A Jumble

September 20, 2016: Najera, Rioja, Spain

The first few days on the trail are a blur of steep ups and downs, interactions with “peregrinos” (pilgrims) of all ages, types, and ethnicities…  the dislocations of adjusting to Spanish language and culture…and of course, physical exhaustion.

Our first clue we have entered some other reality happens in the little town of Viskarret. After our climb over the Pyrenees, we could only make 6 miles the next day. We ended up staying at a posada (inn) notable for a few things: shutting down the electricity at 10 PM (too bad for people who need to get up in the night), and intense conversations with the British, Canadian, American, and Austrian guests around this high-priced communal dinner table.

Earlier in the day, we discovered that the Brits who commented on my socks are in fact, Scottish and more than a little dotty.  They are here in their motorhome, driving to various locations on the trail to offer advice,  tell stories, hand out yellow and blue yarn flowers, and parade their fat little Jack Russell about.  This is their twelfth or fourteenth trip to the trail.

We also learn that many people walk a short distance, don’t carry their luggage and feel no compunction to get to Santiago de Compostela.      We also witness a rather heated political discussion with the London Sunday Times reporter, his sister from Canada,  and American from California, and the 2 dotty Scottish. 

When the conversation turns to Brexit and the Times reporter makes sure we know he has spoken to all the key players in the recent events. It wasn’t long before the topic was Donald Trump and his bigotry and shortly thereafter, Maggie Thatcher and her bigotry.

The Canadian sister makes a case about Maggie’s support of white supremacy. The dotty Scottish either do not hear or  understand her point,  and make a full throated statement of support of Margaret Thatcher.   To the Californian and Canadian sister’s ears, it sounds like they are in support of white supremacy.

Jim the Californian slams down his unfinished beer, stands up, and pronounces,  “I didn’t come all this way to hear this,” then leaves. The Canadian sister churns in her seat. When the Scots try to explain themselves, they only make it worse by saying,  “I’m not a racist. We have a black deacon in our church.” The wife thinks she is helping when she say, “We have a black friend and he’s a grand fellow.” It’s clear they don’t know the difference between white separatists, white supremacists, and racists.

After a bit more of this, the Canadian sister leaves, disgusted. The journalist then interrogates the poor, dotty Scots who haven’t the intellect, language, or skills not to be skewered time and again by the cynical Londoner. “Do you mean that you thought Maggie’s policies benefited the lower class people? How do you account for the increase in unemployment?” To which they reply, “We liked her, she brought back strength to our country when we needed it.” He asks, “How do you account for the Falklands War?” It was like watching a cat knock about a flustered and increasingly frightened mouse.

Later that night, the journalist entertains the whole table with a long story of his uncomfortable night sleeping in a bunk bed in the massive dormitories of Roncesvalles. He is witty and well spoken… and used to being the center of attention. But he is also plainly unnerved by the Camino experience. He is furious the next morning that the electricity was out. He is angry butter is not served with the bread and the scanty breakfast is so expensive. His sister will not walk that day, overdone by the trip over the summit. He sets out alone, a beginning hiker with almost no Spanish and little tolerance for difference and ambiguity. Wes and I bet he won’t make the full week he has set aside for this walk.

After our short day, we decide we better have a full day. Because we are not feeling so great, we decide to send our bags ahead to our next lodging. We pull out a few things from our packs and place them in small carry sacks.   It is a joy to make the steep ups and downs without the 20 extra pounds on our backs.

We are jaunting along.  I am moving somewhat faster than Wes, and waiting across the highway when a car pulls up.  A young Spaniard /Basque, his girlfriend, and his parents jump out of the car, and pull Wes over to ask him why he is walking the Camino.  Wes relays that he doesn't know, but that something spiritual is calling him.  The group ends up interviewing him on a small camera and by the time he re-joins me, he is crying.  I try to determine why, but all he can muster is that is made him think about the enormity of our undertaking.

The trail is full of pilgrims —on bikes and walking.  They range from 3 young Spaniards who make a sport of throwing rocks at trees to an elderly British woman with painfully swollen legs, hobbling up the steep hills, a small open umbrella attached to her pack and bobbing with each step.  Her companion is murmuring constant encouragement.  

When I pass two young American women, who have stopped to tend sore feet, I hear one say, “OMG, I can’t believe it.  This is only the 2nd day!”  Later, they pass me by, in intense conversation about a Danish fellow they had met in the dorms.

By the time we get to the little town of Zubiri, it is full of pilgrims on this hot fall day.  It is also clear, we have made two significant mistakes.  When putting together the light pack, I have brought neither my Camelback water bladder, nor any way to deal with pain. 

I grow increasingly thirsty after a big climb.   I am happy to join the throng of pilgrims visiting a food truck strategically placed at the top of the hill.  I order a juice and get some fruit, and am trying to recover my equilibrium, when I am enthusiastically greeted by none other than the dotty Scottish.  They mournfully tell me they won’t see me any more because they are now going over to the other big mountains on the trail…to offer their brand of comfort and encouragement, I suppose.

The walk into Zubiri includes a drop of 300 meters in just few kilometers.   I try to “walk slalom” down the hills, but my injured toe is banging against my boot, and every step is a searing throb.  My “medicine chest” is back with the backpacks, so there's no way to arrest or mediate the pain.

When I get to Zubiri, I have to walk to the far side of town to the town’s one “farmacia”— the only place one can buy ordinary drugs like ibuprofen.
When we sit down to lunch after my pain pill detour, we realize we have made another, even worse mistake. 

Our lodging is still more than 8 miles away!  I had had a great deal of trouble finding lodging the previous night.  I finally found one in a town called Uharte, which was far, but seemingly not too far, if we aren’t carrying our packs.

However…

I had misread the map and miscalculated the distance by 5 miles… creating a walk with a total distance of 16 miles.  With my throbbing toe, we would have happily called a stop at Zubiri, but we couldn’t.  Our bags are on their way to Uharte.  We have to get there….somehow.

When most sensible Spaniards and pilgrims are taking their siesta in the hot afternoon sun,  Wes and I are walking down a treeless trail, next to a massive manganese mine, going through his one bottle of water at an alarming rate.  We are about to clear the mine tailings when we hear a voice from behind call out, “Are you from Michigan?” This was startling until I remember that I am walking advertisement for UM School of Social Work.  I am wearing a maize and blue string pack emblazoned with a big block M, a remnant of hosting social work interns at Matrix.

