Yin and Yang

From: September 28, Castrojerez, Spain

About: September 22, 2016--Pamplona and the Hill of Forgiveness

After our lovely stay at the Iriguibel Sercotel in Uharte, we return to the Camino and almost immediately face a choice: follow the Camino on busy suburban and urban streets, or follow the shaded Riverwalk on the River Arga all the way to town.  Despite the extra 5 km, we choose the river and don’t regret it all.

It is a Sunday morning; there are lot people meandering, skating, walking their dogs,  pushing their kids in strollers.  Lot of bikes go by …pelotons of speeding racers in logo drenched jerseys and shorts, families on comfort bikes, sweating weekend warriors on mountain bikes.

The greenway links numerous parks on which 3 features stand out, like the number of parks which have extensive community gardens. In addition, Spaniards are mad for handball and its Basque variation, pelota. All but the tiniest of towns has a semi-enclosed handball court. We also walk by 4 big public swimming complexes, with indoor and outdoor pools, slides, and wading pools. As the day heats up, the crowds at these pools grow and grow.

Finally, after about 6 miles, we are nearing the center of Pamplona. We need to cross the river and go up a steep bank to get to the city center. The riverwalk continues, but right at the junction of the biggest garden, and another swim complex, I spot a stepping stone pathway across the river leading to a traverse  up the hill.

We are right under a 17th century garrison and steeling ourselves for a climb in the hot midday sun
I see a family of swimmers appear through double glass doors not connected to any building. Upon closer inspection, it is an elevator to the top of the bluff. Well, all right..

Upon exiting  the elevator, we walk  past the ramparts overlooking the river and are surprised to learn that these too are the work of the estimable and ubiquitous Monsieur Vaubon. Just past the barricades, we walk around the most of the circumference of the world famous and disappointingly active bull fighting ring, where big red and blue banners advertise past and future events.

We make our way through the city, where everything but the bars, cafes, and churches are closed. The many squares are full of people. There are quite a few times when we have to make our way through crowds. With our backpacks, walking sticks, and walking clothes, I feel like the world’s biggest mark. In Camino-lore, Pamplona has a well-deserved reputation for pick -pockets, so we keep our wits and our wallets about ourselves.

We go deeper and deeper into old Pamplona, past the ritzy shopping districts, past the tourist- thronged antiquities, past the sensible shops of the Calle Mercaderes until we find the “street” of our lodging.  Down a street no wider than a narrow alley, the establishments and the patrons seem downright seedy.

When we find our “gastropub,” where no one is eating, the chunky, short-haired bartender greets us enthusiastically, while also giving us the once over.    He grabs a set of keys, and hustles us outside to an adjacent door.  Just before he opens the door, her grabs a young blonde woman with long, frowsy hair, leather jacket and tottering boots, and gives her an enormous, full-on kiss on the mouth.  He lets go of her without a word between them and takes us into a narrow hall, up a flight of stairs to gathering room in which numerous four foot tall bags of laundry are thrown in the corner.

The whole thing seems shady and weird. We agree, then immediately worry when we pay for the room with our credit card.  The bartender gives us a key and tells us our room is #10 upstairs,  “Arriba!  Arriba!” he says, pointing up.

We start climbing the narrow, turning stairs.   1 flight,  2 flights, 3 flights—5 flights to an utterly bereft and charmless room.  Dull grey walls, two small single beds, a flat screen TV, and a small bathroom with a small window overlooking the neighbors’ cracked tiles and hanging laundry.  We have stayed in hermitages with more personality and better amenities.

Well, no matter.  We will be gone tomorrow. We spend the evening exploring the town, trying and failing to find the open Carrefour's supermarket.  My mapping app kept saying it was right by us, but several circles of the area never reveal it.

It was getting toward dark and even the pubs were beginning to close. We stop for a bite not far from our  “D-luxe accommodations” and ask the Basque bartender about the Basque name for the city.  He tells us “only Castilians (said with disgust) and tourists call it Pamplona. To the real people, it is Iruña.”

As we return to our lodging, we see the same frowsy blonde with the leather jacket and towering heels wobbling down our gloomy street.  She is very high or very drunk and is being followed by a thuggish fellow who is whistling repeatedly at her. Two creeps up the street watch this scene with amusement. It hits me this young woman is probably a prostitute.

We climb the stairs to our cell, noting there would be no escape if this old building caught on fire. As far as we can tell, we are the only people in the building.  Finally at the fifth floor, we lock ourselves in, then watch bad Spanish television until we are sleepy.  Around 11:30pm, we hear people coming into the building.  Raucous voices filter up the stairs.  There’s all kinds of activity, doors opening and closing, people shouting—well into the night.  I listen and worry. Wes manages to sleep with help of  sleep mask and earplugs.

The next morning, we are out of there as soon as possible.   There is no sign of life in the lower floors, except an abandoned, not quite empty, cognac bottle in the hall.  We are glad to leave and can’t agree whether this was a house of prostitution or not.  Shaun: yes.  Wes: maybe.

We make our way to the new part of town with its stacks of apartments and wide streets.  We drink coffee in the morning sun and look west to the big ridge on the horizon—El Alto del Perdon (Hill of Forgiveness).  We will be glad to return to the quiet by-ways and highways of rural Spain.

We follow the trail out of town, past a few small towns with their red tile roofs and pelota courts and city wells.  It is full hot now and our climb over the ominously named ridge has begun.  Under the shade of a tree, Wes is visiting with the same Asian group we had seen the other day.  As I arrive, a rangy dog with a full loaf of bread in his mouth runs through the group, then stops in a newly plowed field to devour his purloined breakfast.

The group, three of whom are from Taiwan, and the other from Korea, ask us to sit, but fearing our legs will seize up if we stop, we trudge on.  The hill is steep, the path rocky, and the sun hot. We move from one shady spot provided by overhanging brambles to another. 

Up ahead, we can see bands of new apartment blocks lining the ridge. It looks like a desolate place to live, even though it has good views of the valley below.  We stop for a moment and watch the trucks and traffic disappear into a tunnel under the ridge.  That seems like a better idea than sweating our way up the Hill of Forgiveness.  At least in the short term.

