The Camino Bubble

About: Navarrete -Najera-Santo Domingo de la Calzada-Castildelgado-Villafranca de Montes Oca, Atapuerca, miles 144-200

From: Villafranca de la Bierza, mile 407

A note about process: Keeping the blog on the hike has proved a much bigger challenge than it was on the bike. We hike from 9am to 3pm most days. After securing our place, washing our selves and our one set of hiking clothes, and getting our dinner, there's little time (and often energy) to make notes about the day. Those notes are hand written into stories, which are then tediously entered into a document on my phone, which then has to be edited, then transferred to the blogsite.  That seems like it should be straightforward, but it's not.  There's another edit, and pictures to edit and add…then the whole process of posting on Facebook, Twitter, Google#, and emailing it…all on a tiny phone by screen with often sketchy WiFi.  Yikes.

I will keep posting, even as we are now within 120 miles of Santiago. I assume I will be writing about the hike even as we make our way back to Germany, then onto England. Let's hope I have all this writing done before we return  home mid November….
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After our surreal visit to Logroño, there are days and days where we are completely encapsulated by the Camino bubble.  We are traveling in the hilly reaches of Rioja, day after day and mile and mile  passing through vineyards in one of the world’s wine producing regions. The vines are so heavy withfruit, the farmers pull off the excess, and

throw the grapes into the alleys between the rows. This, of course, attracts bees, flies, and birds. There is always a low hum around us.

The little towns  are defined by big grape warehouses, and little café/bars serving the Camino. The people in each sector don't interact. In Navarrate, we briefly step out of the bubble to be one of a few guests at in the enormous 19th century hotel, but mostly caters special events and weddings. It is just far enough out of town that most pilgrims don’t stop and too close to Logroño to draw the car crowd. The desk clerk laments, “ The tourists just drive on instead of stopping like they used to.” The bar and restaurant are closed , so we make our way to cafre recommended by Mei-Jing for it’s amazing tapas.

It is staffed by a vibrant young woman from the south of Nigeria, who Wes offends when he compliments on her English. She says. “You know, don’t you that Nigeria is an English speaking country?” On the way out to the table in the courtyard. I have an attack of clumsiness, drop the tray and splatter food and drinks everywhere.  One of the cooks taking a smoke break, rushes over to the mess, saying “No te preocupes!” (Don't worry!) over and over, patting me on the shoulder, refusing my attempts to help clean the mess, and rapidly moving to replace the food and drink...at no additional cost.

Across the courtyard, we spot a well-known Camino fixture, a large, blonde, bearded, burly self-styled holy man.  He has a little shrine outside Logroño and is in animated conversation with a woman in a long skirt and head wrap. The cook and the Nigerian counter clerk both know him and occasionally bring him bits of food or drink.

We spend the next day walking through vineyards, before going to Najera, where we spend the night in a lovely, but overpriced hotel, eat dinner on a courtyard by the river, where the Italian waiter has a bit of a racket going with his almost exclusively English-speaking clientele.  He sells food and wine from an unpriced menu for what he thinks the market will bear. We paid 2€ more for the same wine that young German couple, but 2€ less than the older British men at the next table.  I’m tempted to complain, but don’t want the scene or the hassle.  I am sure the waiter depends on that unwillingness.

The tourists pretty much stay on the north side of the river.  Occasionally locals and their children venture by the café on their evening walk, but they don't stop.  After dinner, we wander the streets, attracted by the doors and caves in the prominent sandstone cliffs.  These cliffs have housed saints and the penurious, this year's harvest, and today's outlandish party.  Just three caves down from the hermitage of a medieval nun, we pass one in which a young woman in impossibly tight jeans and high heels joins a throng of people dancing to pulsing lights and beat-heavy music.

The next day is beautiful and painful.  My wonderful, but 10 year old Salomon hiking boots are giving up the ghost. I ruin shoes at a phenomenal rate because I walk on the outside of my feet. Rare-oh-rare is the shoe that makes it a year under that kind of pressure.  But there comes a point when the mechanics of the shoes are destroyed, and they begin to painfully stress my hips and knees. 

I have felt the problem growing for several days.  I don't know what to do. The bed and fit of these boots is flawless and so rare for square feet like mine.  Can I get them repaired? Can I find something that will fit?  Do I want to break in new boots on a long distance hike? Ugh.  As we walk through valleys and canyons, up steep hills and down sharp drops,  each step makes my feet, knees, and hips ache.

We arrive in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, named after the “engineer of the Camino,” (whose statue bears an uncanny resemblance to Wes’ brother Jay). He was largely responsible for improving conditions on the medieval Camino.

We end up staying at the Hospideria de la Camino, which was originally established in the 15th century.  The sprawling complex in which we are staying was built in the 19th century and must have housed hundreds of nuns and pilgrims. That night, at dinner, we are served by 3 sweet faced African nuns in modern habits, who both prepare and serve the food.  The dining room is mostly empty, save a big group of Austrians, a few frail retirees, one French speaking couple, and us.  Despite the attention and kindness of the nuns, there is an air of mournfulness.