Diane is an American now living in South Carolina, but whose husband is from Gaylord, Michigan.  She is traveling alone, on the 2nd day of her hike.  We are on the 4th day of ours, even though we had all started at St. Jean Pied-de-Port.  She is walking fast and light, but getting tired, and glad for some English conversation.  We walk together for a while, but she soon finds our pace too slow and is soon out of sight.  In the meantime, we cross and are crossed by a small group of young looking Asian woman, traveling with an slightly older Asian man.

At the town of Larrasoaña, it is already starting to
be late afternoon and we still have 4-5 miles to our lodging.  We are beat and will never make it.  Perhaps we can find public transportation or take a cab.

Once in town, there are distressed pilgrims walking up and down the streets.  Most  of the bars and cafes are closed and all of the lodging, albergues, and hostels are full.  Before long, we spot the reason.  The town is hosting its annual fiesta.  Hundreds are seated at long tables under a big white tent. 

Larrasoaña is a quaint medieval town in a cool mountain glen.  Many of its stone cottages are 2nd home for people living in nearby Pamplona.  Cars line the 12 foot streets, and more villagers, relatives, and part timers are arriving by the second.

After wandering the town and realizing there is no option but a taxi, we start trying to figure out how and where to get a cab in this country town. We are hot, tired, and worried. As I sit there, messing with my phone, a small car with 3 young people finds a place to park just in front of us. 

Wes jumps up, runs over to them and says “Taxi?” Then signals making a call.  Without any more  interchange, the driver pulls out his phone, calls a cab, and tells us in broken English a cab will pick us here by the church in about 15 minutes.  We are stunned and grateful.  Our benefactors are gone in a moment.

While we wait for the taxi, we see Diane again, moving with a group of 10-15 pilgrims, none of whom has any place to stay.  We tell her about our choice to take a cab, but she says no.  She clearly thinks we’re cheating.

Well, maybe we are, but we are glad to.  We never could have made it to our hotel, which as it turns out, is a wonderfully put-together and run old-world hotel on the outskirts of Pamplona, right beside the cool lush banks of the Arga River.

In our room, we collapse on the bed, take cool cloths to our faces, take long, cool showers, change into our “evening clothes,” and happily drink the complementary juices.  An hour ago, we were in a mess.  But once again, guardian angels/kind people/Wes’ impetuosity /dumb luck has seen us through. 

With the sunrise tomorrow, we will walk into Pamplona and leave the Pyrenees' part of our journey.  As per usual, the trip is taking us.

You is Here

September 9th, 2017: Burguete, Spain

We made it over the top last night. By the time we crawled into the Hotel Loizu in Burguete, we were beat. We had come 12 miles and we were aching and sore all over our bodies.

Yesterday, we spent a lovely night in a fully a furnished apartment in Valcarlos, Spain.. We made a cheap, but effective dinner, which required a visit  to 3 stores in 2 walks up the hill.

The apartment had a washer and a coffee maker, both of which seemed incredibly luxurious. So we washed our clothes the European way, which takes a full hour for each load, while we make several cups coffee in a tiny espresso maker.  We flavor the coffee with thick, sweetened evaporated milk from a tube.

Afterwards, put our clothes out to dry in the blaring heat. (on thoughtfully provided drying racks) while we drink our delicious coffee in a tiny back courtyard defined by a 20 foot stone cliff and the gray walls of the apartment. A metal spike fence separates each apartment’s courtyard and makes the scene look like a prison yard. However, it was about 20 degrees cooler than the front terrace where we were our clothes were drying, so we didn't mind the austere greyness.

The next morning,

Wes and I are awake before 6, planning to get started before the traffic does, as part of the day will be walking on a curving, climbing, shoulderless road.

We don’t make it out until 7:30 AM, just as the sun... if there were sun... was peeking over the steep canyon walls. Instead, it is misty and a bit foggy.  We are grateful to be wearing lights. Wes is wearing a mini lantern on the back of his backpack and I have rigged up a pin headlight on the front of my shirt.  The barrelling lorries and cars see our lights in the mist and slow down.

Just before we turn to take a forest track, we come across two Americans, from South Carolina, Steve and Alice. They had missed the turn to the side track yesterday and so had mostly walked on the road to this point.  They are about our age and laugh when we commiserate about the 60 year old pace.  But they also do not seem like experienced outdoor people or travelers. Steve has his enormous pack off and is rooting through it to find the guidebook instead of keeping it ready reach in one of the pack’s exterior pockets.

Our goal for the day is clearing the Ipañeta pass, which will bring us to the south side of the Pyrenees. We are glad to leave the highway, which has grown increasingly busy as the day progressed.  It is unnerving to walk on the shoulderless road, where one side is a guardrail over a cliff and the other side abuts a mountain wall.

We enjoy ourselves on the forest track, where ferns and stinging nettle abound. The trees are a mix of beech,  sycamore, and something like an alder. We walk past many ancient farm buildings,  made of stone and roofed with mossy orange tiles.  They perch in little openings on the canyon floor and often climb to 3 or 4 stories. On some, we can see that the older stone has been covered with a white lime plaster.

The designs of these white houses are far more variable than those in the Loire Valley, where square houses and hip roofs dominate. These houses seemed to have begun on the  chalet model, one or two stories with a center front entrance under steep eaves.  But over time, they twist this way or that, add dormers, extensions, floors, and additions following the lay of the land and the whim of the owner.

Our ever climbing path wanders in and out of the farmsteads and compounds. Sometimes we are on a wide path beside a creek. Other times, we make our way up a single track on a narrow and steep path where I must warn Wes about overhanging, face-slapping stinging nettle.

By 11am or so we leave our little stream, and enter the pass region of the hike. We are following a line of high tension power poles, on a rough track that grows increasingly steep and rocky. I am very grateful for stick I found to supplement my single trekking pole. Very often, I need four limbs on this rough and treacherous terrain.

We are panting, heaving wrecks, about to enter the steepest in remote part of this hike. I am waiting for Wes puffing his way up the hill, when two Francais come jaunting by in sneakers, and the lightest of day packs. She is about 45; her pendulous breasts are swing braless under a light T shirt. The young man, probably her son, has a significant pronation on his left foot, so much so, it looks like his ankle nearly reaches the ground with each step of his wet tennis shoe. They trill a cheery “Ca va?” at us, and are soon out of sight.