Up the hill in the heat, Pamplona in the distance

When we enter the little town near the crest of the ridge, red-faced pilgrims are sprawled in whatever shade they can find.  Some offer their beers in toast to our effort. It is not long before we have one as well, to raise to the next overheated climber.

We don't tarry, however. The sun is not going to get less fierce.  So it’s the classic 25 steps, breathe, 25 more assault on the summit.  We are welcomed to the land of rock, wind, and windmills  by a large iron sculpture and multiple signs donated by the movie The Way. 

Just over the top, a skinny,  smoking blonde peers out from a food trailer that must have been hell to pull up to this desolate spot. Nearly every pilgrim rushes over to by something cool to eat or drink.
Before us, a new valley and the end of the Basque homelands. 

The climb down is as hard as the way up.  The path is a tumble of fist-sized rocks which roll beneath our feet. We gingerly place each pole on the steep decline, and try not to slip, each step smacking our tender toes.

We have just a few kilometers to our next lodging, the aptly named Refugio del Perdon. After presenting our dusty, stinking selves at reception, we are soon whisked away in a small SUV to a new apartment block just up the hill.  In the door, our young host shows us around.  Here is the fully equlped communal kitchen, here the attached eating and sitting room, beyond is an enclosed back yard.  Up a couple of flights of stairs, here is our room: Queen bed, wooden furniture, a loveseat and coffee table, a big bathroom with whirlpool bath, shower, bidet, and toilet.  Out on our private balcony, the  reds and golds of a desert twilight begin to glow.

After washing ourselves and our clothes, we walk back down to the inn for our dinner. We share a table with three Norwegian women and two American women from Tucson, Arizona. The Arizonans have just completed their first day and are a bit shell shocked by the heat and the difficulty.  The Norwegians are on holiday, eating, drinking and walking sans backpacks from Roncesvalles to Logroño. 

The food is simple but good, the wine exceptional, and the conversation stellar.  We laugh and talk about work and life and politics until all the other tables are cleared and the staff is standing there, rag in hand, staring at us. We take the hint, and go our separate ways.

Back at our deluxe accommodations, we have to laugh at the yin and yang of our lodging adventures.  Who knows what tomorrow will bring.  Lo veria.  We'll see.
                                                                                            

Pamplona Riverwalk with stork nest and community gardens

T+141: Just Go Outside and Look!

Centennial, Wyoming: The three days of wind are over and we have had two wonderful days of still, warm weather.  On Saturday, Wes and I took our first long bike ride since ending the trip.   We rode roundtrip from our cabin to the Albany Lodge, a total distance of about 22 miles.   I rode my 1986 Kuwahara mountain bike.  The bike had some issues and needs some repair, but we both did great, despite the (inevitable) headwind and not quite having high altitude lungs.  

 The next day, we went hiking around the granite monoliths of Vedauwoo.  We watched climbers scale Turtle Rock, shimmying up a 300 foot vertical crack.   There were lots of people out, like us, surprised and pleased by the nearly 60 degree temperature—and no wind.   Long conversations with our dear friend Diana, finally making friends with her skittish dog Zola, then ending the day with homemade stew, wine, and a pumpkin pie provided by her friend Ross---what a day of pleasure!  The ride through the heart of the Adirondacks, not so long ago, was another such day.
---------------------------------------------
Mile 3840:  Raquette Lake, NY

The ride through the Adirondacks is glorious.  It is true that we missed the peak colors of the trees.  The big rain and blow yesterday took down many leaves.   The colors are beginning to edge toward buff and amber.  There is very little traffic on the road and we are grateful to be able to see the country without snaking through travel trailers and stressed out drivers.

An island on the Moose River

We take the back road from Boonville, which takes us past the original Black River Canal, then down to the spectacular Moose River.  We are riding on what is called the “Woodgate,” which means this route is the most forested way into the highlands.   We are having fun; Wes is singing, and we are spinning back and forth across the empty road to get a better look at bright trees, gurgling brooks, or small ponds.  Wes asks, “Where are the moose?”  Their image is on all sorts of road and restaurant signs, but the animals are nowhere to be seen.  We tell stories of the three big bull moose, who stay near the edge of the road just outside Centennial.  They seem to enjoy the “moose jams” they regularly cause as motorists stop to stare at 3000 pounds of moose flesh.

We are ebullient when we enter the tourist town of Old Forge, New York.  We visit the bike shop, where my bike gets a mini-tune-up, and we visit with the 70 year old owners, who tell us they see 100 bicycle tourists a day during the peak of the season.  This is clearly not the case when we are there.  We are genuine oddities in the scant groups of elder tourists.  

During this section of ride, we have returned to the Adventure Cycling maps.  We wonder whether to continue following their route, with all its twists and turns and mountain climbs.   A super-fit woman joins our conversation with the bike shop guys as we wonder if we should go via Ticonderoga, Bennington, or Rutland.  She says, “If you’re looking for a challenge, take Ticonderoga, for a long way but a nice ride, take Bennington.  For a quick ride, with good scenery and a good road, go Rutland.”  After she leaves, the owners says, “She ought to know.  She’s a world class tri-athlete.  She’s probably ridden every one of those roads.”  We choose Rutland.



As we get coffee at the one open coffee house, and go out into the fall sun to drink it on the deck, older tourists making their way up and down the streets call out to us and engage us in conversation.  Wes visits at some length with two sisters who drive up from New Jersey and Pennsylvania every year.  They are short and round, with pronounced New Jersey accents: “Oi cen’t bleeve yous rode all d’way from Or-e-gon!”

Wes is at his best, flirting and telling stories with these 70-somethings.  He almost has one convinced she needs to take up bike riding again, when we have to leave.  After a supply stop at the drugstore, Wes is all business with me.  Time is burning; we got to get down the road.  I want to browse and wander the tourist shops.  Wes says, “Why look when you know you can’t buy?”    We stand on the side of the road and fuss at either other (You never….I always…etc.) before we both realize we are being absurd and start laughing. 



We ride alongside the Fulton Chain of Lakes.  Most of the many cabins, restaurants, and shops are closed for the season.  It tickles us to see the original iterations of the “North Woods” style: log cabins, heavy plaids, stenciled or iron cuts of bears, moose, and pine trees.  Much of Wyoming has adopted this look.  Our own cabin has a pretty heavy dose.