We had spotted a zapateria just outside the complex grounds. I ask for my boots to be repaired.  The shoe repair man speaks no English, but with gestures, drawing, and a few words, I think we have an agreement.  He tells me to come back the next day around noon.  That's well after our regular our regular departure time, but if it means walking without pain, fine.  

The next morning, after picking up my partially re-heeled boots, and getting new insoles, we run into the same Google staffer on holiday we had seen a few days ago.  His name is Kevin; he is ethnically Korean, lives in Los Angeles and speaks fluent Spanish. He has been using this skill to help the many clueless Americans, Brits, and Aussies on the trail. 

We had first met him in a small café off the main trail, where he, a fit red-haired German named Tomas, and we had a conversation about the glories of green Spanish olives. As we each told the story about why we are taking this walk, Tomas told about having to leave the company he founded after it was sold to ADP. The new owners told them they were moving operations to Poland to save money. He couldn't  stand by while more than 1/3 of the employees he had worked with and developed were let go.  So now he is walking the Camino. Kevin, on the other hand, told his bosses he was taking six weeks to walk the Camino.  He could come back to work or not. They said fine.

These curious syncretic encounters are part of the Camino bubble. We never know, when we have these intense personal conversations, whether or not wewill see these people again.  Because we are all following the same trail, but moving at different speeds and taking different stops, reconnecting with people days or hours apart is not uncommon, yet always surprising and delightful.

After a quick stop at the cathedral, which houses a live rooster and hen in the walls in tribute to a medieval miracle, (don’t ask) we are on our way through a landscape more given to corn and wheat than grape vines. We have a restless night at a truck stop that advertises itself as an artisanal chocolate maker.  Its town is mostly falling in on itself and the artisanal chocolate is actually chocolate covered doughnuts, but it will do.

The next morning, a few kilometers away,  we find an exquisite and expensive restaurant/hostel such as we had imagined our previous lodging to be, where they make and sell meats and cheeses for 21€ a pound.  While we are enjoying our coffee, a German couple next to us argues about where they should spend the next night. 

All of a sudden, an older American woman comes in, spots the Germans as someone she knows from the Camino, then rushes over to them and begins sobbing.  She has just received news that a dear friend had died back in the US.  The slender, red-haired German woman, so recently fussing with her husband, immediately begins comforting the distraught American.  Just as we get ready to leave, the American gets an email.  Her daughter just had a baby.   More tears.  A little while later, the two women pass us, still deep in conversation and counsel.

My repaired boots are not working.  I try new insoles, old insoles, both insoles, changes of socks to Wes’ increasing irritation and impatience.  Nothing is working. 

We are beginning our trek into the Montes de Oca, a band of small sandstone mountains cut by rushing streams and littered with hermitages carved into the cliffs.  We are looking forward to a stay in the San Anton Abad Hotel, a renovated 12th century pilgrim hospital.  When we get there, footsore and beat, we discover that we actually don't have a room and they are sold out.  When I show the host our confirmation, she thrusts my phone back at me with an emphatic, “Diez no nueve,”

Another booking error! This time I booked for October instead September.  Most peregrinos just walk until they are done walking, then find a place.  That's beginning to look like a better idea. 

Thankfully, the host connects us to a nearby pension.  We arrive just at the same moment two biking peregrinos arrive.  Later, at dinner, we find out they are Pieter (the father) and Peter (the son). Dad is big and burly, with a shock of still blonde hair falling across his broad forehead. Son is also tall, but narrow in face and body, and nearly bald though he is in his thirties.  They have ridden modified mountain bikes from the northern Netherlands. Dad has been diagnosed with cancer, and they are doing this big grand trip together while they still can. 

The next morning, we make our way over the top of the Montes, where the first battle of the Spanish Civil War was fought. At the peak, the dozens of hikers who passed us on the way up are taking a break. I stop to decipher the monument and realize it is the first and only positive view of the Republicans we have seen on this trip. 

At our lunch stop, we are shocked to encounter Lauren and Isabella, with whom we walked to the hilltop town of Chiraugui (of late night cover band fame).  Lauren is a tri-athlete from Crested Butte, Colorado, her mother, a game sixty something from Chicago.  Isabella had some leg problems that stopped them for a few days.  Although she didn't say it, the implication was that pace set by Lauren was just too much.

We are excited to get to our next stop.  Not only does it mean we are very close to the halfway point of Burgos, but we are anxious to know more about the archeological discoveries in Atapuerca. We hope to stay a day to visit the sites where they have found human fossils dating back 1 million years, and evidence of constant human inhabitation since that time.  This 1979 discovery and excavations have  completely re-written the early history of Europe.

We were lucky enough to walk up and get a hotel in Atapuerca, where the preponderance of guests were American or Canadian. Unfortunately, one big group of Americans is the kind that makes me cringe.  Not only were they extraordinarily loud, without a good thing to say about anyone or anything, I can hear their derisive laughter in our room, four doors down.  They mock the service, décor, and food in English, assuming they are not being understood--even though they ordered everything in English and expected to be served in English. The 17 century doors are tricky, and at one point, I heard an abrasive American voice demanding her money back because the doors were hard to open. Wes tried to engage them a conversation about the amazing archaeological area. No interest.

