and as long as we don’t make any move toward them, are content to let us pass.  Yesterday, we came across the antelope herd.   They dashed in their long legged loping way to the prairie about 75 yards south of us, then moved as we moved, stopping to stare at us.  Finally, they streaked across the ridge until they came to high spot about 200 yards away, then turned to stare at us once again.  

The coyotes cry outside our door.  Sometimes they are quite close.  Other times, we hear them singing from the hogback ridge about a quarter mile away.  Yesterday, in the fresh snow, we follow the little loping tracks of a fox, no doubt looking for the rabbits and chipmunks which live in the cottonwoods near the creek.

We were surprised at how little wildlife we saw as we travelled across the continent.  Granted, bicycle riding is a road activity.  But even so, we were often in fairly outback places.  Even in the wilds of Montana, along the High Line, humans have overtaken the landscape and left no space for other living beings.  Humans have overtaken nearly every available space.   The way of life and the type of economies varied enormously, often in quite small distances.  Nowhere was this more obvious than in the small patch of land between Palmyra, Sodus Point, and Fulton, NY.

After a lovely breakfast with our hosts, we returned to the Canal for the last short ride to the town of Palmyra.  The canal is changing in this section, making greater use of existing waterways.   It becomes more anomalous and harder to follow, no longer the hard edged aqueduct it has often been in the previous miles.  At one point, just before Palmyra, we are on a little path surrounded by water in a low swampy region 30 feet below the farmhouses above.

When come to the road that will take us away from the Erie Canal, we are a little sentimental about leaving the path.  Part of us wants to continue on this time traveling path through America’s first “superhighway.”  Another part wants to climb out of this valley and look around at bigger skies and hear other stories.  We visit downtown Palmyra, where there are signs of a culture war taking place. 

Palmyra is the town where the Church of Latter Day Saints was founded by Joseph Smith in the 1830’s.  It has become a pilgrimage spot for contemporary Mormons.  There are Mormon shops and inns.  There are also big Protestant churches throughout this town, including the largest Christian Scientist edifice we have seen thus far.  One church sign says, “Looking for true religion? Look no further.  Come on in.”  A few shops carry endorsements from the LDS church; most don’t.  The town doesn’t look particularly prosperous, but it is far from the dysfunction of Albion, but also far from high end shops and bistros of Pittsford and Fairport.

We make our way to a little coffee shop, where we sit on the balcony and enjoy the sun.  There is an older woman and man sitting a few feet from us.  They ask about our travels and were surprised to discover we had started in Portland, Oregon.  It is not long before Wes discovers that they are former teachers and long-time friends.  He was from Syracuse; she was from the Finger Lakes area.  It takes one second before they are deep in teacher talk.  They both have been retired for a while, and are happy to be receiving full pensions.  Wes asks if they have been experiencing the attacks on teachers, their benefits, and their pensions that have been endemic in Michigan, Illinois, and Wisconsin.  The answer is no.  Teachers have not been demonized in New York.   They were surprised to hear that teachers are fighting to maintain health benefits, tenure, and full pensions.  They were glad they missed that. 

Like every upstate New Yorker we met, they had a long list of complaints with their legislature and the influence of New York City.  The complained mightily about their high taxes, but did admit that they received good services for their money.   They allow that their state government is rotten, but perhaps not quite as self-seeking as other states.

We tell them we are headed up to the Ontario shore line.  She immediately becomes quite concerned.  She tells us that her husband is an avid bicyclist who takes groups of seniors out on rides through this country.  He spends hours trying to find routes without hills for these rides through that beautiful landscape.  At the time, I don’t think much about her concern and his effort.  24 hours later, I will be singing a different tune. 