At Inlet, we stop for a beer and to secure lodging for the night.  In the summer, or on the weekends during Leaf Peepers season, there would be hundreds of places to stay.   Midweek, the second week of October, just a few days before the season ending Columbus Day weekend, the choices are few.  

We ask our host, a young, extremely heavy, man with a tousled mop of brown hair he constantly pushes out of his eyes.    Without a pause, he recommends Raquette Lake Hotel.  He then grabs his cell phone, and calls them to make sure they have a room available.  After a short conversation, he hands me the phone.  Surprised, I babble a bit before making the reservation. 

While we drink our beer and look at the sun glow on the lake, we visit with our host.  He tells us a lot about the route ahead, warning us that we are in the easy part of the Adirondacks.  He gives us a blow by blow description of all the roads we will travel until we get to Lake George.  We can’t comprehend it at the time, but when we look back, we realize he was utterly accurate.

Right before we leave, a very young beer salesman comes in.  He looks to be no more than 25 years old and couldn’t weigh more than 125 pounds.  He sits on his foot, perched on the bar stool, looking all the world like a great blue heron.  He and the host, Jack Spratt and his wife, begin an intense discussion of the various tastes and qualities of beer.  They are almost head to head and talking rapidly through the tens of choices on the beer seller’s list.

The ride out of Inlet continues beautiful, past lakes named Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth.  We arrive in the outskirts of Raquette Lake just at dusk, very nearly missing the unsigned turn to the tiny hamlet.  Raquette Lake Hotel dominates the collection of little cottages nestled around an open green.  A group of deer are in the green.  One is beneath an apple tree, eating one fallen apple after another.

The lake, shimmering in the evening sun, pulls us like a magnet.  We stare at the immense Blue Mountain, looming majestically over the lake.  There are numerous sail boats, skiffs, canoes, and pleasure craft bobbing gently on the water near the marina north of the hotel.  We walk all around the hotel, which was built in the 1880’s and houses a store, bar, and restaurant.  It has been grand; it could be again.  Now it looks well used…and well loved.

We make our presence known at the bar, which not only is the nerve center of the hotel, but also the for the small village.  There are about 10 men at the bar, and a few more mixed groups sitting at the tables.  It distinctly reminds us of the watering holes in our tiny town of Centennial.  All eyes are on us, when we say we are the people with reservations for a room.  The frowsy young blonde bartender gives us set of brass keys and tells us our room is just up the stairs.  “Go to the next door and straight up.  That’ll be $49.  You can pay me when you get settled.”

The next door has a ratty screen door, and we have to maneuver around a bunch of kitchen supplies piled in boxes to get up the stairs.  There is large, dusty, lobby with old furniture and a tottering bookshelf at the top of the stairs.   We spot our room number just next to the wooden phone booth, complete with a folding door.  The room is tiny, although it does have its own bathroom, with a big clawfoot bathtub.  The iron bedstead with a chenille cover barely fits in the room.  There are hooks on the wall instead of closet, and a battered solid wooden dresser.  The only window looks over the rusty fire escape and the greasy roof of the hotel kitchen.  It doesn’t feel bad, exactly, just old.  This was probably state of the art in 1942.



However, we had seen the lake and knew it was magical.  I told Wes to wait, and went exploring.  Down the hall, on the opposite end of the building, there were more rooms.   These surely would have views.   Wes goes back downstairs, to ask for a room where we could see the lake.”  The bartender couldn’t have been more surprised.  “Well, just go outside and look!” she exclaims. 

After Wes explains that we really do want a room with a view, she disappears for a moment to confer with the cook.  When she comes back, she says that there is a suite at the other end of the hotel, but that it costs more.  She quotes the price.  It is quite a bit more than $49, but less than many places we have stayed.  We take it.



The view from our room
 

When we open the door, we are thrilled.  Not only does the suite take up three full rooms, its entire west side is ringed with the original mullion windows facing the lake.  There is a big comfy bed on one side, a hot tub on the other, and a little eating area in the middle.  The sun is just getting ready to set over the lake.  Wes runs downstairs, buys a couple of drinks, and we sit at the antique arts and crafts table and watch the lake turn orange, then red, then the richest sapphire.   We sit on until the sky is inky and Venus makes her appearance.  In the far distance, we can just make out the cry of a loon. 

We have a pleasant meal and nice visit with the homefolks, who are all in a buzz about an energy company which has just entered the valley and is trying to get new customers.  One young fellow, who looks like a slacker lumberjack, says, “They said they would provide energy for life for a payment of $4000.   Last year, my heating oil for the winter was $1600.  How can this not be a scam?”  Most people agree it sounds too good to be true, but everyone, including me, is happy to eat from the sausage and cheese tray the company has left as part of their promotions.

When we return to our magical suite, we have a hot tub, a sweet night, and a deep sleep.  We notice that perhaps this suite wasn’t quite finished yet, and wonder if our stay there was fully legal.   Legal or no, we loved it.  With our windows open, and all the night sounds of the little town and the big lake, we didn’t need to go outside to be right there with the shimmering lake and its looming mountain.

------------------------------------------
Posted from Centennial, Wyoming.

T+106: Thumb-ities

Mile 3757, Rome NY.  The rain has us holed up in the motel with me catching up on the blog while Wes watches football on the television.

Bay City is a very short distance from Midland, Michigan—at least by car.  However, if you travel by Adventure Cycling map and Wes and Shaun’s remarkable way-losing skills, this twenty mile auto trip can take more than 4 hours and leave you exhausted and frustrated. 

Getting out of town was the first challenge.  The mapmakers hate main streets and direct paths.  Wes and I think we know more than we really do, so try to create work-arounds to avoid the zigging and zagging of the prescribed path.  Very often, we add miles, times, and turns to already long paths.   We finally get out of town on the prescribed path which takes us just downwind of the landfill. 

We cross into the country, where we see even more of the mysterious greens plant.  The route is flat, the traffic moderate, the wind high.  We make reasonable time and are excited when we cross Interstate 75.  This is our neighborhood freeway in Detroit, and a marker of our eastern progress.   Wes and I know Bay City and Saginaw Bay rather well, having visited both quite a few times.  Bay City was one of the queen cities of the lumber boom.  Its main street has a remarkable collection of Victorian mansions.  Its downtown, once derelict, is reviving and artsy.  It has a nice waterfront.  The Bay has numerous wetlands and wildlife refuges.  Does the Adventure Cycling trail go by any of these?  No.