Later,  I heard them calling the backpack transport service demanding service that morning they were supposed reserve the previous night. When the phone disconnects, one woman said to the other,  “See, I told you they hate Americans who speak English!”

Well, we can't tell why they are on the Camino, but I do know one thing. Life in the Camino bubble is unlike any experience we have ever had.  All the concentrated  blessings and curses of being human are making their way with us, inch by inch, step by step, paso a paso.

T+89: The Good, the Bad, and the Odd in Minnesota

Mile 3010: Midland, MI

After leaving Sauk Centre, we continued on the Lakes to Marshes path until it intersected with the Lake Wobegon Path, which has two arms.  The first continues south until just outside Minneapolis/St. Paul.  The second turned north and went through farmland and crossed the upper reaches of the Mississippi.  We took the northern route.

All throughout North Dakota, we had become expert at spotting the water towers (or water balls, as I like to call them) of towns towards which we headed.   Seeing that water ball provided a boost of energy in the last three or four miles of biking before a break.  (air conditioning! cool drinks!)  In this part of Minnesota, we see church spires first.  The further south we go, the larger and more epic the Catholic churches become.  In many parts of our trip so far, Catholic churches were absent or tiny.   

Covered bridge on Lake Wobegon Trail

At Albany, we turn north and follow the Lake Wobegon trail through cute little villages surrounded by corn fields or marshes.  We start to notice that the marshes are dry and the corn looks parched.  It is hot, but the wind is at our back because we are going north, so we tool right along.  We are heading to the town of Little Falls, where we cross the Mississippi and then turn east again to cross the state.  About ten miles from Little Falls, we enter the hamlet of Bowlus.  It has a very sweet town park; Wes wants to stop in the shade and drink some water.  We start to pull into the picnic area when we look across the street and see Jordie’s Trailside Café: Coffee and Homemade Desserts

Everyone who knows Wes will recognize the he has spent nearly every day of his life for the past five years at Jordi’s Café con Leche in Detroit.  There is no way we are not going in this cute brick café.  Inside, we drink glass after glass ice tea with lime and visit with Sonya, the daughter of the owner, Jordie.  Sonya hauls out notebook after notebook of notes and records of long-distance bicyclists who have stopped by on this route.  They have a particular fondness for this type of traveler and have maintained relationships with several for many years.   Sonya, laughing, tells me I have to go see the men’s bathroom.  It is a completely over the top shrine to the Twins baseball team.  All the wall space is covered with player photos, pennants, schedules, and posters.  There must be at least a dozen stuffed animals in Twins uniforms.  

The whole place is very frilly, funky, and comfortable, with real tablecloths, real but unmatched dishes, and a stream of folks in and out to say hi.  Sonya asks where we are staying.  Before we can answer, she says, “Why don’t you stay here?  Lots of cyclists camp in the garden around back.  We’re having a pasta and pizza buffet tonight.  It’ll be fun.”   Wes and I look at each other.   We are pretty far from our mileage goal, but this place is pretty special and a night without a hotel cost would be good, soooo….

They show us to the garden.  It is magical.  They have created a water fall, with pools full of koi, surrounded by rocks and teaming with all sorts of flowers.  There are numerous little angels and cheerful signs.  Why the effect is not cloying, I can’t comprehend.  Instead, it is pretty, and peaceful, and welcoming.  I set up shop on a covered, rocking picnic table.  Wes grabs a newspaper, finds a nook, and settles into to one of his favorite pastimes. 

Two older bicyclists stop by to see if Jordie’s can cater their next big ride.  They are fascinated by our trip and equipment and we are fascinated by them and their bikes.  They are both well into their 70’s, seemingly a pair, although they strongly emphasize that they do not live in the same town.  They belong to a bike club whose youngest member is 55 and whose patriarch is 85.  “On the Tuesday rides, he’ll stay with the pack and make sure everyone is doing all right, but on the Friday rides, forget it!  Nobody can keep up with him.”   They are both small, slight people.  The woman is about my size.  They are riding Giant road bikes.  She offers to let me give her bike a try.  I step on her tiny clip pedals, press a few strokes, and cannot believe how far I have gone.  The pick-up and pull on this bike is astonishing.  It would be easy to maintain a pace of 15-20 miles an hour on this thing.   I am jealous.  Of course, there is no way this light and powerful bike could pull or carry a load.   But we surely could make better time if our average running speed was greater than 10 miles an hour.