Our route takes us due north.  Just outside of town, we stop at a curious farmhouse built entirely of fist sized rocks.  There is a sign telling us that these “Pebble Houses” were built by German masons after the completion of the Erie Canal.  These houses were made with shore stones from Lake Ontario and can only be found in upstate New York.  This house was also the very house where Joseph Smith was employed when he reported that he found the golden plates which became the source of the Book of Mormon.  His 19^th century employer believed him and became one of the first converts to the new church.  However, the same cannot be said for the current owners.  The sign says people are welcome to look at the house, but that NO TOURS will be given. PLEASE RESPECT OUR PRIVACY!

The road north passes through the drumlins of the glaciers.  These are the first steep hills of any consequence we have traveled since the Rocky Mountains.  Once we clear these hills, we enter a vast area of apple orchards.  For as far as the eye can see, there are trees bearing red, yellow, russet, and green apples.  As we ride by, we brazenly pluck two apples from two trees.  They are sweet and fragrant and crunchy.  There is little traffic except apple wagons loaded with tens of 4’x4’ crates on their way to farm distribution warehouses.  Every so often, we pass orchards full of big Ford pick-up trucks and the oom-pah sounds of Mexican Norteña music.  Even more rarely, we see the pickers.  We wave and they wave back.

At the lake town of Pultneyville, we stop at a deli, where we are waited on by a bored teenager and are shocked by the high prices.  The deli was in a re-furbished barn, which had served as farmer’s coop for years.  Now it was decorated with sailor themes and all sorts of nautical kitsch. 

The landscape becomes decidedly hilly, the result of ravine like watercourses making their way to Lake Ontario.  About 4 miles from our destination for the evening, Sodus Point, another cyclist rides alongside us.  We see the plastic box pannier, the full beard.  Wes says, “Bruce!  We thought you’d be miles from here by now.”  The rider says, “I’m Scott.  Bruce is down in Ithaca now.”  As it turns out, this fellow was one of Bruce’s original riding companions---which is why their panniers matched and their beards were about the same length.  Upon closer inspection, he was more ruggedly built than Bruce and had more grey in his beard.  Bruce had told Scott about us.  He had wondered if he would see us.   We visited a bit.  He told us his destination for the evening was a full twenty miles beyond where we were going.  He also said that his girlfriend was “some miles back.  We might see her coming along.” With that, we all jumped on our bikes and rode as hard as we could down the steep hill in hopes of powering up the much steeper hill just ahead.  Scott clears the hill before we do and soon is out of sight.  We never did see the girlfriend.  We both thought it was strange that they were not riding together.  Our motto on this whole trip has been, “When you jump, I jump.”  It has meant that we have both had practice patience and adjust to each other’s rhythms and idiosyncrasies.

Sodus Point is small sandy point that began as a fishing village, but is now a center for pleasure craft.  It has long sandy beaches, made longer by the addition of the rocks of the original lighthouse after its demolition.  The rocks changed the flow of the water and built a quarter mile of sandy spit onto the point.  This spit is now completely filled with vacation and summer homes, most of them quite large and elaborate.  On either side of the point, there is docking for numerous sailboats and yachts.  The restaurants and dinner clubs cater to the boating set, with more dockage than parking.

We have made arrangements for a bed and breakfast stay.  When I call, our host tells us that they will be out of the evening, and that if we arrive after 5pm, we should just let ourselves in and make ourselves at home.  This is not the first time this has happened on the trip, but it always strikes this long-time resident of Detroit as remarkably trusting.   We get there before 5, so the question is moot.  The place was built in the 1870’s and has been wonderfully restored.  It is simple and elegant, quite a change from the overwhelming “thinginess” of last night’s lodging.  There are homey touches like fresh baked banana bread and warm cider.  Paul and his wife (whom we see for only one brief moment) have been innkeepers for just a few years after many years in Wisconsin.  Paul gives us guidance on places to eat, then hurriedly takes his leave.  We are alone in their big mansion. 