After our foolishness of the morning, we thought we should follow the path as prescribed.  Mistake.  For reasons unknown, it crossed to the far northeast of the town, then circled through its most industrial bits on the western side, then wandered in down-trodden neighborhoods until it exited on a beat up farm road on the southeast.  The best thing about the route was the section that travelled on the Saginaw River, where the town has created a bike path around and over the river and amongst its marshes.  We ended up eating at a worn out workers’ bar on the tracks where the bar food matched the ugliness of the surroundings and the surliness of the customers.

The wind is blowing and we are travelling in farm country.  Along the way, we spot a pumpkin farm setting up for its first Halloween Hayride.  It is the 20^th of September, but we’re thirsty and curious, so stop in for apple cider and cinnamon donuts (one of the essential tastes of Michigan). I end up visiting with the enormously fat dwarf goats.  They are very pleased to be fed fresh grass from outside their pen, instead of the handfuls of grain pellets little children pay $.50 to feed them.  I’m trying to communicate with the chickens, when Wes comes to remind me that we still have miles to go this late afternoon.

The path takes an odd rails to trails conversion, which is barely marked and runs a short distance in the midst of fields.  It is not far from the tourist haven of Frankenmuth.  Maybe it is the first stage of a longer project.  It is in the midst of this trail, surrounded by corn and the greens plant, when Wes suddenly shouts, “Sugar beets!  Those are sugar beets!”  Of course they are.  Haven’t we been to the Sugar Beet Festival in Sebawaing just a few miles from Bay City?  Doesn’t Pioneer Sugar appear on every Made in Michigan shelf?  Smart as whips, we are.

I have made arrangements for us to stay in the North Bed and Breakfast in Vassar.  It was listed as one of two choices on our map, but I couldn’t find any other information.  When I called, the proprietor answered my question about available accommodations with a question, “Are you allergic to cats?”  I said no.  She said, “Good, because there are cats on the premises.”  I said I thought that was an advantage.  She laughed, and said, “I can see we are going to get along.”  This was a foretaste of things to come.

Vassar is pretty river town in the north central part of the Thumb, about 12 miles northwest of Frankenmuth.  Its 19^th century brick downtown is intact and moderately healthy. Its 1920’s movie house is still operating.  We make our way to the B & B, following the numbers.  We come to big mansion on the tallest point in town (maybe for miles), with ancient white pines and stolid oaks guarding the grounds.  We enter up an almost hidden drive and are immediately astonished.  This is a BIG house, built in 1880’s, elaborate and well maintained. 

When our landlady answers the door, two cats run out.  She tells us where we can store our bikes and takes us indoors, where we are confronted with a big cat smell.  There are eight cats living on the premises.  They have the run of the place and she gives us elaborate instructions for dealing with them.   She warns us to keep our doors closed unless we want cats in our bed.  She shows us around the mansion which was built by Townsend North, a nephew of the founders of the famous college, the local lumber baron, and co-founder of the village.  The house has not been much updated; its woodwork is a testament to the riches of the local forest.  However, there is only one outlet in our bedroom and it is in the middle of the wall above the sagging, plush sitting couch.

Just as we are getting ready to leave, her other guests arrive.  They look intriguing.  They are in their mid-thirties.  He has a shaved head, numerous tattoos, and big hipster glasses over bulging blue eyes.  She is exceptionally pretty, if fifty pounds overweight, with long curly hair, and an infectious laugh.  She has golden brown skin and some sort of African ancestry.  They tell the landlady that they plan to see the movie, “The Butler” at the local movie house before going to their conference tomorrow.   That captures our imagination, as well.  As we head out, the landlady calls out, “Will you please look for a pink sparkly cat collar when you are going down the stairs?  I’ve looked everywhere in the house.”

The next morning, after enjoying the movie and particularly Forrest Whittaker’s performance, we were looking forward to talking about it with the other guests.  That conversation lasted about 2 minutes, because we soon found out little you can tell about people based on first impressions.  They were fairly newly-wed.  She was highly educated and world travelled, the daughter of an Air Force officer.  A strange set of circumstances had her move to Fort Wayne, Indiana where she met her husband at church.  She said, “I was originally dating his roommate, but…” He interrupts, “He was no good.  I wanted to protect you from him….”  She starts to say something; they stare at each other and let it drop.  He was recently hired at a factory that makes hard plastic parts for cars after years of looking for work and “taking any kind of anything I could get.”   He is actually rather shy and tongue-tied for all of his hard edge looks.  He stares at his wife admiringly when she explains something he can’t. She homeschools their son, who is twelve.  She says, “We are doing everything we can to protect him from the evils of the world.   When he sees a woman who is wearing provocative clothes like shorts, we tell him God wants him to put his eyes down and not look.”  As they talk on, it is clear that they are members of a super-conservative evangelical church.  They were attending a conference on religious home schooling. 

Back on the road, we wind through small towns where families are out watching their children play soccer or full pads pee-wee football.  The path takes us to another rails to trails conversion, where once again we see lots of Baby-boomers on Bikes.  It’s nice but a bit wet and muddy.  The route leaves the trail, to turn a bit east and wander towards the lower Thumb and Port Huron.  We take our lunch in the tiny town of Clifford, where we have a raucous conversation.  Two are older women, with beauty parlor hairdos lacquered to their heads; they are joined by a pink faced young looking 40 year old.  It is obvious they know each other and this place very well.  All of us tell stories of life in Michigan, especially the way the weather has changed over the years.  We had just gotten into the more sensitive topic of politics and the economy.  (They were shocked at the deterioration of Michigan’s commitment to its people and towns)  The conversation veered over to the public accommodations smoking ban. 

A young man, accompanying his young daughter and son, had recently come to the café and announced to all ears that “They had just come from two soccer games after going hunting this morning and they needed some food.”  The father jumped into the conversation.  “I plumb don’t agree with the smoking ban. If it’s my business and I’m paying the bills, I have the right to do what I want in my business.”   Wes comments, “If we go in your restaurant, and you’re smoking, it affects us.” He almost shouts, “Then you can just leave.  You don’t have to be any place you don’t like.”  Both the pink faced fellow and I ask him about employees in that situation.  He doesn’t answer.   Pink face points out, “If you smoke in your business and it’s against the law, and your employee get sick from it, you know you would be liable.”  The dad shouts, “I don’t care! I just think there is too much government.  If I’m paying the bills, I should get to call the shots.”