All the food at Jordie’s is handmade, mostly by Sonya.  This includes the pizza dough and some of the pastas.  None of the food is very fancy or elaborate, but it is delicious and thoughtfully presented.  We choose to eat in a little alcove of the main dining room, where we can watch the steady stream of locals come in, get hugs, eat pizza and pasta, and gossip.  This is obviously a community center.  While in the alcove, we see a little shrine and read a framed and mounted newspaper article with the headline, “Jordie’s Trailside Café opens in a muted affair.”  The article tells that the brick building, now so cute and ruffly, had been a longtime railside bar, owned by Jordie and her fiancé Mike.  Drinking apparently got the best of Mike and he died from his alcoholism.  Jordie decided she would never serve anyone another drink of alcohol, closed the bar, and with the help of her daughter created the café which would be dedicated to hope and wholesomeness.  Now it is a haven of poetry, music, gardening, and homegrown food, with a constant throng of diners, visitors, and gardeners.

We have a nice sleep on the grass to the sound of the little waterfall.  We have a hard time dragging ourselves away the next morning, staying for breakfast and watching a several groups of construction workers come into this frilly place for their sausage, eggs and homemade bread.   We push off on the bike trail, headed up to the Mississippi River.   While riding, we visit with two middle-aged women on slow, heavy bikes, who like so many women when they hear of our long ride, exclaim, “Doesn’t your butt get sore?”  I tell them yes, it does and give them advice on managing the pain.   I think they are shocked at my strategies and realizing that discomfort is part of the package.

At the bridge, Wes stops to get his video camera to film this most momentous of river crossings.  He is effusively disgusted to find out that his GoPro camera has no charge even though it has not been used since the last charge.  This is a real irritant with this device.  I can see that these good farm women from Minnesota are very uncomfortable with this display of emotion.  They hurriedly make their goodbyes and rush off as fast as their slow, comfy bikes can take them.

Once again, the dear little Veer phone saves the day and we are able to film the river crossing.  On the other side of the river, we realize we have made a big mistake.  This trail ends on US Highway 10, a super busy divided highway, full of trucks and cars going full speed.  We have gone about six miles too far to the north and now have to travel on the shoulder, facing a stiff headwind, to get back on the right track.  It is really awful cycling.

We spot a road to the east and decide to bail.  We wander through back lanes and finally make our way back to where we should have been, having wasted 12 miles and a bunch of energy fighting the wind. 

Back on track, we head east, climbing and falling through a series of back roads where the crops are becoming increasing burnt.  There are whole fields of dead and dry soybeans; corn stalks with little, bent heads chatter in the hot, dry wind pouring in from the southeast.  We are in the farm lands of central Minnesota and seeing firsthand the effects of the severe drought in this region.  It is the first topic of conversation in every shop or bar.   There was too much rain in May and June; planting was delayed.  There has been no rain since late June.   Most farmers have no capacity to irrigate. All they can do is watch their crops thirst to death.

There are very few cafes in this part of the state.  Here and in Wisconsin, food is available in almosy exclusively in taverns.   We stop for lunch in a non-descript bar in Ramey, MN.  The customers are a group of farmers.  I hear one lament, “Last year, I was getting 360 bushels of corn to the acre.  This year, I will be lucky to get 60.” 

There is one young woman working.  She is the bartender, store clerk, and cook.  We ask about the special and she tells us it is chicken wild rice soup with a grilled cheese sandwich.  Sounds good.  Twenty minutes later she returns and we know for sure we are not at Jordie’s.   The soup is a gloppy combination of barely heated cream of chicken soup, Cheez whiz, and cold wild rice.  The sandwich is probably Kraft singles on margarine soaked Wonder bread.  It is a rare day when Wes can’t eat, but this is one of them.

 We fight our way down to the town of Milaca, where we have another odd experience.

The town has two choices for lodging.  One is a Motel 8 out on the highway.  The other is the Phoenix Hotel in town.  The Phoenix is a mixed used re-development of the former high school.  In addition to small retail, some condos, and a Pizza Hut, the high school is now a convention center and hotel with an almost hidden entrance.  The layout is peculiar, and our room is through a twisty turny hall on the second floor.  The hotel clerk tells us not to leave our bikes outside, they will surely be stolen and that there is plenty of space in our room.  We clonk our bikes and BOBs up the elevator into our odd room which has a giant bathroom foyer upon entering, then two beds with two televisions around the corner.  

We settle in for the evening and I tell Wes I would like a glass of wine while I work on my blogs.  Wine and beer are only sold in state liquor stores in Minnesota.  We are told the store is just six blocks up the street outside the hotel.  We set out walking, and the blocks and sidewalks soon disappear. Then there are no streetlights.  We walk on and on.  No store.  This feels more and more like a goose-chase.  We walk all the way out to the highway.  No liquor store.  We give up and buy ice tea at a Hardee’s and walk back, having never seen the store.  By the time we get back to our twisty-turny room, we’re done.

We hope for better day and a passage into Wisconsin the next day.  However, this is Minnesota and nothing goes quite as planned for us in this state …but that is a story for another post.

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posted from Midland, Michgan

T+70: We’ve Come this Far by Grace, Part 2

Mile 2180: MOORHEAD, MN

Note the bag on my handlebars

The amazing story continues….

