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.
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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.

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Posted from Centennial, Wyoming.

T+129: Navigating on the Erie Canal, Pt. 2.

Centennial, Wyoming:  We can tell we are truly back in Wyoming.  We have seen an elk herd of 200, a gathering of 75 pronghorn antelope, 50 or so wild horses on the hillside, and a group of five mule deer eating trees at the edge of our property….yesterday.  This is more wildlife in one day than we saw on the entire bike trip.   There is another sign that the bike trip is over and daily life is returning.   We now have both phone service and internet at the cabin.  We have spent the morning, going through mail, paying bills, and updating all our accounts and correspondence.   Being on the bike was quite other-worldly.   There is such peace in simply being in the moment, taking in what the world was giving us.  Most of the time we loved it, but getting through New York state was proving troubling, for reasons both sublime and ridiculous.

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The only accommodation available in Brockport is up the hill, out of the Mohawk Valley, into the plastic land and at a perfectly average motel.  This is also where we discover that the word “town” has a different meaning in New England.  In the rest of the United States, most towns are the product of rail lines and grew with the development of cars.  The towns are set up in a grid and grow along straight lines moving out from the center.  In New England, a sign will announce “Entering X town.” There may not be any cohesive group of homes or businesses for another 5 miles.  That grouping will be announced by signs announcing “X center” or “X village.” A town in this context is roughly equivalent to a township in Michigan or Wisconsin: a civic jurisdiction.  We don’t know that when we see that the Dollinger Inn is in Brockport Town.  We ride and ride away from the village near the canal.  We arrive at the plastic land and I am so disappointed.  Until that point, I thought this part of New York had evaded the plastic-land scourge.  Not so.  It’s just up by the main highway.

The next morning, we return to the canal area and ensconce at a coffee shop, where I work on the blog and Wes reads the newspaper.  As we are leaving, we greet a group of five cyclists seated outside, enjoying their morning coffee in the bright fall sun.  They are all about our age, dressed in full cycle regalia, with nice bikes and panniers. They are from Pittsburgh, and here to cycle 200 miles on the Erie Canal.  A woman with her knee taped is quite proud about this distance.  Another woman in the group asks about our travels and is surprised to hear that we have gone more than 3000 miles. She is very interested in our travels, but one fellow wearing bib cycle shorts and no shirt, is openly contemptuous and talks over our answers to the woman’s questions.  Although he doesn’t say this, we see him staring at our floppy shirts and pants and BOB trailers.  “Don’t we know we are supposed to give the impression of speed and aerodynamic styling?” his sneer seemed to say.

We all go to get on the tow path at the same time.  Wes and I are just competitive enough to speed off and leave the group in our wake.  Some miles down the path, we have stopped to read another information sign.  The no-shirt guy and the knee brace woman come cycling up, the other members of the group nowhere in sight.  We acknowledge their presence, but cycle off without saying a word.  We never see them again.

We are entering the environs of Rochester, which is a very big city.  The main path of the Erie Canal passes south of the city, with numerous connecting canals.  The route is bit tricky because it is passing in and out of city parks and sometimes moving away from the water.  At one point the path takes us over a bridge.  There is a path leading from the bridge and we assume it is our path.  Before we know it, we find we are on the campus of IBM Research and Development, just as the lunch break is beginning.  This is a nice campus and all sorts of corporate types, wearing their blue IBM shirts, are out walking the paths that circle the man-made lake, and in an out of various buildings.   We are obviously out of place as we pass men with brief cases and women in heels.  We wander about a bit, trying to find a way back to the canal, laughing at spectacle we are creating.  We finally go back to where we went wrong.  There we discover that the tow path has crossed to the south side of the canal for the first time since we started following it.

It is odd to ride the canal in the midst of a city.  It is loud and we cross under a variety of freeways.  It passes through a number of neighborhoods and suburbs.  It is clear that Rochester has been hit hard in the Great Recession.  We see lots of closed businesses and empty houses.  Some miles after our foray onto the IBM campus, we are quite hungry and need to find someplace to eat.  Just as we are about to cross a busy highway, an older man with a bright yellow jersey, stops his bike to talk to us.  He is slight and quite slender, probably in his late 60’s.  He has a mirror and lights and flashers on his bike; he announces that he is a Canal Path Ambassador.  Did we have any questions or concerns about our ride on the Canal?   Yes.  Where can we get something to eat?  “Well, it depends on whether you want to eat now or ride 10 more miles.”  We’re hungry now.  “Well, there’s a restaurant just down this street.  A lot of people eat there.  I never have.  But a lot of people do.  But ten miles down is Fairport.  They have a lot of nice restaurants there.  One difference is that Fairport, the average per capita income is $40,000.  Around here it is $15,000 per capita.”  We say we are hungry now, bemused by his economic assessment.  “Well,” he says, “you should be able to get a burger or something.”  As we cycle off, he calls to us.  “Make sure you stop to see the city skyline on the ridge after you eat lunch. It is quite impressive!”