No one could accuse us of jaunting up the path, but we make steady progress, although our too scanty breakfast is long gone and we are getting low on water.

The last few kilometres to the top are a real grind, made more challenging by the misty rain turning to light,  then not-so-light rain. I insist we cover our packs with their protective rain cover. Wes doesn’t want to make the effort. It takes me a few seconds to cover his, but when Wes fumbles to remove the cover, but when Wes fumbles to remove the cover from its pocket at the bottom of my pack, I holler, “Do have to take this pack off and do it myself?” Thank goodness,  Wes does not return fire and soon this hunger and exhaustion fueled snappishness slips into the mist.

We are glad to make it to the 1055 meter summit, but the view is just a few 100 feet. The ancient stone chapel looms in the mist and nothing tells us to stick around.  A skinny Spaniard in a short poncho appears in the mist, and almost starts walking back down the mountain until we shout him back on course.

Once again, we are glad we did not take the upper route, whose chief virtue is panoramic views and whose is chief vice is a steep 500 meter descent.  As it is, each step of the descent hurts. 

At the sight of the ancient monastery, now pilgrim haven at Roncesvalles, my heart leaps. When I see its square tower and long dormitories,  I start looking forward to some coffee and real food.  The handful of raspberries plucked along the way were helpful but not sufficient.

When we land at the pilgrim office, we are suddenly in a sea of soggy backpack wearing…or shedding... travelers. A big group huddles on a bench in the corridor, eating sandwiches and apples. More than a few have the same hollow-eyed look of exhaustion we do.

There is a big circle of pilgrims lining a tall table in the pilgrims' office.  I move to an open spot where I am informed in curt Spanish by a sweet faced 20 year old woman, “This is a line and I have just cut in place.” It takes me a moment to process what she saying and ask her in French,  “Where is the end of the line?” About 20 pilgrims back. I don't have the mental or language capacity to explain that all I want is the pilgrim stamp, while most people are trying to arrange lodging and breakfast in the vast dormitories.

One hale and hearty Spanish woman is managing the whole affair in bad English, moderate French, and rapid fire Spanish.  One big, young, damp American asks for lodging in careful Spanish and stands blinking and shocked at the torrent she returns in response. He then begs, “mas despacio, por favor” (more slowly, please).

I wait and wait. Wes comes in several times to see what on earth is going on. The line begins to snake out the door.  At last the volunteer calls out, “No dormir?” I wave my pilgrim passport in the air…it  seems I am the only one in this giant line not seeking lodging.

She moves me to the front of the line, stamps my passport in one second. Then we are gone, across the courtyard and straight into a bus load of elderly Spanish tourists huddling under umbrellas in their straight skirts, neat trousers and sensible shoes.

The rain increases along with our need for some food. We find an open restaurant/bar. The bar is jammed, but the dining room is nearly empty. We take seats to discover all they are serving is a 3 course meal with bread, wine, and water...
€18 each. Eeek. Oh, well, better that than a cold sandwich and beer for 10 euros.

The food is delicious. I have lentil soup with sausage and peppers, trout and flan, while Wes revels in his fruit and cheese salad, stuffed pepper, and chocolate gateau. We drink a whole bottle of wine, fuss over our lodging arrangements for the night and meet a threesome sitting next to us speaking flat Midwestern English.

He looks like he walked, but the 2 women are much too pristine to have braved the rainy trails. When we announce we are from, they say they are from London, Ontario. We say we met another group from London, Ontario, staying at the same apartment complex we were. The champagne blonde on the left starts, then stares, then says, “That was us!” 

Neither group recognized each other out of context. We visit a bit. They will stay in the town just beyond where we will, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing them again...

Just outside the restaurant, Wes talks to a couple of Brits in ponchos and their fat little Jack Russell terrier, who is sporting a Camino seashell on his collar. Wes asks if the dog is walking.  He isn’t…too old at 14 years, but they’re all back again after many trips to the trail.

They correct Wes on his pronunciation of "Buen Camino" and teasingly point out that one of my pant legs is up and the other down. The wife says, "Well, it’s just to show that her pink socks match her pink blouse, isn’t it?”

The path to our lodging is flat and lovely, through a thick forest once noted as a haven for witches…(as the Inquisition would have history believe, more likely non compliant Basque women, I sniff to Wes.)

We stop to read the town’s signmap, which proclaims in English. “You is here.” and we surely are. We make our way through this charming Basque town where Hemingway spent so much time, and find our lovely hotel.  It takes seconds to shed our wet clothes and heavy boots. In minutes. I am soaking, then snoring, in the deep cast iron tub.

After muscle rubs, healing ointments, and ibuprofen, we snuggle into comfortable but adjacent twin beds. We are glad to be over the mountain and truly started on our pilgrim journey.

T+137. Lost and Found and Lost

Centennial, Wyoming: We have just witnessed two days of gale force winds.  Yesterday, the snow was blowing so bad we could not see more than 100 yards.  We sat at the windows and heard the house shake.  We watched for and worried about the Angus yearlings on the next ranch, who were huddled up in the willows.  When we went shopping, we made sure we prepared our car for the worst: (shovel, blanket, kitty litter, emergency kit.)  Here, the earth is in charge and we best not forget it.  Getting lost or stuck out here is no laughing matter.  In central New York, we found out a little something about losing and finding.  It wasn’t funny at the time.

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Mile 3757: Rome, New York

We leave Fulton early on a Saturday morning.  It is grey and a bit chilly.  We will follow the north shore of Lake Oneida to Rome.  This was not our original intention.  We are going to Rome because it was the only place we could find lodging.  Everything on Lake Ontario was full because of salmon fishing, and everything in Syracuse was full because of the football game.  We were able to get a room in Rome, partially because the local historic attraction, Fort Stanwix, is closed because of the government shutdown.   Because the Fulton motel had no WiFi, I had to use the internet at the gas station across from our motel.   I play “hotel bingo”, book an expensive hotel in Rome, and lose.

We will have to make a long ride to get there, then use Rome as our launching point into the Adirondacks.  We leave Fulton as the sun was coming up, and enter rolling farm and woodlands, scattered with a series of tiny towns.  There is much poverty and abandonment along the way.  In the hamlet of Central Square, the volunteer firefighters are hosting a chicken barbeque to provide support for a member whose child has cancer.  This must be the tenth chicken dinner benefit we have encountered.