Out the next day, we are really looking forward to leaving Montana and entering North Dakota.  We stop at the “Welcome to North Dakota Sign” and take pictures.  Leaving Montana feels like a victory.  It is such a big state, it is fully 1/7^th of our trip.  Passing motorcyclists stop, and offer to take pictures of us in front of the sign.  They tell us they are also going to Maine.  When we compare routes and suggest they go by way of Canada, they tell us they can’t go into Canada because they are carrying guns.  They must have seen the shock on our faces because they quickly add, “We are retired law enforcement, we always carry guns.”

We make it to the little town on Beach, ND, just over the border.  We have been riding on the freeway most of the day and make our way to the grain town about a mile and half away.  It has the inevitable grain elevator and railroad tracks, which we note are pretty rough.  We stop at a Mexican restaurant which is closing at 3pm on a Friday, because they can’t find any help. We will be there last customers of the day.

Wes wants to stay at the homegrown motel.  When we get there, there is a note to call a number for service.  The door to the office is wide open.  We call, and are told the manager won’t return until later that evening.  We should go look in Room 1 and if we like it, make ourselves at home.  Well, it is none too fancy, but has a pleasantly Ma and Pa Kettle vibe, so we decide to settle in.  A few hours later, Wes wants to go get a beer.  As I get ready to go, I cannot find my handlebar bag which has my purse, my phone, my little Veer phone, which I have been using as a camera.  We look high and low.  It is not in the room.

I must have left it at the restaurant.  Let’s go to the bar and see if they can help us locate the restaurant owners.  At the bar, they are very helpful.  We call the Cantina owners, who come open the building.  We look everywhere.  No bag.  Where could it be?   I go and get Wes from the Backyard Brewery.   I am really concerned now and want to completely retrace my steps.

On the way out of the bar, in the dark, we see a cyclist coming into town, pulling a BOB.  We note how late it is and how big a load he is carrying. 

Back at the room, we realize the last time we have memory of the bag is back at the Welcome to North Dakota Sign.  Even though it is pitch black, Wes decides he has to go look.  He enlists the aid of a fellow traveler named John, who takes him in his pickup truck up to the sign.  With flashlights, they look all around the sign to no avail.  At this bad news, I try using the search function on my Windows phone.  No luck.  It is time to face the inevitable.  The purse, credit cards, our current bike map, and worst of all, my phones with all contacts, trip journal, passwords, and photos is gone.   

I call to cancel all the cards and cannot sleep.  Wes is upset with me and can’t understand why I can’t sleep. All throughout the night and into the next morning, I am praying like crazy, especially to St. Anthony, the patron saint of all things lost.  (The child’s version of this I remember from my Catholic school days: “St. Anthony, St Anthony, please look around, my bag and phone must be found.  If God’s will and my good it shall be, then in your gratitude I’ll be bound.”

The next morning is mournful.  We retrace our steps one more time, fruitlessly.  I leave a message with the Sheriff, just in case anyone turns in the bag.  This is a big blow.   We push on, but definitely feel as though the air has gone out of the trip.

This becomes an actuality about 4 miles from Medora.  I cannot believe it, but I have another flat.  We pull off into the desert, fix the flat in the blazing sun, and resume our travels.  A mile down the road, the bike is flat again.  What the hell?  We pump it up.  This time, it won’t even take the air.  This is great.  We are 3 miles from Medora, my bike tire won’t even re-fill, I have lost my phone, photos, and wallet.  Are we having fun yet? 

We decide that Wes should cycle into Medora to get help. I should start walking my bike towards town.  I am gamely walking my wounded bike down the freeway.  There is a big section under construction and it is rough going.  I pick my way across shell of a bridge when I am joined by the heavily laden cyclist we saw the night before.  We talk about our travels, and I tell him of our string of bad luck.  He says, out of the blue, “Are you Shaun?  Are you traveling with Wes?  They found your bicycle bag.  It’s at the Backyard Brewery.  I was there last night when someone brought it in.”

This is great news, which I never would have received had not my bike tire flatted again.  His name is Wade and he is traveling from Portland to Portland.  He is carrying an epic load which weighs 200 pounds including his bike.  He has never heard of Adventure Cycling maps and has been making his way as he might.   After he cycles off, I muddle on toward town.  It is not long before Wes arrives, along with the savior Jennifer Morlock, again, to pick me up from the highway.   I tell them that the bag has been found and is at the Backyard Brewery.  Immediately Jennifer gets on the phone to her husband Loren at home, to see if he will go to the tavern and get my bag.  Even though it is out of his way by 20 miles, he readily agrees.  Back at Dakota Cyclery, Jennifer’s pregnant daughter and son-in-law go about restoring my bike while I go about tracking down the tale Wade has just told me.

There are two messages on Wes’ phone: one from Jackie Lindberg, the other from the Golden Valley Sheriff.  The first says she and her boyfriend found the bag, and to please call her.  The other says that the sheriff’s department now has the bag.  I immediately call both. 