By the time we get to café, it is mid-afternoon and we are the only customers.  The cook is sitting in a booth picking at some soup; the single waitress is sitting next to her, eating from a sack lunch.   Shortly after we are seated, a big pony-tailed fellow of at least 300 pounds rides up on a motorcycle.   He announces himself as he comes through the door and is greeted by name by both the waitress and the cook.  He seats himself at a small table across the room and proceeds to flirt with the waitress.  This is an established routine with them.   He calls her sugar and offers to help with her young daughter.  She cheerfully dismisses everything he says even as he keeps trying.   It looks like he will keep trying until he finally gets a yes…to home repairs, babysitting, car repairs….something that will establish a deeper relationship with her.

The lunch is notable for two reasons, both of them ridiculous.  On the petty side, this lunch was the final straw for me.  While Wes had the good sense to order the tuna plate and get some decent handmade salads, pickles, and tuna, I ordered the special, a chicken cordon blue sandwich.  I received a hunk of slimy corporate chicken and a cold piece of canned ham, covered with bottled blue cheese dressing on a squishy white bread bun…accompanied with pre-fab potato-food fries.  Revolting…and the end of chicken sandwiches and fried food for me…I hope forever.

The second reason had to do with the government shutdown.  It was October 1, and the shutdown was the lead story on radio and newspaper.  A slender, middle-aged man wearing a delivery service uniform enters the diner, and as soon as he is seated, asks the whole room. “Didya see about the government shutdown?”   The waitress, who was getting him a glass a water, “Yeah, I saw, but I don’t understand what it it.

Did Obama shut down the government?” Delivery guy, “Naah, It’s not him….well, it’s not just him…it’s the whole bunch of ‘em.  Democrats and Republicans both just trying to feather their own nests.”  Waitress: “I don’t even understand what they are talking about.”  Flirting guy.  “I say to hell with all of ‘em.  Any time someone starts talking politics, even on the TV, I just walk out the room.”  Delivery guy, “Ain’t that the truth.  They’re all a bunch of corrupt liars….and you know who I blame it all on?  Richard Nixon!  He’s the one who ruined it for everyone.”

Wes and I don’t add our two cents, but on the way out, while paying our bill, I say to the waitress. “The Congress is supposed to have a budget by today, but the Tea Party Republicans won’t agree to a budget unless Obamacare is de-funded.”  She looks at me blankly, “Oh.”  I might as well have been speaking Navajo.

On the way out of the diner, we ride up the overpass to see the view touted by the ambassador.  To one side, we see a derelict truck repair yard; right below us, a string of eight or so sets of railroad tracks.  Off in the distance, we can just make out a tiny view of the Rochester skyline. 

We make our way to Pittsford, which is clearly a higher rent district.  It is warm and sunny; the leaves are turning.  There are a number of people sitting on benches.  Many are eating ice cream handmade in a nearby shop.   We get some coffee from the shop and are surprised to see that it is also selling a wide variety of African masks, drums, and handicrafts.  The owner had been a Peace Corps volunteer in the 1980’s.  He returns regularly and brings back various goods.   Outside, we sit next to two ladies who are trying to remember the Erie Canal song. One sings… “Low bridge, everyone down/ Low bridge ‘cause you’re coming to a town/You always know… your friend when you make you way on the Erie….that’s not right.”  The other sings, “You always know your neighbor, you always know…”  We sing, “your pal.” We all sing, “when you’re ever navigating on the Erie Canal.”  We all laugh and tell how we learned that song.  One says, “I remember the verse was something about 15 years on the Erie Canal.  Shouldn’t it be 15 MILES on the Erie Canal?”  We don’t know, but later, I do a google search and find out the song originally was written about a “Mule by the name of Sal” who was pulling barges “15 years on the Erie Canal.”

We are trying to make miles so we pedal off from the warm sun and the singing ladies.  Fairport is just 10 miles away and supposed to have a variety of accommodations.  Not too far out of town, we see three sculls go by.  One is a two person boat, but the other two are eight person crews…of middle-school and high school girls.  They slide down the canal at an impressive speed.  Shortly, thereafter we see a group of kayakers, a bunch of teenage boys out fishing, numerous hikers and joggers.   Not long after that, two more sculls glide by, powered by teenage boys, their coaches following in small motor boat, shouting instructions through a megaphone.