The chicken is not yet ready, so we ask at the local gas station about local cafes, and the skinny woman, whose bright smile was missing a few teeth, first tells us what used to be in the village, before telling us we can find a breakfast down by the freeway in a few miles.  The place is busy with lots of football fans and motorcycle riders.  We sit down to order and a family with adult children sitting next to us immediately begins peppering us with questions.  They are from Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.  They are up to spend a final fall weekend before closing their cottage on Lake Oneida.   They get into a debate with our waitress.   Is cycling across the country brave, stupid, or crazy?  I think they decided that the right answer was all three.   As we go out the door, a young woman just dismounting a motorcycle asks where we are going.  When we tell we are going to Rome, she asks “Today?”  As we cycle off, we hear her say to her compatriots, “I  think I would bike 10 miles…no, make that 5 miles…before I would give up.”

The north shore of Lake Oneida is ringed with cottages and small villages.  There are a number of resort attractions that have long since decayed.  We stop and stare an immense Dutch style barn, at least 200 feet long, with faded lettering announcing dancing, fine food, and drinks.  The tangled web of ivy growing over the building tells us it has been a few decades since this hand-hewn building was a destination.  There are few places to stop, and where there are active business, many have closed for the season.

Thus, Wes and I are relieved when we finally find a place to stop for lunch: a small bar not far from the shore of the lake.  The place is small, dark, and empty.  The female bartender is at first quite perfunctory when we discover that the only food available are cheese puffs and pickled eggs.  We drink a beer on an empty stomach.  Before long, a vivacious couple who knows the bartender quite well enters the bar.  Soon we are in the middle of lively conversation about the economy, jobs, dogs, and what-not.  The man runs out to his truck to get his “darlin’”, a tiny, jittery Chihuahua who runs up and down the counter and jumps into his arms on command.   He says he is “retired,” although it means he has just quit looking for work after his last lay-off.  He says he might work again, if he could find anything.  His wife snorts at the thought.   We order another beer for the two of us, but the bartender gives us each another beer. 

I am wee bit tipsy when we leave, giddily waving to the laughing couple.  We jump on the bike and have a great ride, winding up and down through empty roads and the coloring forest.  We come to a pretty meadow that shows the trees to their advantage.  I suggest we stop and get a picture.  After I get off my bike, I am horrified to see that I have left my pannier, along with my purse, back in the bar.  I know exactly where it is.  We originally sat at table when we entered.  When the chatterboxes came in, we moved to the bar, but my pannier didn’t.

Wes picks up the story:

What to do. . .what to do? I walk across the road, stick out my thumb, and the first car by stops. It was an off-duty county sheriff. I told him our problem, and he said, "We'd better get you there before one of those unemployed people discover it".  He took off like a rocket and we covered the ten miles, in ten minutes. He dropped me off, but couldn't take me back because he was meeting his son to fix his son's broken down car. Luckily, the pannier/purse was still leaning against the wall, but the minute I picked it up, Shaun's phone rings. Everyone in the bar turned and looked.

I smiled and said, "It's for me". 

But I still had to get back to Shaun, so I step out and try to wave someone down. Some kids living in a run-down apartment adjacent to the pub saw me and ran to their mom and told her some wild looking man was trying to stop cars like he'd been in an accident or something. The mom came out and asked if everything was all right.

I explained and told her my wife was on the side of the road waiting. She immediately dropped what she was doing, called her mother to babysit, and said she'd take me. We got into her beat-up old car and took off. She mentioned she hoped she had enough gas. A few minutes later, we pull up to Shaun with the pannier, thanked the lady profusely, and gave her gas money, which we hoped would keep her fueled up for the week.

 Total time since Shaun discovered the missing purse?--25 minutes.

Feeling grateful that my foolishness had not done us in (once again), we are soon back on the bikes.  Truly, God takes care of fools and little children.  It is getting to be late afternoon, and we still have close to 20 miles to go.  As we leave the shores of the lake, we go through a marshy area.  It is horrifying: the road is be-smattered with thousands of frog carcasses.  The gore lasts close to a mile.  We wonder if the cars even see these small guys.  We certainly do, and wonder why there are not viaducts under the road in obvious migration routes like this, especially given frogs’ state of near extinction.

We have travelled 45 miles, 35 miles since breakfast, when we see a store which has been in business since the 19^th century.   The building has been made and re-made, but here at the conjunction of river, lake, canal, and road, it is easy to see why folks have been stopping here for generations.  We grab sandwiches and eat on our bikes.  Time is slipping away.

When we finally make our way to Rome, we are relieved.  We have travelled 60 miles, lost and found my purse, and are ready to get to our hotel and prepare for our push into the Adirondacks tomorrow.  I call the hotel to get directions.   The young desk clerk gives me simple directions, but they don’t make sense where we are.  I tell we have just entered the town on highway 49.  She says, “Good, just take the Griffiss Park exit, you will find us on the right.”   I don’t understand how we can take an exit if we are already in town, and she repeats her instructions again. 

We figure we’ll find it soon enough, so start making our way through the small city of Rome.  This is an old city, built over an old fort, built over a central location for the Six Nations Confederacy of the Iroquois.  At this point in time, there are lot of abandoned warehouses, many rail lines, shuttered factories interspersed between various business and eateries.  It looks alive, but very much in transition.  We ride a long way and see no sign of the hotel.  We stop a mom and daughter combo going into a fancy barbeque place for help.  They both whip out cell-phones, then struggle to tell us how to get there, with the admonition that it is pretty far.  We get some more instructions, which are a bit confusing and keep going.   We have now ridden several more miles since entering the town.

We come to the restored grounds of Fort Stanwix and have to make a decision which way to go: freeway, small street, or main street. The website seems to say “small street”, the ladies said “main street”, the clerk seemed to say “freeway”.  Wes goes into a Laundromat to seek further assistance.  Apparently, he does not hear me say I will wait on the corner before the Laundromat.  I wait and wait, check the website, call the hotel, try to use my phone to figure out what to do.   I walk to the Laundromat.  No Wes.  I look up and down the street.  No Wes.  The sun is going down.  I call his cell phone.  It is off.  Oh, boy, now I am really getting upset.  I don’t know how to get to the hotel; I don’t know where my husband is; I am tired and in a somewhat dodgy location.   I call again.  Still no response.  A while later, starting to get a bit panicked, I call again and to my relief, I am able to leave a “where are you, where are you, where are you?” message.