This effectively ends the conversation.  Very shortly thereafter, the 70 year old women and we take our leave.

I have been trying to find a place to stay on the trail for most of the morning. So far I have not had any luck.  We have to go off the route.  We end up riding down a crazy busy Michigan 57 (Van Dyke Road) on a Saturday night.  Wes is full of nostalgia because his school is just off Van Dyke 70 miles down the road.  We spend the night in a totally plastic freeway motel on Interstate 69.  We eat at a “bad food and plenty of it” restaurant nearby, where nearly every patron is very overweight.   Both Wes and I note that we have seen very few overweight men on the trip thus far.  We have seen a lot since we entered the (formerly) industrial environs of eastern Michigan.

The next day, we head for the ferry at Marine City.  This is the closest we will come to Detroit.  Several friends have asked us why we don’t go closer.   We know if we get too close, we will be tempted to stop.  Even now, traveling through a part of Michigan we know well, it is still just strange enough to feel like exploration.   We keep our minds on the oddities of the Thumb and don’t let the comforts of home entice us.

T+89: Hay Daze

Mile 3010: MIDLAND, MI

We head out the next day with the idea that we should make a run for the border of Wisconsin, with the hope that the weather and luck would cooperate.  Fat chance. The wind continues hot, dry, and strong from the southeast.  The route has us going south, then east, south, then east.  Thinking I can outwit the wind, I have us turn on an alternate road, only to find that the bridge we needed to cross is out.  We wander, half lost, through farm roads, hoping we can make our way back to the route in a few miles.  We finally do make our way to the tiny town of Dalbo, but miss what is considered an essential stop on this route…the Adventure Cyclists’ Bunkhouse, where one of the founders of the organization has created a respite for cross country bikers.    We have been wrong so often today, there is no way we are backtracking up the hill to visit that respite. 

At Dalbo, we decide we have had enough of beat-up back roads that jar our bones and add extra miles.  We decide to follow Highway 95, a major cross state road that will take us through the Cambridge and North Branch.  It is Saturday.  This is farm country.   How busy could it be?  The answer is a lot.  It continues hot, and we are getting overheated, so we stop in a nice old tavern in Cambridge for a cold drink.  We better find a place to stay.  I start the search.  I call everything in North Branch, which is on Interstate 35.  Sold out.  I move up and down the Interstate, calling various establishments with 15 miles.  Sold out.  We try websites of motels in Cambridge.  No availability.  As a last final shot, I call the closest motel, just to see if the desk confirms what the website said.  The young voice at end of the line confirms that they are sold out, but….they just had a cancellation on a jacuzzi king at a high price.   Eeeek.  We take it.

When we get to the motel, we ask the impossibly young desk clerk, “What on earth is going on?  Why are there no rooms within 50 miles?”  It’s Hay Days, she says, certain we have an idea what that means.  What is Hay Days?  Why it’s the biggest event of the season around here.  People come from miles around, but especially Canada, to race their snowmobiles on alfalfa hay.   There are hundreds of contestants and many thousands of spectators.  Haven’t we ever heard of Hay Days?  It used to be here in Cambridge, but it got so big, they moved it over by North Branch.

The Crossing Motel is jumping, with all sorts of families bringing in bikes, and kids, and coolers.  There are groups of men drinking beer after beer on the porches outside.  Most of the cars do indeed have Canadian license plates.  A good many are pulling trailers.  There is a lot of noise up and down the halls.  It is clear that not only is the motel full, most rooms are full to capacity as well.  We decide to do our laundry as we have had to end our ride so early.  As I make my way down the hall, I look in one room and see a harried set of parents, luggage strewn everywhere, two kids jumping on the beds, and the cry, “What do you mean you don’t know where the tickets are?”

As luck would have it, the dryer fails to dry.  The perky young desk clerk, who also has to do the entire motel’s laundry, volunteers to dry our clothes in the industrial dryers.  She takes our damp clothes and tells me to check back in twenty minutes.  I do.  Still not in the dryer; things have been hectic.  I go again in another twenty minutes, then another, then another.   At this point, I figure it won’t get done until after things have quieted down for the night, so Wes and I decide to take advantage of the Jacuzzi.  We have just settled in when there is a knock at the door.  Wes answers it, wrapped in a towel.  The flustered desk clerk stammers,  “He…he…here’s your laundry.”

The next day we head out and the road is packed with Hay Days traffic.  We don’t think we have ever seen so many big pickup trucks pulling snowmobiles on trailers, or carrying them in their beds.  There is an edginess in the traffic, with lots of revved-up motors and unsafe passing, as individuals in the big string of traffic try to get to the race just a little quicker.   All along the way, anybody who has got anything to sell has got it out along the road.   There are garage sales, art sales, bake sales, innumerable snowmobiles, motorcycles, four-wheelers, farm equipment--a multi-mile yard sale.  Soon there are parking hawkers, trying to encourage drivers into their ad-hoc parking lots.  The prices climb from $5 to $10 to $20.  Finally, we are to the big cut hay field where the races are taking place.  We can hear them long before we can see them.

Off in the distance, we see numerous circus-size tents set around two hills which form the grounds.  One hill was for seating. The other, much lower, is the race track.  There are thousands of trailers, trucks, tents, and various kinds of transportation equipment between the race track and the road.  There are police on the roads directing traffic and shuttles running back and forth.  People are rushing about in a high state of excitement. 

Wes and I are flummoxed.  We had never even heard of grass snowmobiling 24 hours ago.  Of course, it is our special kind of luck to be cycling through its premier event.  A few miles past the agitation and noise of thousands of snowmobiles circling in a cut alfalfa field, I spot a little shop that says, Amelund Mercantile: Coffee, Housewares, Baked Goods, Fresh Eggs—Since 1910.  Looks like our kind of place. 