I try all the accommodations in town.  No luck.  All full.  I look further afield and end up talking to an innkeeper, who has no room, but gives me a number for private bed and breakfast.  She says, “They are really nice people, but I can’t vouch for their accommodations.”  I call and leave a message.  We wander around town, leave another message.  It is starting to get dark.  We wish we had our camping gear.  I remember that the house was very near the canal. Maybe we can find it.  It takes us a while, but we do find it.  We are really getting worried now.  There is a handwritten note on the door saying they are away and which gives a different number.  We call it and thank goodness, someone answers, and asks us, “Are you riding bikes pulling trailers?”  They had seen us wandering about the town.   Kathy and Phil do have a room and we are grateful, even though Wes has an attack of claustrophobia because the room is so full of trinkets and tchotchkes, he is afraid to move.

This very long day ended on a high note, however.  Our hosts recommend a place to eat on the canal.  In the warm October night, we eat on the balcony, looking at the winking lights on the docked pleasure boats below.  We watch a young couple come in to eat dinner with the female’s parents.  We guess it is their first meeting.  The young man is wearing a badly tied tie with a short sleeve shirt.  He is sits rigidly in front of the father, who has his arms crossed and is learning back.  At first, the daughter is chattering away, but only the mom responds.  By the end of the dinner, however, conversation is flowing, and the daughter reaches over and gently, lovingly, touches the young man's shoulder, who visibly relaxes. 

We have a great meal, with truly delicious pumpkin soup.  As we are getting ready to leave, we hear the pipping bark of the coxswain.  In the pitch dark, moving much more slowly down the canal, come the two sculls of young men. 

The next day, we will leave the towpath of the Erie Canal to explore New York’s Lake Ontario shores. 100 miles of straight flat bicycling is enough, but we have learned a lot and loved a lot on this peculiar path.

 

Posted from Centennial, Wyoming

 

T+76: Dash Across North Dakota, Part 2

Mile 2427: MILACA, MN

The story continues….

The only place in the town of Hazelton to get any prepared food is at the Cenex gas station, so we make our way back there, order some food and are completely ignored by the men’s coffee klatch.  The same can’t be said for another long distance bicyclist who straggles in from the heat.  We smile as he goes through the drill with them: “Where you coming from?  Where are you going?  When did you start?  How many miles a day do you make?”  After their questions, we invite him to sit at our table. 

Jeff at the Honey Hub in Gackle, ND
 

This is Jeff Banascek, riding alone across the country.  He began at Anacortes, WA and is following the Northern Tier route, but will end his trip in Washington, DC.  He has never taken a long distance trip before and we are surprised that he has chosen such a big trip for his first effort.  He is on and off the phone, in conversation with his wife, who is serving as Mission Central, making reservations for him, providing guidance on the route, and tracking his every move with a special app that allows her to see where he is.  He was a longtime employee for US Cellular, who just shed hundreds of employees, including engineers like him.  So even though he has only been married a few years and has a young son of just 17 months, they have decided that his break in employment is the time for him to fulfill his lifelong dream.

We compare notes on the trip, commiserate about the monster passes in Washington, moan about the brutal heat and lack of trees, and generally enjoy each other’s company.   The only “accommodation” in Hazelton is camping the city park.   Jeff, feeling as overheated as we did when we first arrived, decides to stay there.  We decide to push on another 26 miles to Napoleon…the next place there is a motel.  However, we promise to reconnect in Gackle, where there a remarkable man named Justin has created a bicyclist’s respite.

Outside of Hazelton, we begin seeing a series of potholes, ponds, and lakes full of the most amazing variety of birds:  many different kinds of ducks, geese, terns, great blue herons, egrets, even pelicans.  There are two big lakes just outside of Napoleon.  We arrive at dusk, and the amount of life in the air as we pass between the lakes and their surrounding marshes is amazing.  There are dragonflies zipping about, frogs plopping in and out, fish rising in numerous concentric circles, swallows zooming around.  Terns are circling furiously in some sort of feeding frenzy.   It is really exciting for two weary travelers who have ridden 74 miles to that point.

The next day we rendezvous with Jeff at Gackle.  Jeff reports that he spent a miserable night at Hazelton, with a very local big rain and wind that kept him up most of the night.  We are all staying at Jason Miller’s Honey Hub: A Bicyclist’s Respite.  Even though Jason and his wife Ginny have left to return to California, they keep their basement and garage open for passing bicyclists.  It’s good thing, too, as there are no motels in town.  With the temperatures way up in the 90’s, a cool basement respite is just that.  We wash clothes and visit.  Jeff is awkward about sleeping in the same dorm bedroom as Wes and I, so sleeps on the couch. It doesn’t look too comfortable. 