By time Wes calls me back some minutes later, I am crying. He had come out of Laundromat and not seen me.  Thinking I had gone on, he had hurried up the hill to find me.  After he had gone a long way with no sight of me, he too began to worry, and stopped to turn on the phone. 

 Night and cold are coming on.  We follow the instructions from the girls in the Laundromat, which confirmed the ladies’ instructions.  We ride a couple of miles out the main street, turn on another highway and come to another junction.  I call the hotel again, and tell her we are lost.  When I tell her where we are, she says, “Great, just take the street there and follow it up a ways and you’ll get there.”  I say, not kindly, “There are four streets here, which one do I take?”  She says, “Go straight from the Burger King.”  I am angry now.  “Which way?  East? West? North? South?  Left? Right?”  She says, “I’m don’t know directions.  Just follow the road by the Burger King.”  Wes snatches the phone from my hand because I am about to go ballistic.  He says, “Thanks, anyway, I think we understand.” 

We start following the road and it is clear that we have left the main part of town.  It is quite dark now.  My emotional stability is deteriorating rapidly.  We fumble our way to an unmarked roundabout and can’t tell which way to go.  Wes calls the hotel again and gets the same poor instructions, although it is clear that we are getting closer. 

My tears and panic have returned as we fumble along in the dark, unable to find a big hotel in the ever increasing remoteness of the landscape.  Wes doesn’t know what to do with me.  I don’t know what to do with me.  We finally spot a sign to the Rome Free Academy, which I recognize from the website as adjacent to the hotel.   We make our way there at long last, we are cold, hungry, and upset.  The desk clerk stares at us with big eyes, afraid we are going to yell at her.  Wes has told me to just keep my mouth closed and I know he is right.  I say nothing.  Wes is kind to her, although he tells her that a basic skill for a desk clerk is understanding the layout of the city enough to give directions.  She doesn’t apologize, but she does let us store our bikes in the board room overnight.

The hotel is in a corporate convention center outside of city of Rome.  We have travelled 10 miles from our entry into the city on the northwest side to former air force base, now business park, on the far southeast side.  It wasn’t until we got into our expensive, soul-less room that we understood that.  Our disappointment grows when we discover that there is no restaurant, no bar, no nothing in the facility, nor within walking distance.   They have an expensive cantina, where we get some frozen dinners.   This is not a happy night for the Nethercotts.

 

The next day, we awaken to a pouring rain.  This is not the day to bike into the mountains.  We hang around, watch movies and football.  Late in the afternoon, the rain has relented, and we are a bit stir crazy.  We ask the same desk clerk for a coffee house we can walk to.  She gives us vague instructions to a coffee house in the business park.  We make our way there, walking through a moderately interesting sculpture garden.  Of course, it is closed. 

 Back at our room, we give up and order all sorts of food from a pizza and calzone delivery place.  Our eyes were bigger than our stomach and we have lots of leftovers, which seems like a problem, but proves fortuitous.  While Wes watches football, I mess around with my phone trying to find a route into the Adirondacks.  I discover a program on my Windows phone, which I have never used, that will give me detailed topographic and street maps of my exact location and will identify various businesses.  I shudder to think how many times we have been lost, when all the time I had a solution right on my phone in my purse.  Well, it may be true that God protects fools and little children, but it is also true that fools sometimes have to learn the hard way.

 

T+71: Dash across North Dakota, Part 1

Mile 2180: MOORHEAD, MN

After the difficulties, delays, and delights at the borderlands between Montana and North Dakota, both Wes and I are worried about time slipping by.   We plan to leave our lovely room in Medora around 6 am.  We climb out of the bottom of the badlands and travel about 12 miles to the incredible view at the Painted Desert viewpoint, when we hear a beep.beep.beeping of a car.  We turn to look and it is Terrie and Ricki, our original benefactors, coming to say goodbye and wish us well.  We exchange numbers and emails and hugs.  They drive off and we press on.

The route has us riding Interstate 94, which is both fast and kind of hateful.  The shoulder is very wide, but there is lots of debris. It is amazing what we see along the sides of the road.  More cans and bottles that you can imagine.  All manner of dead animals, especially deer, raccoons, and countless birds.  I have been keeping count of the number of single shoes I see: 38 thus far.  As we pass the fields of corn, soybeans, and wheat, we are also crossing fields of grasshoppers.  Some seem suicidal, jumping into our rolling wheels.  We note that grasshoppers are cannibals and can be seen eating the carcasses of their brethren.  There are clothes, and bags, and innumerable cell phone bits.

At Dickinson, ND, a rapidly growing boomtown with a giant plastic land on its outskirts, we hang out in various fast food joints while we wait for the temperature to drop below 90 degrees.  We agonize whether to stay on the interstate or take the route through the farmland.   At around 5pm, with temperature still over 90 degrees, we come to a crossroads.  Do we stay on the somewhat hateful but fast interstate, or do take the scenic backroads which are more beautiful and interesting, but much more difficult.   As the founders of a theatre dedicated to the creation of new work, which do you think we take?  The unofficial motto of Matrix Theatre Company, as we jokingly say, is  “We do it the hard way.”  You know we took the scenic route, though we were tempted by the fast and ugly route.

We head out, over hill and dale.  It is Sunday, and we did not pick up any food in Dickinson, assuming we can stop in the little town of Taylor when we get there.  By the time we are ten miles out of Taylor, we are out of energy.  We count the miles to the little town. When we get the town itself, everything is closed.  It is still another 15 miles to the next stop, where we plan to stay.  Running on empty is a damn good way to lose weight.   As we approach the little town of Richardton, we see for miles a beautiful double spired granite church building.  It is a Benedictine Abbey, tall and elegant against the evening sky.  It seems out of place in this land of corn and sunflowers.  We find out later, much later, that the Abbey takes guests.  (We are jealous when we hear this.) We get to Richardton on a wing and prayer and pull into the only thing open in town: the local tavern.  The only food is frozen pizza, which tastes damn fine at this point in the game.