We go in and meet Anna.  She is a registered nurse who works in Minneapolis, but who commutes back and forth to her hometown to care for her elderly parents and this store.  She has just purchased a domestic espresso maker and is interested in getting our feedback on her efforts.  The building has been the center of this little Swedish community since its founding.  There are lots of interesting dishes and odds and ends.  I wander about, picking up plates, looking at embroidery, trying on wool jackets.  I feel a little homesick.  

A young, tall, heavy-set woman of about 19 comes in to share news with Anna, but upon seeing, stops in her tracks, apologizes and very nearly leaves.  Anna tells her it’s ok, that we’re just having coffee.  She blushes, self-conscious around strangers.  However, it is not long until we are busily chatting.  She loves the Hay Days and all the excitement it brings.  She tells us that it brings in 250,000 people over the whole week and that there are contestants from Alaska and Washington State, and from every province in Canada.   

She is less excited to talk about the economy around here, especially about something as boring as farming, which she has done every day of her life.  We talk about the drought just north of here and she tells us they will only get three cuttings of hay this year.  Finally, she pulls Anna aside and whispers the news she came to share.   Anna returns to us and tells us they are planning a baby shower.  She tells us how worried she is about this little town surviving.  Most of the young people have moved to Minneapolis, just as she had in her younger days.  She expects to stay at her job as a union nurse a few more years, then she will be back full time in Amelund and in this little store.  She shakes her head, “Keeping my family and this little town together, that’s what it’s all about for me.”

She points out the prettiest way to return to highway and watches us go, waving and smiling.  We felt honored to meet her.  This was the Minnesota we had expected to meet.  We are glad we did.  Ten miles down the road, we cross the St. Croix River and enter Wisconsin.  Immediately, the energy and the story changes.  But that’s a story for another day.

..........................

posted from Midland, MI

T+66: We’ve Come this Far by Grace, Part 1

Mile 1914: BISMARCK, SD

Getting to Circle was one of those pleasures that grows tiresome by repetition.  By about the 20^th hill climb and ride down, the thrill was gone.  After our visit with Lynette, the up and down continued and continued.  At about mile 45, we finally got to the end of the pass between the Missouri and Yellowstone Valleys.  All we had to do is turn west and go into the little town of Circle.  Easier said than done.  We faced a ferocious wind, thinking, “Well, at least tomorrow we’ll have a tail wind…”  It takes us almost an hour to go that last five miles.

There is only one motel in this little town and because the weather is still very hot, we don’t want to tent camp in the swelter.  We pull up to the Traveller’s Inn, and our hearts sink.  Not only are there junk cars all around the building, the lounge and café is in a state of complete disarray.  When I pull up to the bedraggled office sign, a passel of pigeons fly out of the long-closed lounge building.  Wes is giving me the fish-eye.  We open the door to the office and our worst fears are confirmed.  It’s a mess.  There is no one at the desk.  It smells of stale cigarettes.  The desk is a pile of papers, with a hand-written journal on top.  We look around at the dusty collection of old advertising signs and wait.

At last the proprietor appears.  He peers at us with goggle eyes, surprised it seems to have guests, although Lynette had called from the post office from Vida, and we told him we were on the way.  Wes says brightly, “Give us your best room!”  Our host says, “Well, I have been doing some renovations, but they aren’t done yet….but I think I can get you a pretty good room.”  He gives us a key and tells us it is around back.  When we cross to the back of this ramshackle motel and see a whole bank of rooms open to the elements, our apprehension only increases.  We are already considering whether we should try to find a place to camp, even if the temperature is over 95 degrees.  The room has a new door, which we open, gingerly…and are pleasantly surprised.  The paint is new, if garish.  The bedspreads and the carpet are new and look clean.  There is a nice little desk, as well as a microwave and fridge.  The bathroom is not very complete and the water faucets are erratic.  It is ok.  We breathe a sigh of relief because this is mediocre trying to be better and not horrible.  

As part of the registration, the proprietor tells us that he also works at the VFW and if we buy the first drink, the motel will buy us the second.  In fact, why doesn’t he give us a ride down there?  We are surprised, but agree after we get cleaned up.  When the time comes, his wife, after hearing the plan and apparently wanting to short circuit her husband’s trip to the bar, takes us to the VFW in a beat up Toyota with only 2 gears.  She barely speaks to us as Wes crams into the tool filled back seat.  At the VFW, we could not have felt more foreign or out of place.  The regulars barely look up and we hover at the end of the bar, drink our canned beer as quickly as possible and leave.

Later, we conk out in our ok room and look forward to a day with a tailwind to push us over the Big Sheep Mountains and into the lovely little river town of Glendive.  We were wrong on every count.  The next morning, we are up early and try to find a café for bite to eat before the ride.  No such luck.  We go out to the highway and sure enough, the wind has turned around and is blowing in our face.  There is a ton of heavy equipment and big trucks on the road.  So we push on.  

 It’s climb, climb, climb all morning over these desert-y sedimentary mountains.  We drop into a little settlement of Raymond where we want to have lunch and it is the first indication that the culture has changed.  At the farm implement/convenience store, the store owner could barely muster a hello to our bright greeting.  When we asked where we could eat our lunch, his “I dunno” was almost surly.  Luckily the postmistress pointed out a little picnic spot across the river in the trees (!) next to a large pond.  The picnic area was bedraggled and the metal shelter moaned in the wind, but it was out of the sun and by some water, so we were satisfied.  At one point, Wes wanders to see the pond and reports, “There’s muskrats here.”  Curious, I go look.  It is not muskrats, but big swirls of fish in low water, heaving and dancing around each other in tight coils of mating, I presume.  I watch from a few feet away.  Normally, fish would see me or my shadow and dart away.  These fish have something else on their mind.

We make our way to Glendive.  About 10 miles outside of town, there begins to be giant lines of empty coal cars just sitting on the tracks, mile after mile.  This is an indication of the change in the energy economy.  Years ago, before the oil and natural gas boom, train after train of coal from Gillette, WY would have come down these tracks.  Now they sit rusting in the scalding wind.

About three miles outside of Glendive, my back tire loses air.  We have been aware of the increasing baldness of my back tire, but there has been no bike shops or stores that carry my size tire for hundreds of miles.  I have a tube and a changing kit, but with a worn out tire, using either would be a lost cause.  We limp into Glendive, and turn into the John Deere supplier and ask if they can direct us to the bike shop in town.  It is gone.  Check K-mart and the hardware stores.  Nothing at the K-mart.  I call the stores in town. (For the first time in weeks, because I-94 passes through Glendive, I have phone service!)  No luck.  Now what?  No tire, no move.