After a little while, we make our way to one of the dockside restaurants, where the local yacht club has just finished its business meeting and is now turning its attention to the more serious business of drinking and eating…and drinking some more.  They are keeping the lone waiter and single female bartender on their toes.  Finally, the waiter comes over and introduces himself as Eldrum.  He has an accent we can’t quite place. Nor do we recognize the origin of his name.  His hip-hop styling, earrings, and small goatee is a sharp contrast to the chino wearing white folks drinking and laughing across the bar.   We try to place the accent.  Portuguese?  Brazilian?  Could he be Macedonian?  Greek?  Nope.  None of the above.  He is Puerto Rican, born and raised in Brooklyn.  Sheesh.

The meal is okay and overpriced.  At the end of the meal, I order a brandy.  The waiter stares at me, “I’ll see if we have some.”  We see him in hot conference with the petite 20-something bartender.  A few minutes later, he returns with a whiskey glass filled to the brim with brandy. 

The next morning, our hosts have returned, although the only person we see is Paul.  As we visit over breakfast, we find out that Paul is retired from Cargill, where he worked in the meat processing division in Wisconsin for many years.   This sets off alarms for us, thinking of the turkey torture farm we had seen in Wisconsin, and our knowledge of the brutal labor struggles that have occurred in Wisconsin meat packing plants.  We proceed gingerly.  As it turns out, Paul was and still is active the humane treatment of animals movement.  He is the editor of the national journal and a close associate of Temple Grandin, whose pioneering studies on slaughter houses have utterly changed the industry.  It was Paul’s job to see that Cargill plants enacted these reforms.  We talk a long time about the ethics of meat production.  Paul understood perfectly why many people forswear meat, but he believed passionately that if animals are to be used for meat, the least we can do is reduce their suffering.  It was better for the animal, better for the worker, and better for the consumer.  Paul tells us that the use of intensive animal production is in a rapid decline throughout the industry.  We are heartened by our conversation and glad we decided to listen before judging.  If only we could always remember to do so.

The ride the next day is one super steep hill after another.  We are charging the hills, that is, peddling hard down a hill to provide momentum up the next hill.  This is fun for a while, but loses its charm after the 20^th effort.  After a while, my right knee is screaming on every pedal and I am cursing the routemakers when I see that there is a ridge ride just in from the coast that will move us along more quickly and with less effort.  Not too long before our lunch stop, I am reduced to walking my bike up the hills.  I am feeling surly and aggravated, walking my bike up yet another 8 percent grade, when we are overtaken by super skinny bicyclist traveling fast on a lightly packed road bike.  He is crossing the country on the Northern Tier and staying inn to inn, just as we are.  However, he had left Anacortes in mid-August and expected to reach the Bar Harbor within the week.  He rode 100-120 miles everyday, and had already covered 50 miles this morning.   Most touring cyclists will take the Anacortes to Bar Harbor journey in 70 days.  He will do it in 50.  It will take us 85.  I grump about needing to re-establish my hill-climbing skills after the easy rides of the last 1000 miles.  He says, “Oh, well, it will get us ready for the climb over the Appalachians,” then speeds off.

When we stop for lunch, the fast rider is already there.  He does not acknowledge our presence, just eats his food in silence, then is back on the bike without a look right or left.  My right knee is visibly swelling and I am crabby as person can be.  As we are getting ready to leave, two more ultra-bikers come to the restaurant.  I’m not fit for company, but Wes engages them and finds out that this route is notorious among biking professionals who use it for endurance training. 

The afternoon is a real pain in the knee.  Every hill has to be walked up, even small ones, because the slightest pressure sends shooting pains up and down my leg.  I am grateful that Wes is not Scott, leaving me to make my way as best I can while he rides away.  It is clear we have to stop soon and let my knee recover.  The closest town of any size is Fulton.  We will make our way there and take a day of rest.  Fulton is a revelation.  Although it is just a few miles away from the tony shores of Lake Ontario, and bustling acres of apples, there’s little prosperity, hope, or confidence in this little town.   The economic devastation rivals anything we have seen on this trip…or in Michigan.   We were there for two unforgettable days full of all sorts of lessons in the ways of American capitalism.  That will be the topic of the next post.