Jackie tells me that her son and boyfriend spotted the bag near the railroad tracks as she was shopping in the grocery store in Beach.  Apparently, the bag bounced off my bike as we jounced over the rough tracks.  I still don’t know how I didn’t notice it.  My Windows phone is password protected, but my little Veer phone, is not.  She finds phone numbers and starts making calls.  One of them is to Wes’ cell phone, which he barely turns on. They look at the bike map and start following the route…all the way over to Medora and back!....looking for cyclists on the road.  They spot a bike at the Backyard Brewery and go in.  This is the bike of Wade, the cyclist we see coming into town, just after we have left the tavern.   They tell Wade if he sees us to let us know the bag has been found.  The next morning, they return to the bar and take the bag to the sheriff’s office.

We call the sheriff, but get an answering machine that says no one will be in the office until Monday.  It is Saturday. If we need immediate assistance, please call 911 or the state police network.  

All this is great news, but we have to pull Loren off from going to Beach and we have to find a way to get in touch with the Sheriff’s office.  While I try to round up the Sheriff, Wes goes back to Dakota Cyclery.  Too late.  Loren has already gone to Beach to no avail.  Drat! 

It is clear that this is going to take some time and that I am not leaving Medora without my bag.  We better get a room.  It is late on Saturday afternoon in a busy tourist town.  Most signs says “No Vacancy”.  We finally try the fanciest place in town, the Rough Riders Inn.  It is beautiful.  Our chances are slight.  While we are waiting, two dark haired women engage us.  “Would you like tickets to the Medora Musical and Pitchfork Fondue?....You can have them for free.  We bought six, but one of our group didn’t show up.”

I say, “We have had a string of bad luck, your kindness is a blessing, thank you so much.”  Their names are Terrie Romine and Ricki Woods, and they immediately take us to heart.  They give us hugs and hand us the tickets.  We are stunned by their generosity, but so befuddled at this point, we should have realized that a) we still didn’t have a place to stay b) a steak fondue is not the best choice for people who don’t eat red meat; and c) with all the losses we are facing, we may not be able to afford to buy second tickets.  But we don’t.  We just take the blessing as it comes, and somehow it turns the tide.

At the desk, Wes asks if there are rooms.  The desk clerk starts to tell us no, but is interrupted by a phone call.  She then announces, “I have just had a cancellation.  Do you want it?”  She names a pretty high price, but at this point, what else is the option?  The room is a little restored house, just around the corner.  When Wes and I open the door, we grab each other’s hands and practically leap for joy.  It is beautiful, full of real Mission furniture, actual paintings, hand-woven rugs.  The bathroom is huge and plush.  It is cool; there are real glass coffee cups and wine glasses.  How long has it been since we had such simple luxuries?

While I find a way to contact the Gold Valley Sheriff, Wes goes over to check on my bike repairs.  I call the State Police, who calls the dispatcher, who calls the sheriff, who calls the deputy, who calls me.  Just as Jackie Lindberg told me, I ask if he could deliver the bag to Medora.  Well, no, it is in a different county, but he guesses he could deliver it to the exit to Medora if we could meet him there.  He will call us when he leaves Beach in a little while.

While waiting for the call and Wes to come back, I read about the town and the park.  While it is true that Theodore Roosevelt had his life changed by his time hunting, traveling, and ranching in the Badlands of North Dakota, it is likely those few years would have been forgotten had not the North Dakota entrepreneur Harold Shafer (of Mr. Bubbles and Snowy Bleach fame) not thrown his effort and money into its restoration and promotion.  I compared it to the awful and inauthentic efforts in Winthrop, WA.

I get the call from the deputy, but Wes has not returned.  I wait and wonder what to do because he has the only key to our lodging and I still don’t have a bike.  It will take the deputy about 25 minutes to get from Beach.  At about 15 minutes out, I have to find Wes, whether or not I am locked out.    I go out the door, only to find Wes wheeling my newly restored bike to me.  I tell him of the deputy’s phone call.  He rushes back to get his bike and takes off, lickety-split.  I cannot keep up with him as he powers away on the bike trail.  Close to the highway exit, the bike trail veers away from the road.  I can no longer see Wes, and decide I better go to the highway to get the purse. 

I go up to the top of the exit the wrong way, (always a dodgy proposition).  There is no sign of Wes anywhere.  There is no sign of the deputy.  I wait, dutifully, for fifteen minutes, to no avail, then make my way back to town and hope I find Wes and can get back in the room.  I still don’t know if the bag has been recovered.   I knock on the door and Wes answers it with MY BAG! In hand.   He had zoomed up the bike path, and got to the bottom of the exit at the exact moment the deputy arrived.  The bag was handed over with the bag with the admonition, “Tell your wife she to keep better track of her things.”

I am over the moon.  I call Jackie to let her know the bag is back safe and sound and to thank her again for her kindness.  The little Veer phone, which I almost didn’t bring is now dubbed the “Dear Little Veer” because it saved the day.  We are in a celebratory mood.  We go and offer thanks for the incredible grace shown to us in this entire incident.  After these prayers in the oldest operating Catholic Church in North Dakota, we chance to have dinner with the lovely Hamburger family (a story for another day), then meet Terrie and Ricki at the amphitheatre on the top of the hill for the Medora Musical.