When we pull up to our motel, we are happy to note that it is next door to the Hamburger Butcher Shop.  It is not what you think.  The name of the family is Hamburger.  We were lucky enough to have dinner with them in a crowded restaurant back in Medora.  This was three generations of a family who described themselves as German Russians.  The wife’s family name was Gaab and they come from land now considered part of the Ukraine.  Apparently, this part of North Dakota attracted many people from that part of the world.  There are four people in this group, mother, daughter and husband, and their son, Truman Hamburger.  Truman is all of 9 years old, bright and verbal well beyond his years.  He tells us of his entomology classes and his day being a bat boy for the Minnesota Twins.  He is fascinated by our trip and asks more questions than his parents and grandmother would like. 

Right after we make our payment, we open the door and there is Truman. He saw us ride by and came running out to greet us.  He runs back to tell his parents, who stop by and who treat us to coffee the next morning.  As luck would have it, both times the Hamburgers come to visit, I am in the processing of changing clothes.  Wes has to do all the relationship building.  We exchange emails and promise to be Truman’s pen pal. 

After Richardton, we cycle through ups and downs, mostly facing a pretty stiff wind.  We see an outcropping of phragmites near a railroad crossing, the first view of this invasive species we have seen since leaving Michigan.  At the next restaurant, we warn the locals about this bane of a giant reed, but they don’t have the slightest idea what we are talking about.  I still feel I should write the North Dakota Department of Environment.

When we cross the freeway, both Wes and I decide we have had it, and that expeditious and easy has its purposes.  The ride on interstate 94 is tedious and noisy.  However, the long hills are moderated and evened out for truck traffic.  North Dakota is an ocean frozen in time.  The waves rise to the west in north/south undulations.  We pull up a big hill, scoot down the other side, over and over. 

It starts to rain.  Interstate bicycle riding is even less pleasant when being splashed by giant eighteen wheelers.  We are very happy to stop at New Salem, where the most remarkable feature is a 30 foot tall plastic dairy cow on a bluff.  The room is great; we have a nice visit with touring motorcyclists.

The next day is an epic run through deep valleys in sharper and sharper undulations as we enter the Missouri River valley.   The river is massive at this point.   The bike route takes us through a series of parks, golf courses, and wetlands.  We are so happy to be in shade, real shade from real trees, the first in many, many miles. 

 We have ridden 40 miles before breakfast (truly lunch by that point), so we decide to stay, despite the relatively short distance covered. We need to do some re-supplying.  We visit the local mall (a complete shock); I get new shoes.  We get a room at one of Bismarck’s landmark motels, The Ramkota.   This is a big fancy motel, circa 1968.  We enjoyed our stay immensely and wondered if it was being outcompeted by the plastic-land motels and suites that have grown up around it.

The next day is one of the most difficult of the bicycle trip.  It is HOT.   We leave Bismarck early and have fun for the first few hours.  The landscape is challenging and there are few services.  There will not be a place to get anything until the little town of Hazelton, some 45 miles from Bismarck.  When we turn on to highway 89, also known as the Lawrence Welk highway, the sun is blazing, we have drunk most of our water and we still have 12 miles to go. We going south, facing directly into the sun and hot wind. I can barely go and Wes is getting further and further ahead of me.  At one point, he looks back and cannot even see me.  He circles back to see me struggling along the highway, plugging away, but moving slowly.  It is tough going, but what is the choice?  All we can do is plug away. 

We have dreams of a sandwich and cold drink dancing in our heads.  We make it to town completely beat and find out Little’s Joe restaurant is closed.  At the grocery store, we drink several juices and eat ice cream and are thrilled to find out they make smoothies. (They make the best orange crème smoothies in the world.)  All sorts of people come over and check on us.  They ask about our trip, but really, I think they are worried about the two red-faced and sweaty bicyclists in their midst.

I am done in.  I feel dizzy and need to lay down. I go outside to rest on a bench.  A paunchy fellow with shorts pulled up well over his capacious belly comes and sits by me.  He is a retired earth science teacher.  He tells us that North Dakota is quite anomalous, both geographically and hydrologically.  For one thing, much of this state’s water drains, not to the Mississippi, but to Hudson Bay.  When we leave the high perch that is Hazelton, we leave the Missouri River drainage.  We will come across an ever increasing number of ponds, pools, and small lakes, many of which are not fed by surface water.  In fact, Devil’s Lake, in north central North Dakota, is completely fed by underground waters and even so, has risen several feet in the past few years.  The town is now below the surface of the lake, which is held back by dykes.   North Dakota, by rainfall alone, should be a desert, unable to grow wheat, much less corn and soybeans.  However, it sits on a layer of clay which holds the water and which is fed by underground waters.  This is what makes the miles and miles of cropland possible…and why North Dakota is so much more lush and green than South Dakota.

He tells us that the Bakken Field, the source of the huge boom on the west side of the state, has enough oil for 75 years and when that is done, they have discovered another pool of oil beneath that one.  He has no patience for wind or solar energy.   When we point out that this would be prime territory for both, he laughs and asks, “And what good would that do me in the middle of winter, eh?  Without batteries, the whole thing won’t work.”  About that time, an elderly neighbor interrupts our conversation and requests his assistance to back up her car.  Even though we have learned a lot, we are relieved when he goes to help her.

To Be Continued…

 

Posted from Milaca, MN

T+40: A Tale of Towns and Passes, Part 2

The coffee shop closes at 5pm, so we have to go.  It is still over 100 degrees.  We decide to make a quick shot to the next town, where there is a grocery store.    We push as fast as we can.   We pass through a landscape of rickety shacks, nice houses with watered lawns, industrial fruit farms with pickers’ cabins.  There are super skinny, burning-eyed young people all over the place.  We assume that these are some of the many “tweakers” mentioned by the barrista.

I make a wrong turn off the main highway, and we find ourselves in “Tweakerville”, suddenly having to push our bikes up a rough, dirt grade, in an neighborhood of beat up little houses with beat up old trucks, and old furniture, trash, and junk in the front yards.  We see a 7- 11 across the way and make our way to it, as fast we can.  We are panting and sweating profusely. 

Inside, we drink as much as we can, eat ice cream, take cold rags to our overheating bodies.  It is close to 6pm and there is a steady stream of working and poor people of European, Latino, and Native American ancestry coming in to buy beer and pop.   The store clerk commiserates with us about the heat and tells us that these temperatures usually don’t arrive until August, but lately they have been coming earlier and earlier.  He directs to the local Safeway, just up the hill.  It is still close to 100 degrees, even though it is after 7pm.    One guy takes a look at our bikes and trailers, and says, “That doesn’t seem to be a very good choice for riding today.”  What can we do but agree?