T+125: Fellow Travelers, Pt. 2

Des Moines, Iowa: On June 23, Wes and I stayed at this same Candlewood Suites, en route to Wyoming, where we would pick up Wes’ bike and make our way to Portland, Oregon.  It is now October 25, and we are making our way back to Wyoming, to drop off the bike and finish writing the story of our travels from Portland to Portland.  In many ways, the trip began on that night in June, when we watched the movie, The Journey, with Martin Sheen.  That movie resonated throughout our trip….the times of just going, the moments of grief or of jubilation, the tender and touching connections with people who walked…or in this case, cycled…into our lives, and left such a big impression.

 

We had just got on the Erie/Niagara Trail and were making our way along the eastern coast.  Our goal was Niagara Falls, but it was far and we were tired.  We couldn’t find one nice thing to say to each other.  All the petty grievances of constant companionship were at the front of our minds and quick off our lips that day.  Why can’t Wes eat one meal without spilling food on himself?  Why does Shaun always dawdle and delay and mess around when we need to be going? 

About five miles in, a youngish man, full beard, chestnut colored hair, riding a bike with full panniers, rides up alongside us.  One of his panniers is a rectangular plastic box. Normally, one buys kitty litter or soap in these containers.  Here it was bolted to his bike rack.   Seeing that he was a fellow traveler, I launched into the regular litany of questions.  Where are you coming from?  Portland, where he lives.  Where are you going to?  Rhode Island, to meet his girlfriend, although his original destination was Portland, Maine.   He and a group of 4 other bicyclists set out the third week of July and have been pretty much following the Northern Tier.  However, the group has been splitting apart.   Two split off in Montana, including the girlfriend he was rushing to meet in Rhode Island on October 8.  The other two he left in Minnesota.  He has been traveling alone for a while now.  After experiencing what Wes describes as “Existential Angst” (Why am I here?  What am I doing?)  during a particularly difficult crossing of Michigan, he has chat stored up and is anxious to talk.

And talk we do.  His name is Bruce.  He is originally from New York, but has been living in Portland for some years.  He is an emergency room nurse by trade, but a mountain climber/adventurer by avocation.  This is the first time he has taken a major bike trip.  He has been camping and eating rough most of the way.   A light day for him is 70 miles.  It is clear that he has slowed down to ride with us; Wes and I are pumping as fast as we can to keep up with this slender, strong man and his light, modern bike. 

We talk of our trips and compare notes.  Bruce is a mountain climber and backpacker.  He has been on many trips, but even he found the ride over the Cascades a challenge.  He was eaten alive by mosquitoes in Saco, MT.  They stayed on the freeway all the way across North Dakota, never venturing into the back ways and farm routes we explored.  He left his friends in Minnesota so that he could make time across the mid-section.  By the time he got to Wisconsin and was going to take the ferry at Manitowoc, it had broken down.  It was not at all clear who or how or what was going to be able to fix that 100 year old coal fired ship.  (I wonder what has happened to family associated with Two Guys taxi; ferry traffic was the mainstay of their business).  He took the hovercraft over the lake, landing at Muskegon.  He wandered through busy roads and surly people in our home state and was glad to be out of there.

He was bee-lining across Canada and anxious to get to Niagara.  Despite having been raised in New York City, and having travelled extensively throughout the state, he had never seen the falls.  After that, he was off to the Finger Lakes, Ithaca and Cornell, then lickety-split across the Catskills to Rhode Island.  He had a ride of about 700 miles to do in 8 days.   Of course, this makes Wes and I feel like a couple of pikers.

After we wore out the topic of our trips, we soon turned our attention to politics, the economy, our personal history…and more.  The conversation continued apace as we rode the fifty miles to Niagara Falls.  It continued as we explored the town and ate dinner together that night.  It didn’t stop until we said our good byes the next morning from the hostel in Niagara Falls.