There is one last piece of grace to end this saga.  The theatre is up a high, steep hill with numerous switchbacks.  We ride our bikes part the way, then lock them to a stubbly little cottonwood before beginning the hard walk to the top.  Cars are groaning as they climb.  As we turn one switchback, a SUV stops.  Out pops Teddy Roosevelt, who offers us a ride to the show.  Actually it is Joe Wiegand, in full Teddy character and costume, on his way to promote his afternoon show to the teeming crowds on top.  When he finds out we are theatre people, he gives us his card and tells us where he would like to be booked in Michigan.

The view is incredible, the crowd is big, and show is silly.  But we are so relieved, so loved, so lucky.  A day before, our trip was nearly ruined.  Tonight, through the most improbable series of encounters and kindnesses, we are well fed, well housed, entertained, and restored.   Such grace, such grace.

T+41: Final Part: A Tale of Towns and Passes

Mile 920: HOPE, IDAHO:  Having had our butts kicked by the two previous passes, Wes and I prepared for the worst heading up the third pass of this trip.  Wauconda.   There was a little town, near the summit, 24 miles along, which we considered might be our terminus for the night.  The summit was another few miles beyond.  Knowing that we had found both the Northern Cross and Loup Loup plenty challenging, we packed extra food and water and prepared for another siege. 

Getting out of town was rough, but it was well before dawn and the views were incredible.  At the tip of one hill, we could see the craggy peaks of the North Cascades.  We pushed/rode through a small desert canyon about five or six miles.  Then we cleared a lip, and all of a sudden, we were on the set of The Big Valley.  In a broad mountain valley, beneath forests of Ponderosa pine, we cycled easily past historic ranches.  There was little traffic amid hay fields, and little groupings of short-horn and Hereford cattle.  Little streams tumbled out of the hills.  Wes sang the theme song to The Big Valley, as we felt a kind of elation at the unexpected beauty and ease.

The riding continued much like this.  There would be short, tough climb through a glade, where we would follow a water course from a lower bench to a higher one.  Each bench became progressively smaller and wilder.  But the country was fertile and littered with old log cabins.  It felt like we had been transported to a different time.

At about mile 22, our pre-dawn coffee and granola had long since worn off, as had our road-side figs, and we were starting to flag.  A group of five bicyclists, obviously long-distance tourers by their loads, came the other direction.  I asked how they were doing, and they answered, “Great!  We just had breakfast!”  Without missing a pedal, I asked, “How long to breakfast?”  With the answer, “less than a mile”, my adrenalin surged to the visions of pancakes or an omelette.

There is a joke among bicycle tourists about the trip being a journey from one meal to the next.  Keeping the bike going, especially carrying a load, burns up enormous calories.  We are probably eating 5000-6000 calories a day and both of us are losing weight.  It is no joke to be out on the road, miles from the next stop, and out of energy, or even worse, out of water.   We have made both mistakes.  We try to carry at least some food at all times.  We have both added water bottles, and probably need to add another.  We will just need to cope with the added weight.

Wauconda cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a town.  It is a restaurant/gas station/store/bar and a sight for sore eyes.  The store owner was really happy to chat with us and had all sort of stories of bicyclists stopping at his self-described “one horse town”.  He said that more than 95 percent of bicyclists going up the pass stop, while about 90 percent of those going down the pass do.  Some stop and wolf down candy bars, while others stop and eat and lurk about (like we did).  There are cyclists making a hundred miles a day, which sounds like torture to us.  There are kids as young as 8 on the ride, lots of what the owner calls “grey-beards”.  What he says there isn’t…and we have noticed this as well…are mature women.   We see lots of men, both young and old, traveling alone or in pairs.  There are a few young couples.   We have seen one young woman biking alone.   We do not seen any women my age traveling by bike.

After breakfast, we fairly cruise over the last phase of the pass.  We take a nice ride down the side, stopping to read the historical markers that pepper this part of the country, which was one of first part of this state to be populated by European-Americans, who came looking for gold, but stayed for trees.  We cycle in and out of what feels like “hollers”—small valleys with a few houses.  There are no trophy houses around here.

We clear a corner, and all of a sudden cross a modern, fancy bridge, which deposits us, unexpectedly in the little mining town of Republic.  Perched on the side of the mountain, with roads that skew up and down steep hills and don’t necessarily connect.  We stop at Eich’s Mercantile, which sells milkshakes, coffee, garden supplies, violins, computer parts, shoes, and more.  It has been in business in this little town for nearly 100 years.  As we wander the streets of this town, we see it is everything that Winthrop is not.  Its 19^th century buildings house real business like title companies, plumbing stores, and mom and pop shops.  There is not a single chain anything in the town except a Bank of America, which we read in the local paper, is pulling out of Republic and selling the branch to a regional chain.  The grocery store, Anderson’s, has been in the same family for six generations.   The town was founded on gold mining in the 1860’s, and except for a four year period in the late 1990’s, there has always been at least one deep shaft gold mine near town.
The way out of town for us is the highest pass of the trip: Sherman Pass.  We are tired, and we like this authentic little town, so we decide to take our first day off of the trip.  We climb the hill to a small motel called the Klondike, and are greeted graciously by our host, a young Sikh named Behel, who was babysitting his niece and nephew and told us he was the proud father of an eight month old boy.   We wonder how Behel and his brother came from Northern India to this isolated mining town in Washington, but we don’t ask and regret it later. 