I move into Major Problem Solving Mode; Wes moves into Major Distress Mode.  I offer a bunch of different solutions; Wes tells me why they are All Wrong.  This is typical.  I find out the closest bike shop is 60 miles away, in the little tourist town of Medora, ND, adjacent to the Teddy Roosevelt National Park and on the Maah-Daah-Hey Mountain Bike route.   A call to the Dakota Cyclery confirms that they have one tire that will work.  Now how to get it from there to us? 

This is where one of the most amazing moments of the entire trip begins.

While Wes and I think about UPS or renting a car, Jennifer Morlock,  a founder, along with the husband Loren, of Dakota Cyclery, says, “Let me make a few calls to see if anyone is driving over to Glendive and can bring you the tire.”   We decide we better get a place from which to solve this problem.  I call 5 or six motels in town.  All are booked.  The last one, the lowest rated, I finally call.  It has a room.  It will have to do.

We walk my bike from the industrial outskirts, over the Yellowstone River, to the discombobulating and dusty downtown.  Far from the green oasis we had envisioned, this is a town cut into sections by the freeway, the river, and the railroad.    It feels beat-up and hard-used.  On the way to the motel, we get a call from Jennifer.  She has found someone who will deliver the tire to us:  Andrew Gilchrist, a Briton who now lives in Red Lodge, MT and is driving through Glendive on his way home after participating in a mountain bike race.  He would be able to bring it to us the next afternoon.

The Glendive Inn used to be nice, but is now probably a few weeks from closing.  There is just one young man on staff and he is reception, and housekeeping, and everything.  There are a few customers, but there are dirty towels in the hallway and doors open to unmade rooms.  The flustered young man explains that the day shift of housekeepers didn’t come in today, but if we can wait a few moments, he will make a room up for us.  He disappears, leaving the front desk without staff, much to the chagrin of a customer who is angry about his remote.  When I ask the desk clerk what’s happening, he tells me that the sprinkling system failed a while ago, and did hundreds of thousands of dollars of damage.  The owners can’t operate without a sprinkler system and have been told by the health department they have 90 days to repair.  The owner can’t get a loan to refurbish this older facility downtown (even though two new big motels are being built on the outskirts.)  The inn is limping by until….probable closing and even more damage to fabric of downtown.

We walk out to the café on the freeway where we will meet Andrew.  It is full of oil field workers and construction workers.   Even though Glendive is more than 100 miles from Williston and Sidney, it is full of young and old men, often in clumps of crews, hurriedly eating and not talking to anyone else.  I came of age in a boomtown and recognize the vibe.

We have a nice visit with Andrew Gilchrist, originally of Manchester, England, now of Marietta, Georgia and Red Lodge, MT.  He runs an eco-tourism business in Central and South America and is an avid cyclist.  We are agog to hear his story of organizing a yearly ride from Red Lodge to Jackson, WY—in ONE DAY.  This is a ride over the Bear Tooth and Sylvan Passes, through Yellowstone—a distance of 250 miles.  It takes them about 18 hours.  I ask if he is a masochist.  He just laughs.

We thank him hardily for the delivery of the tire and make our way back to our sad motel.  With a certain amount of trouble we get the tire on, then use the remaining time in Glendive to re-supply.  (Wes gets new underwear and socks.  Woot! I get new support knee socks.  Yay!)

The kindness of Jennifer and Andrew are just the beginning of this amazing tale….. To Be Continued…

 

posted from Moorhead, MN

T+65: Good Looking, Get Along People

Mile 1887. NEW SALEM, ND

The tale of our travels on the Hi-Line continues….

Our next stop is a little town called Saco, which everyone has warned us has the world’s worst mosquitos.  It is sitting on the clay basin of a former lake, which is flood irrigated with the waters of the Milk River.  This means that there are lots of places for water to sit and mosquitos to breed.  All throughout the hot ride to this town, I have been feeling nauseous.  I think it is an after effect of yesterday’s dehydration, so plug on.  Saco is a hot, dusty town of about 125 people.  Like so many of these Hi-Line towns, it has an abundance of 1910 buildings, empty and slowly decaying, reflecting the much higher population that lived here 100 years ago.  Most of these towns emptied out during dust bowl days, never regaining population or services.

There is one beat-up motel and a café, which is closed for repairs.  We drink a beer in the wonderful old bar while waiting for the motel owner to come in from the fields and rent us a room.  While there, we hear the first inkling of the transformation and tragedy that the boom on the Bakken Oil Field is bringing to eastern Montana and western North Dakota.  A young woman, celebrating her 30^th birthday, is talking loudly, ostensibly to the sympathetic female bartender, but also for everyone else to hear.  She has been working in the oil patch, making good money, but her three kids are living with various dads and grandmas.  She has not seen them in weeks.  She tells a horrifying story of the death of her young daughter last year.  The little girl was run over by her father, with whom she was already not speaking.   She circles back to the fight at the funeral over and over.   At least five times she says she is doing great, making $18/hr plus overtime.  She and her current partner, pick up two six packs every night just for the ride back home from the oil patch.  We get the heeby-jeebies at all of this.

The temperature is nearly 98 when the motel owner returns.  Camping is out of the question, so we take the pretty awful room.  This is definitely a room where we do not want to sleep in the bed, so we get our camping blankets out, and sleep on, not in the bed.  The little store in the town has a very small selection, so we make some frozen chicken strips (yuck) and a salad.

The next day, we are up early.  The sky is low, grey, and threatening.  I don’t feel well at all.  We want to get out of this town, so we decide to leave despite the skies.  Of course, about  2 miles out of town, as we cycle into a howling wind (which still does not deter these damned determined Saco mosquitos, who bite us while we are cycling), the rain begins to pelt.  It is 15 miles to the next town and there is nothing we can do.  We push on, miserable.

The only services in this little town is a convenience store, which we are glad to pop into.  The four guys sitting around a table, laughing and telling stories, look up as the bedraggled cyclists come in.  Wes goes over to get some hot coffee.  When he looks down at me, he exclaims, “Are you all right?”  I am not all right.  I am ill.  I have fever and chills; my stomach is upset.  I am shaking.  We drink coffee and look at the pouring rain.  I feel worse and worse. 