We find out more about his life.  He is married to a Sesali, which is a variation of the name Sisalu, which the Indonesian government forced this ethnic Chinese family named Li (or Lee) to adopt.  They were Christians in that very Muslim country and after threats and violence, were able to seek asylum in the US.  The ended up moving to Iowa, where Sesali graduated from college and eventually met her husband through Match.com.  These two are pretty connected technologically.  Not only are they on the phone quite often, they are jointly plotting each move with various computer applications.

Jeff is following the Adventure Cycling maps less and less.  He tells of us a 100 mile bike trail in Minnesota that he is taking and that is included on his map, but not on ours.   I was more than a little bemused to find out that we had be sent 3 year old, out of date maps.  Jeff was going to bee-line to Fergus Falls, where he would have a rendezvous with wife and child.  He couldn’t see the point of going north only to go south.  In the meantime, we all still had to make it out of North Dakota. 

We were up and gone before Jeff was awake, but lost valuable cool time by stopping for breakfast at the slowest café we have seen.  One grizzled man was the entire staff.  The café was full of people: a very large men’s coffee klatch---and a table of women!  While we wait and wait to order, then to eat, we visit with the locals, who ask about the trip and are surprised to learn that a national bike path now goes through their town.  One says, “I wondered why we kept seeing so many people on bikes these days.  Useta be a right rare thing.”

About 30 miles outside of town, we stop in the shade of a rare tree to drink some water and eat an apple.  A youngish woman with blonde hair comes over to investigate.  She tells us that they are preparing her parents’ dairy farm for auction after 40 years of operation.  A corporation has purchased the land and will turn it into crop production.  She seemed quite emotional about the whole process and would have continued talking, we guess, but took her leave when none other than Jeff rides up.  He has caught up to us, despite leaving hours later, once again proving that we are the slowest bicyclists on the route.  He tells us that his wife has booked a room in the next town, and that if we want one, we better hurry because it there was only one room left.  I go to make the call….but, of course, no service.  We have to trust to our luck.

We get to the little town of Enderlin after a run of 77 miles and then have no luck.  No room at the Inn.  There is an old hotel we could try.  I call.  The owner is gone for his birthday; there are no rooms available.  When we see it later, we are relieved.  It is a wreck, with broken windows and torn curtains.   Camping is preferable.  Jeff offers us floor space in his room, but we know he has not had good rest for two nights and he has seldom gotten a room, so we demur.  We make a camp in the city park, next to the inevitable train tracks.  Jeff stops by our camp after dinner. We visit a bit, say our good byes and wonder if we will ever cross paths again.  Probably not. We put our tent on the gazebo, and it is a good thing we did because there was a big windstorm that knocked down branches and blew over garbage cans in the night. 

The next day we are faced with a choice.  It is the beginning of the Labor Day weekend.  Do we go to Fargo/Moorhead?  Or should we leave the route, and take the longer freeway ride to Wahpeton, ND, like Jeff is doing.  Wahpeton is south and much closer to the bike trail in Fergus Falls, MN.  We choose Fargo because we have some bike maintenance to do.  We ride down in the nearly flat valley of the Red River.  The air is heavy and it feels like we are riding in a lake bed, because we are.  Many of the businesses in the little towns are already closed for the holiday.  It is hard to find a place to buy food. 

We make it to Fargo, and get the new bike shorts I need.  My bike shorts are now much too big.  They are like wearing a big wet diaper and are rubbing me raw.  Wes has also finally consented to bike clips.  I told him one million times they would make it easier for him.  I think Jeff’s gentle mockery of riding without clips turned the tide. 

They also give instructions how to get to our motel in Moorhead, via linear bike path on the Red River.  When we get to the Roger Maris memorial park and begin taking the bike trail, we are both super excited.  We see a grey squirrel for the first time on this trip; we ride under oak trees and crunch their many acorns, the first hardwoods since we left!  We pass groups of young men who look Ethiopian and see women in hijab.  It feels like home! 

We miss our turn and end up going much too far on the trail, then getting lost as we try to find our way back.  By the time we get to the not-so Grand Inn, we have covered 66 miles that day.  The line of customers in the motel are all people of color, and the young Bengali behind the desk is none too efficient.  However, the room is great and cheap, and we so excited to have made it to Minnesota.  We have covered 215 miles in the past three days. We are tired and will need a day to rest.  But we have made it across the plains before September 1.

We had been so afraid of that passage across the Great Plains.  Even though we still have lots of farm land to go, we are now half-way across the nation.  We are proud of ourselves and relieved that we are done facing those miles and miles with no trees, no shade, and no water.  We try to remind ourselves that Minnesota is north of Iowa, but still, for the first time on this trip, we feel certain we can make it all the way.