We wander the town, visit the local brewery and have a long visit with two young Canadians from Vancouver who are riding motorcycles all around the American West.  They are pleased when we tell them how much we Detroiters like living next to a “civilized country.”  They surprise us by telling us how much they appreciate the number of choices available in the US.

Back at our room, we gorge our desire for media by watching two Harry Potter movies.  The next morning we climb up to the Catholic Church perched on a retaining wall high above the main town.    The church is lovely but the average age of congregation is probably 75 years old.  The priest is a remarkably fresh-faced and handsome young man of about 40.  He is brand new to the town and the congregation.  He apologizes for not knowing anyone’s names.  When we say we are from Detroit as we leaving, he whistles and says, “I bet you have some culture shock.”  It sounds like the voice of experience.   At the coffee hour after church, Wes blatantly asks about the age of the congregation.  We find out that their priest of more than 40 years died at the age of 85 just a few months ago, and they have not had any catechism or youth groups for as long as any of them could remember.  The question hanging in the air was whether this congregation could survive.

At and around the Laundromat, we again see the now familiar type of skinny, stringy-haired, burning eyed young person.   Again, the newspaper has stories of methamphetamine arrests and problems.  It is obvious that this scourge is rampant in these northern towns of Washington.  By the end of the day, we have walked up and down the streets of the town, where most of the shops are closed on this Sunday.  We are rested and ready for the next push.  We know the push over Sherman will take all day and a ton of energy.

The next day we are on the road by 6am.  We are traveling without the map, and are pleased to find a bike trail that parallels the logging truck packed highway….until it doesn’t.  Instead of heading east, we find we are going north and have to backtrack a few miles to get back on the right road.  It doesn’t take long before we realize the Sherman’s reputation is well deserved.  Not only is it the highest pass in the state, it is unrelenting.   We ride quite a few miles, but have to push our bikes most of the last 8 miles over the top.

About ¾ way up, while we stop for a break in the shade, a small car pulls up, and out jumps a slight brown-skinned man, who asks if we need any help.  We say we don’t, and end up talking for 30 minutes with this modern Native American, who was on his way to a nearby town to get supplies for his new farm on the Columbia River. He said he had always wanted to be “an old, dumb farmer” and for years, he was only able to get the first two elements right.  He offers to ferry us to the top, which we decline.  Not only would it take at least 4 trips to get bikes, BOBs and us into his little Ford Fiesta type car, we want to do it ourselves.  He shakes his head at our folly.  When we ask how far it is to the top, he answers, “Quite a ways.”

We think we are near the top, but our adviser was right.  This was a tricky pass, with lots of detours to side canyons, and a few false tops.  Near one false summit, we stop for lunch at a Forest Service display site, where two middle aged blonde women soon come eat their lunch as well.    They see us eating out cheese without benefit of bread, and offer, with heavily accented English and some pity, the rest of their freshly baked baguette.  They are two Swiss women on holiday, driving from Minneapolis to Seattle, visiting sites like Yellowstone and Teton National Parks.  They remark on the huge difference in wealth they see in America, how some places are so poor and some places so rich.  They find it shocking, but say, ruefully, that Switzerland is becoming more like this each day, too.

The ride down Sherman was great.  We are getting to be old hands at these 15 mile downhills.  We follow a little stream down, which all of a sudden opens to a chasm of 300 feet.  We peer over the edge and give ourselves a fright.  At the bottom of the ride, we see the Columbia River, which is still mighty big, even though it is many hundreds of miles upstream.  We ride parallel to it and catch glimpses of it through the trees.  There are huge lumber mills up and down its banks.  Right when we think we will zoom down and cross this big river, we have to climb a big hill, where logging truck after logging truck passes us by. 

Wes wants to film our crossing of the river, but mostly succeeds in capturing how scary it can be to ride in close quarters with cars and trucks.  When we clear the bridge, we are super disappointed to realize that the town of Kettle Falls, which used to be on the river at site of the now buried falls, has been moved up the bench, far from the river.  We are hot and tired; we have come 49 miles.  We were looking forward to re-connecting with the river.   A youngish couple in a station wagon stops when they see up peering up at the daunting hill.  They congratulate us for making it over the pass, but shake their heads in sorrow, when we ask if there were any other way to get to Kettle Falls.

So up the hill we go, in heavy traffic, at the end of our ropes.  Near the top, another car pulls over and asks if we need help.  By this time, we are wondering what about us looks so pitiful.  He directs to a camping spot and promises to buy us a beer at a nearby tavern.  We don’t find the tavern, but do find the camping spot:  a community park just off the highway, down the street from the 24 hour Boise Cascade lumber mill, with deep, soft grass.  We make a nice meal and sleep like rocks.