Like us, Bruce was using the bike trip to sort out a life change.  He had been an emergency room nurse for some years and had been satisfied with it.  He had recently purchased a house in Portland, and now at the age of 40 (he looked barely 30), his life of work interspersed with adventure was no longer working for him. He had become frustrated and disaffected with the branch of medicine in which he was working.  When he was younger, he had liked the adrenalin rush and lack of relationship at the core of that type of nursing.  It wore on him now.

I told him that my sister was a nurse and that she has found a great deal of satisfaction, after years of bouncing around the profession, working as a hospice care nurse.  She really enjoys that it is patient and family-centered.  Bruce says he has thought about it and is going to think some more about it.  This conversation occurs as we are on the most eastern reach of Erie, as we are cruising past giant houses on the Niagara Recreation Trail, 40 miles into our common ride.

Bruce is a generation younger than us.  His view of his prospects and future within the American economy is sobering.  He has an enormous student debt that he believes he will never be able to pay off.   He feels good about the house he recently purchased, but allows that he is the only one of his friends to make that commitment.  He has no pension plan, no retirement savings, nor any expectation to ever receive Social Security.  He feels his best strategy is to make the most of each day, no promises given nor expected.  He doesn’t perceive a social contract beyond his circle of friends and family.

We are surprised by this.  He allows that it would be a good thing to feel as though one were getting and giving in a web of mutual support.  It’s just that he has never seen or felt such a thing.  He is not a member of a union, and doesn’t think he knows anyone who is. 

It would be tempting to say that Bruce is alienated, but he is not.  He is a free agent, and ok with that.  He benefits from white privilege and knows it.  We all know that we move more freely than any person of color.  A case in point: the night before Bruce camped (illegally) in the closed Peacock Point Provincial Park.  Local law enforcement saw him there and shined a light on him, then moved on without saying a word.  Would that have happened to someone who was not a white male on a nice bike?   It is not hard to think of scenario where the answer would be “No.”

He is an alert, educated, compassionate guy.  He lives simply and tries to pay attention to his choices.  Part of the reason he has the plastic box pannier is a commitment to living without waste.  What surprises us, over and over, is the lack of collective conscience or experience.  He was self-centered, but not at all narcissistic.  Being for himself and himself alone was not driven by ego; it was the way he was trained to be.  It was how society asked him to perform.

He was truly surprised when I told him about our life in Detroit and that I know at least 100 people by name in my immediate neighborhood.  Detroit is incredibly rich in social capital, I tell him.  The kind of art-making, storytelling, urban agriculture, mutual protection, and social activism that makes up our daily life in Detroit sounds appealing, but utterly foreign, to Bruce.  I do understand that social capital is required and present when financial capital is absent, (otherwise known as “making a way out of no way”). In addition, it is easy to disengage from the social contract when one has financial means.  What bothers me, truly saddens me, is understanding that there are a large number of young people who don’t see themselves connected to any larger whole. 

As we get closer to the falls, all three of us get more and more excited.  This is a momentous point in our trip.  Already we are seeing all sorts of signs of this area’s pre-American Revolution past.  When we cross the border tomorrow, we will enter one of the original colonies.  We are amazed at how little we know of War of 1812, which is remembered and celebrated all throughout this region.  I say to Wes, “Just think! When we cross the border, we will actually be in the Atlantic United States.”  (I will soon discover the folly of that statement.)  We stop to take pictures of the corner of Lake Erie with Buffalo, New York in the distance.

We bike along the edge of the Niagara River.  The river is big and powerful, with enormous rocks which generate ferocious rapids.  It is easy to see why this river created such a barrier.   When we get to the town of Niagara Falls, we find ourselves in a huge sea of humanity, even though this is mid-September. It is impossible to cycle in this throng, so we dismount and pick our way through the crush.  