We dawdle in the store, pick up and write overdue condolence cards, talk to my mom on the phone, and otherwise kill time.   Just after 8 pm, the temperature is still 94 degrees, but we have to go.   There is a little campground on the Okanogan River we are trying to reach that evening.   As the shadows deepen, and the hills of the Okanogan Valley turn purple, we make our way to Margie’s RV Park and Pottery Barn Just before we cut down to the river, Wes yells “STOP!”  In the purpling light, he takes a short video of the ranch against the red canyon walls.

Riverside is a tiny town of just 350 people.  Susie has told me it is a little hippie enclave and so it seems, although it originally was the last place steamships could reach coming up the Columbia.  We get to the grassy, tiny, RV park, and are greeted by Margie’s daughter-in-law, an exceptionally skinny and obtuse 50 year old, who tells us, “No need to register, just give me the 14 bucks.”  We set up the tent, take a quick shower, and eat a bit in the dark.  We left Wilson and Susie’s 18 hours and a world ago.

The next morning, we are up before dawn to beat the heat. We cycle into the little town of Tonasket, through mile after mile of industrial fruit tree farms.  There are little breaks of pines, but mostly it is sagebrush desert or it is irrigated fruit farms.   We ponder the irony that many households in Portland, which must get 5 times the rain of the Okanogan valley, actively use xeriscaping to avoid watering their gardens and yards.  In this valley, sprinklers go constantly and every house that can creates a little English countryside with flowers and grass to fend off the sagebrush desert.  We wonder what the river would look like without the industrial tree farms and heavy duty watering.

At the first site of Shannon’s Fabulous Food and Espresso, under an enormous Catalpa tree, we both curve in.  While sitting there, we are just inches from a group of older European Americans.  We listen to their conversation, while pretending not to.   There is a long conversation about going to the casino on the nearby reservation.  One fellow notes, “They told me they collect the sales tax, like everybody else, but they use it to support the tribe.”  His compatriot snorts, “Yeah, more likely, buy the chief a Cadillac.”  They confer a bit more, and decide that the men will go to the casino, while their wives will go to the Walmart.  One notes, “Seems like the wife has got the car programmed to go the Walmart, every time we get close to Okan, we just turn right into the Walmart.”  We note that two of these folks leave in Cadillac Escalades. 

It is still morning, but too late to start the crossing of the next pass to the town on Republic.   We will have to spend the day. We ask about camping, and the waitress, says, “Stay here!  You can stay in the yard, and use the bathroom in the café.”  Without the map, and my phone dead again, we agree.  This proves to be a mistake.

I undertake a series of updates and repairs, while Wes reads at the whole food coop.  (This is typical for us.  I like projects; Wes likes stories.)  While tooling around town, and checking on Wes at the coop, I see that the town in split into three camps. 

There are the young alternative types, tattooed, pierced, and braided, teaching classes on permaculture, organizing and running the food coops, setting up massage and yoga parlors.  There are the industrial farmers in conservative haircuts, cotton plaid shirts tucked into pressed jeans, driving big American trucks.  Then there is a big group of young workers.  If they are Latino, they eat at the Mexican food trucks  outside in the heat.  There are also lots of skinny young men in beat up old trucks.   At the local dive bar, I have long conversation with a young man who had gone to school at Wyoming Tech to become a diesel mechanic.  Instead, he had become a fishing and hunting guide.   He used to take doctors and dentists from back East when he first started, but now “it’s all tech guys, geologists, and financiers.”  I am somewhat surprised to see him take a pinch of chewing tobacco as we talk.  It has been years since I saw someone “take a bite of snoose.”

We attend a perfectly awful concert of under-rehearsed and off-key bluegrass music in their lovely heritage park, where at least the people watching was good.  This is still the land of little dogs, which are welcome everywhere, including restaurants.  We are tickled by a pair of Chihuahuas who come over to visit us and who are the yin and yang of dogs. One named “Pacho” is very frightened, shaky, with his tale constantly between his legs; his “brother” Rip, described by his “mom” as having  “Riptitude”—was gregarious, curious, and proud.  A man in Yellowstone told her that he “could see the timber wolf” in this little dog.

Back at café, guests linger long into the night talking.  We are uncomfortable putting up the tent while people are still eating, but finally give up and do so, feeling extremely exposed.   The road traffic is noisy all night, and they forget to leave the door open, so we don’t have access to a bathroom after all.

The next morning we are up at 4am, to start the next pass---up Wauconda Pass to the little town of Republic.

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

T+31: Far from Kith and Kin

Entering the Skagit Valley

Mile 574: MAZAMA, WASHINGTON:  The last few days have been a helter-skelter of intense emotions.  The ride from the coast was beautiful and mostly easy, through the incredibly fertile Skagit River bottom, topped by craggy snow covered peaks.  Wes and I are riding easily and feeling a kind of simple joy at the activity and the environment. 

We are in and out of coverage for my phone, and in and out of keeping the electronics charged.  (Keeping things charged while living in a tent requires a variety of strategies with which I am only partially successful.)  All day Saturday, July 20, I think of my mother’s best friend Rose, whose funeral was that day.  I would have liked to be there to honor their friendship of more than 60 years, and to renew and strengthen the bonds of friendship and family that have united the Smith/Strand/Engen families.

Not only did my mother and Rose flee troubled family situations in the South together, travelling and gad-about working in the post WWII era, they came together to the small outback town of Centennial, Wyoming in 1948.  There, new girls in town, they soon met and married the most eligible bachelors in this ranch/logging/skiing outpost.  Best friends married good friends and soon there were babies and challenges and an intertwined life. 

Tragedy struck the Smith family, when my father was killed in a construction accident, leaving my mother with four children under the age of 6.  Without the support of friends like Rose and Bob Engen, it is doubtful we would have made it.   Through the Engens,  my mother connected to their cousin, a shy 39 year old bachelor named Berger Strand, who became my stepfather and dear Daddy. 

Through years of kids growing up both easy and hard, through businesses opening and closing, through divorces of young and old, through shared land, shared houses, and shared education, the ties that connect the Smith/Strand/Engen families are woven still.  I want to make sure those ties live on into the next generation.  But I am thousands of miles away, so all I can do is text my mother when my cell happens to work…and think about the choices each of us make every day. 
 