When the coffee klatch breaks up, I ask, “Are any of you going to Glasgow?  Could we pay you to give us a ride there.  I’m ill”  Wes looks shocked that I would take such a step, but one of the fellows says he driving back there, and sure, come on.  We load the bikes and BOBs in his pickup.  I climb in the back seat. Wes clambers in the front.  While I grow increasingly woozy, they visit about all manner of things. 

Dean works for the BLM as an engineer and knows the land around here very well.  He explains that this whole Milk River valley used to be the course of the Missouri River until an ice dam changed its course.  He talks to Wes about the economics of farming and tells us that is not such a risky venture these days, because farmers have federally subsidized crop insurance.  No matter what happens with their harvest, they will get paid.  He also tells a joke that Wes has delighted repeating. “How did the farmer double his income?  Answer: He put up another mail box.”  In other words, he established two businesses where there had been one and got two checks from the government.  This is also known as “farming the government.”

Dean drives us directly to the Cottonwood Inn. He refuses any offer of pay for the ride. It is beautiful and modern and well equipped.  I am not afraid of the bed here.  I go directly to it and sleep for two hours, then get up and have terrible digestive disorders.  As Wes and I talk it over, it seems to us that I have either picked up a mild case of West Nile virus from the mosquitos, or more likely, a bit of food poisoning from the undercooked sausage.  In between bouts, we wash clothes and get organized.

The next morning, I feel better, although still a little gurgly.  There is a sharp breeze blowing from the west (the long awaited tail wind!) We are back on Highway 2 and zooming along.  We stop at Elsie’s Café, and it is clear that this is quite the community gathering spot.  The waiter/co-owner is a former teacher.  He says, “My principal used to tell me what to do.  Now I just do what my wife tells me.”  She groans, “Oh, Arnie!” from the kitchen.   Little boys come in; old men speak to them by name and ask them about school starting.  Teenage girls come in and ask for ice cream for a party they are giving.   All across the dining people are chatting with each other, and with us.  The food is good and the energy is wonderful.  We don’t want to leave, but we must.

The heat starts to rise as we pedal on.  We are moving fast with the wind at our back, but getting hot.  We are now on the Fort Peck reservation.  We go into the Nakota Store and arrive at the exact moment the owners do.  The father and son duo make us smile.  The teenager has probably been awake about fifteen minutes.  He has thrown on the most comfortable, pajama like shorts and slides he can find.  He is exceptionally handsome, with a big broad smile, but pretty mumbled and unclear answers.  His father is wiry and energetic.  We buy two drinks each and stay in the cool to drink them.  The owner’s name is Tom Fire Moon, and he has managed stores all over: in the Navy, in San Diego, for Walmart, back and forth between Poplar, MT and California.  We find out he was on the same aircraft carrier as our brothers.  He tells us that his daughter was runner-up for Miss Montana, and that she won the talent competition singing a song from Les Miserables.  Tom tells us that they are Assiniboine and wants to make sure we know that Assiniboine are not Souix, with whom they share the reservation.   He makes us laugh, over and over, as we visit.  One time: we note that the calendar on his wall has a big picture of Mount Moran on it.  We say, “That’s where Wes was raised.”  Tom goes up to it, peers at it very closely, and pronounces, “Oh, I can see your house right there.”

All the while, various folks are coming in and out.  Some are getting gas.  One fellow says, “I’ll get some gas now, and when I get my check, I’ll bring you the money.”  No problem.  Another asks about our route.  He says, “You should take Indian Road #1.”He takes me to the window and shows me how to get on it.  “You’ll like it a lot more than Highway 2: no trucks, no traffic, much better scenery.”   Both he and Tom warn us about the upcoming dangers as we get closer and closer to the boom in Williston, ND.  This has now become a trope.

We take that route and he was right.  With the big tail wind, we careen down the highway, through little towns and big fields.  It is really fun and we travel the remaining 30 miles of that day in a flash. 

Wolf Point, MT is an odd town.  Full of oil traffic, yet also showing lots of signs of alcohol and meth problems, it has several banks, but no independent cafes that we can find.  We get the last room in the Sherman Inn.  It is full of oil patch workers and there are signs in the room about not using the washcloths to clean off grease.  The restaurant and bar are full of men of all ages and a variety of races.  This is not Elsie’s Café.  No one looks at or speaks beyond their table.

The next day, we leave the Hi-Line and begin our journey to the middle of North Dakota.  We cross the Missouri and have a long, arduous cross of the divide between the Missouri and Yellowstone River valleys.  There will be no services for 50 miles, just plenty of hills, miles of wheat, and a pretty stout side wind.

About half way, we stop in the shade of tree in front of the post office in Vida (no services, population 25).  We are drinking our water and about to eat our apple, when the postmaster comes out and says, “Come on in out of that heat.  You can sit here and drink some of this water right here.”

Her name is Lynette and she is the fill-in postmistress.  A former retail manager, she has taken this job in her retirement and has had postings all over this country.  Vida is a half-day post office and she will have to drive 60 miles to another post office on the Canadian border later today.  She spends the whole time cleaning the ornate oak panels of this post office while we visit.  We mention how friendly we have found people and what a hoot our visit at the Nakota store had been and she says, “I know Tom Fire Moon.  I used to run that store myself.  Did you know his daughter almost became Miss Montana.”   As in turns out, Lynette is also a member of the Assiniboine tribe.  When we say, we have heard much about that tribe, she laughs and says, “That’s because we are called the Good-looking, Get-along people.”  It certainly true in her case, with her long dark brown hair, golden skin, and blue eyes, and her busy, jokey and story-telling energy.  

It is hard to leave, but we must.  We thank her for her hospitality.  On the way to Circle, we think that is not just the Assiniboine who are get-along people and we wonder if it is the landscape or the culture or the economy….or all of the above… that have made folks so open, curious, and engaging.  We don’t know, but we sure do like it.

As we go down to Circle and enter the shadow of Williston, we face a lot of difficulties and see a lot of damage being done, but are we are astounded by incredible acts of grace…but that is story for another day….

 

Posted from Moorhead, MN