The range of people here is astonishing.  There are women in gorgeous saris, groups speaking in the clicking tones of very South Africa, many, many Asians, some speaking Japanese, some Tagalog, maybe some Vietnamese, Korean, and Chinese as well.  There urban folks and country folks, the tight pant set right next to the baggy pants brigade.  There are busloads of seniors, mamas attempting to corral little ones while pushing strollers.   Young lovers kiss in front of the falls while someone takes their pictures.  There are folks in wheelchairs; people conversing in sign.  I saw one family pushing what looked like a gurney with a person tightly wrapped in a handmade quilt toward the guardrail.  A woman, whom I took to be the grandma, held the wrapped one’s hand and issued a running commentary on the sights and sounds.  Every complexion, every size, every age is represented: what a global mosaic.

Everyone takes turn pushing up to the guardrail to take a look at the awesome horseshoe falls.  There is a full 180 rainbow over the falls and a light mist falling over this human sea.  The city stretches behind us with high-rise hotels; helicopters circle endlessly and dip in and out of the water’s mist.   Boat with names like the Maiden of the Mist chug towards the cataract at the base of the falls.   On the edge, at least 300 feet above, we can hear the faint squeal of the crowd on the boat as they move into the fall’s spray.  The whole experience is giddy, surreal, slightly euphoric. 

I need to find the ladies room, so make my way through a cavernous hall, jam-packed with people.  It is tricky and takes quite a while.  While I am gone, a young man with a bike pulling an overloaded BOB trailer introduces himself to Wes.  He is Japanese, quite young, riding a single gear bicycle.  He has just begun his trip and is headed west, on the opposite path we have just traveled.  Wes and Bruce try to get this young man to join us at the hostel for the evening.  However, the wind has shifted and the light mist has become the equivalent of a heavy drizzle.   Just as I return, the young man bows deeply to Wes and Bruce and disappears into the crowd.

It is getting late; we need to get to the hostel and get our dinner. As we ride, we worry about this rider.  How will he ever make it over the Rockies and Cascades with a single gear?  And it is much too late in the year to be staying so far north.  He told Wes he was carrying 35 kilos on his bike…80 pounds and no gears as fall is coming on… with limited English.  Ay, ay, ay….

After we check into the run-down hostel with just a single staff on duty, a jocular, sandy-haired native of Ireland named Eric.  The hostel has all sorts of signs of events and tours it is offering on Fridays.  This Friday, there are none.  Wes and I have (over) paid for a private room; Bruce sleeps in the men’s dorms.  We walk down to Queen Street for dinner.  This area used to be the hipster/bistro/quaint shop district of this tourist town.  Now, most of the shops are closed and our steps echo as we walk.  We go into a brewpub, eat pretty average bar food, and listen to a group of Canadian physicists talk about US and Canadian politics.  Bruce is happy to be sleeping inside and eating at a restaurant.  Both have been rare events on his journey.   We take our leave.  Bruce wants to go listen to some incredibly loud rock music (we heard it three blocks away) and sample the local beer. 

Wes and I are very much aware of our age as we say good night. The 70 mile ride with Bruce has pushed us pretty hard; we’re beat.  Wes is complaining of a scratchy throat and watery eyes.  He thinks he might have picked up a germ while we traversing the crowd.   We wonder at Bruce’s endurance, although we do remember our last bike journey from Montreal to Halifax and back to Quebec.  We camped and cooked our own food the whole way.  Such are the strengths and fleeting ways of youth.

The next morning, we are off on our bikes before Bruce, although we are sure he will overtake us and leave us behind.  We stop and ogle the whirlpool vista, where the river makes sharp turn.  At another vista stop, we mis-communicate and run into each other, wrecking both of us and causing a group of seniors who just exited a bus to come running over to see if we are all right.  We are a bit battered, but more embarrassed than anything.  The bruise on my knee and gash on Wes’ finger will take the rest of the trip to heal.