We have a wonderful camp on the side of the Skagit River, and meet two kids who remind us of ourselves at that age.  They are finishing a bike ride from Minneapolis to Seattle.  They have just finished their degrees.  She has a job on a boat in Seattle before beginning her medical studies; he’s not sure what he’s going to do.  They thought a ride across the country would be a good way to transist from one phase to another.  They are fit and fearless, broke and brave.   They remind us of the hitch-hiking trip we took around the US on our way to my Fulbright Fellowship.  They are up and gone before dawn, zooming off to their new lives, glowing with excitement and promise.


We make our way to the oh-so-plastic general store in the little town of Newhalem where we must make sure we have supplies for the challenge that awaits us.  A bit before Newhalem, we saw a sign, “Last services for
 74 miles.”  Our bike map tells us “Take extra food and water!” We are excited and nervous to begin our foray into the wilds of the North Cascades National Park.   In the store, I plug in my phone and to my great surprise, I have a voicemail from Wes’ brother, from the previous night.
When I check it, he says, “I am sure you have heard the news about Judy, and I just wanted to see what you guys are planning.”  I call back as soon as I can.  We tell him we have heard nothing, and he explains that our sister-in-law, Judy Nethercott, has just been killed in an auto accident.  At the same time, the emails from home, some from two days ago, start to appear on my phone.   I send emails, and texts, as best I can, but hear nothing more.  

Wes and I are stunned.  Judy’s husband Jimmy, Wes’ eldest brother, had just passed about 18 months ago.   The family was still adjusting to that loss.  We worry about their kids, and grieve that their kids will never know their grandparents. 

We stay in the horrible plastic store for as long as we can, waiting for further news that does not come.  When we go out and get on the bikes, we immediately have a small wreck that topples me onto the road, and leaves both of us yelling at each other, inappropriately displacing our emotions.  Just a mile outside of town, I lose all phone service. 

The ride is rough, steep, and in places, quite dangerous.   When we enter a long, unlit tunnel with a steep uphill grade, I scream and hug the walls when cars pass within inches of us pushing our bikes.   We feel the fragility of life. Our emotions are raw. 

At camp, I leave Wes to set up the tent while I get water; I return to him openly weeping.  We don’t know what to do.  We have no phone service.  We don’t know what is going on.  Even if we did, what could we do?  We are in one of the most remote regions we have ever encountered.   The closest airport is probably 120 miles away.  How could we get there?   

We spend a sullen, quiet evening, staring at the beautiful, ice-cold Diablo Lake.  In addition to the strong emotions tied up in these two family deaths, I am also quite concerned about the ride ahead.  When we leave Diablo, it is a climb into the mountains, where there will be no stores, no services, no water stops, and two mountain passes.  There is not even another campground for nearly 40 miles.   

We sleep poorly and get up before dawn, anxious to start this long climb before the heat of the day.   It is a long climb all right, punctuated by incredible vistas and breathtaking beauty.  We push our bikes a lot.  The day stretches on and still we climb.   We can only ride for a few moments, it seems, before we have to stop and catch our breath. 

There are numerous cascades and rivulets pouring down the steep canyon sides.  At one point, we are so hot and tired, we simply go stand in a glacier-fed waterfall, letting the icy water pour through our helmets and down our shirts.

The day goes on and on, and so does the hill.  We have been climbing steadily since leaving Newhalem.  By this point, we cannot ride much, so we must walk.  It gets hotter and hotter.  We now scurry (as much as one can on a steep hill, pushing a bike with 40 lb. trailer) from shadow to shadow. 

Exhaustion fueled irrationality becomes a real presence.  I start making plans to hitch a ride.  How many vehicles can pick up two bikes, two riders, and two trailers?   Wes starts searching in the cliff-sides for a camping spot.  I tell him not to waste his energy, but he insists there must be a camping spot on these 45 degree slopes.

We trudge on.  We are at our wits’ and bodies’ limit, when we finally reach the Rainy Pass summit.  To our great relief, we see a picnic grounds.  It is neglected and the water taps don’t work, to our great surprise.  We are grateful we still have spring water gathered from the mountains.  Our tap water from the campground was long gone.  Wild gathered water is always a risk, but dehydration is a bigger and more immanent threat.

We eat a meager, but delicious, dinner in a pestilence of mosquitoes and biting flies, and look where to make our illegal camp.  The tent, somewhat hidden on the edges of the picnic ground, is a blessed relief after the rigors of the day and frustration of mosquitoes in our eyes, ears, and everywhere.   We had come 29 miles, all of it up hill, and much of it walked.   We sleep almost immediately.

The next day—today—we wake up, eat the last of our supplies, and begin the trudge up the next mountain pass.    It is only 5 miles—a veritable lark after yesterday—and when clear the top, we are astounded.    We are in a cirque of straight walled peaks whose serrated jaggedness is both appalling and wonderful. 

The ride down is something else.  It is a straight shot down the mountain: 16 miles.  We have to pull our bikes to a stop every so often because our hands have gone numb from the shaking and braking. Wes and I agree, during one stop, that it would be terrible to have to go up this steep hill.  At one point, I note that it is a good thing I have brought the speed down to a more reasonable level, and when I check it, I am still going close to 27 miles an hour. 

We have already decided we are going to take a room when we get to the bottom.  I saw Freestone Inn and Cabins on the map and said, “Let’s try there.”  When we pull in, we see it is a lovely resort next to the Early Winters stream.

We get a cabin next to the creek, wash ourselves, and happily drink a cold beer.  We wash our stinky bike clothes in the sink and put them out in the hot, dry air. (I’m sure our neighbors like the look of clothes strung on the porch of our cabin).  We enjoy a wonderful meal and visit at length with the other guests.  It is really nice, especially remembering that just twenty four hours earlier, we were lurking in an illegal camp with no food or water, after a long brutal day.

We still have no phone service, but the inn has Wi-Fi, so I am able to get email.  The services for Judy will be in Riverton, Wyoming on Saturday, July 27, 2103  at 9 am.  There is no way for us to get there. 

We wonder about the curious ways we make it through our lives.  There are no promises.   Whether our lives stretch through years and years, and slowly wind down, like Rose’s, or blink out in an instant in a bizarre accident like Judy’s; whether we rush toward them in great hope and expectation, or slog our way through duties and obligations, it still is just as Samuel Beckett said, “The light gleams for an instant, then it’s darkness once more.”