Crossing the border is hectic. We are the only bicyclists in a swarm of motor vehicles.  We wait behind a group of motor cyclists from New Jersey, who have been out on a 1000 mile weekend jaunt.  They will ride 350 miles back home today.  One of them is long-haired, good looking, perhaps Tongan, and he is fascinated by our trip, but wants to know why we haven’t used it to raise money for a good cause.  He didn’t like our answer that we were using it to make a change in ourselves.  As he rode off, he said, “Next time you do this, make sure you benefit someone else!”

With that, we enter the last phase of this trip.  We are tired, but think we are almost done.  We are wrong.  There are many more challenges, some of them as hard as any we’ve faced, in the last days of this journey from sea to sea.

 

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

T-73: Getting Ready -- Bearing the Load

Last Saturday, I drove Wes crazy with insisting we gather everything we think we might want to take and seeing if we could even begin to bear the load.  Wes wondered, with reason, why I was so hell-fired up to test all this, when we were still more than two months from leaving?

My future kitchen

This is true, of course, but we have been buying clothes and equipment, and I was assembling the kitchen and bathroom from our camping equipment.

The kitchen had the requisite cooker and gas.  The cooker itself is  a miracle of tiny-ness, weighing less than 8 ounces and yet capable of boiling water in a few minutes.  A cooking pot, a frying pan, a grabber, and two small metal plates make up our cook kit.  Add a Swiss Army knife, lexan knives, forks, and spoons, along with little spatula, a pourer, a couple of tiny bottles for olive oil, plastic salt and pepper shakers, a silicon pouring spout, and you have a pretty functional camp kitchen for less than 7 pounds. 

I debate whether to take the water purifier, knowing that we will be in some very remote areas in what will likely be a drought year.  It’s heavy and bulky, however, at more than 1.5 pounds.  For now, it is out, though with trepidation.  I remember only too well getting giardia while backpacking without water purification during a drought year.  The only water available was highly suspect, and sure enough it wasn’t long before I was feverish, with streaming bowels, projectile vomit and stomach cramps that doubled me over.  This was more than a little nightmarish when we were more than 3 days from any possible help.  (Of course, Wes of the cast iron stomach did not get sick, and the night of the fever, more than 40 elk walked through our camp).  Maybe we will carry it on the western half of our trip and mail it back when we get to more reliable water country.  

I gathered the bathroom with pack towels and travel versions of our personal care items.  We debate: swim shoes or flip flops.  It is absolutely necessary to have shower shoes at campgrounds, but we also want to be able to swim in lakes and streams when we can. Wes opts for swim shoes, even though they take forever to dry.  I choose flip-flops.  Along with an emergency kit, necessary candles and lanterns, we now have another 7 pound pannier filled.

We pick out our clothes for hot, cold, and wet weather, for biking, and for town.  This fills two big panniers.  I placed technology, maps, and personal items in the rigged up bags for the handlebars.  Of course, there was the bedroom.  The pile looked gigantic. Would we really be able to carry all that?  Was this whole pile going to fit on two bikes? 

Even more to the point, even if it fit on the bike, could we carry it? 

I rounded up all the bungees and rigging I could.  I was able to put the big panniers on Wes’ big old Schwinn (which he is not taking), along with the bed and his pads.  I put the small panniers, the tent and my pads on my Trek, which I am (probably) taking.  Two handlebar bags and we were set for a trial ride.

We gingerly mounted our bikes and took off.  Hey! This was not bad at all.  We have carried far worse on previous rides.  Granted, we were riding around flat Detroit and we only went about a mile, but this was definitely a success!  We found we could carry everything we needed to survive –without a trailer and with the equipment we had.

I was buoyant.  I still am.  Our total load was 70 pounds, less than the absolute maximum of 80 pounds.  We could add food, a few luxuries like my penny whistle, a book or two, and still make it.  We can make it.  This trip is for real.  And we are truly getting ready.