August 1, 1999 on 9:00 pm | In Mountain, Touring |

8/4 - Jackson - I enjoy the freedom here but long for a place to call my own. Joe and Jason are thinking of staying here, getting a job and making Jackson home for a while. Sensing that I will soon be on my own, I start thinking of what I really want to do. Where do I want to go? We find a real place to camp tonight, a nice quiet, isolated spot at Cache Creek.

8/5 - Jackson -  So now here I am in Jackson, Wyoming, trying to decide on south with Jason or west by myself. Joe is out of time and money. Jason wants to haul ass, wake up early ride til noon, break til four, ride til dark. I simply don’t want to get up that early. I feel drawn west, a feeling that took hold sometime yesterday during the time when I was under the impression that Jason was staying here. With Joe heading home and Jason staying here, or so I thought, momentum stalled and in the interim, in the space and quiet, I heard the west calling. Camp at Cache Creek.

8/6 - Jackson to Swan Valley - We all split up. Joe is heading back to Asheville and Jason is going to haul ass down to Durango. I am on my own somewhere in Idaho, Swan Valley actually. We said our good-byes at Caffe 245, fitting seeing that we spent so much time there. I know that Jason was a little bummed when he decided to continue south and found out that I wouldn’t be joining him. But once I felt that pull west, I knew that if I went south with him, I would be looking over my shoulder to the west. I had to listen to that voice. I am glad to have escaped Jackson’s gravitational pull.

As I passed through Wilson, the town immediately after Jackson, I could see that there were clouds up ahead over Teton pass. We had climbed it a few days before as part of that “Black something” ride. We had climbed it on an old unused road rather than the road I chose today. Anyway, as I climbed the wind grew stronger and the rain started in and then lightening. Under normal circumstances I could have handled the storm, but the gusts of wind were growing more violent and unpredictable as I climbed and more than once almost pushed me out into traffic. Getting blow into 60 mph traffic was no joke. So I pulled over, suited up for the increasing rain and squatted down, prepared to wait this out.

Lightening crackled and struck around me. Rain poured, wind blew. I was in it. It was awesome! Eventually a good Samaritan pulled over right in front of me. Principles be damned. I didn’t care if I hadn’t ridden in a car for over a month; the streak would end now. But instead of asking me if I wanted a ride, the cowboy hatted driver reached into the back of the pick-up and lifted his dog out of the bed, put him in the cab and jumped back in. I laughed out loud. It was so absurd and perfect. But then the cowboy jumped back out and hollered over, “Would you like a ride?” His female friend opened her door and echoed the question. “I would love a ride!” I exclaimed. I disconnected the trailer from the bike and with the cowboy’s help, loaded both into the bed. And with that I was smuggled through the pass storm and delivered to Victor, Idaho. Along the way I was introduced to Duke and Chiara, two wranglers at the Trail Creek Ranch in Wilson, Wyoming.

Two things stuck in my mind from my brief 10 mile ride, the truck a new Dodge V8 was very smooth and I miss music more than anything else. We arrived in Victor at and old style soda fountain and by the time I got my rain gear off (the sun was shining in Victor) and my bike situated, I found that C & D had treated my to a Hucleberry milkshake. By all rights I should have bought their shakes, and they were buying mine! It is worth noting that the original purpose of C & D’s trip was to go to this place of a milkshake. “The best in the world!” they had been told. So over some damn fine milkshakes, we talked about hometowns, summer jobs and how the west seems to be populated by some damn nice people. I told C & D about the website and got their address so I could send them a postcard or two. And with that they took off and I hopped on my bike and headed to my new destination Swan Valley. At the town store, I picked up an an onion, some garlic, a banana, 14 cents of unleaded for my camp stove and directions to a beautiful, free, legal and strangely vacant camping area 5 miles out of town. An unexpected bonus was probably the most beautiful night sky of the trip. Under the stars I dozed off, ending my first solo day.

8/7 - Swan Valley to Idaho Falls - The morning was a long lazy one as I waited for the sun to dry out my dew soaked everything. Some early tailwinds gave me sustained flat speeds of around 25 mph, always a good way to start the day. Around noon I pulled into a rest stop and enjoyed coffee and cookies, courtesy of the Christian Motorcyclist Association. A hint to Pat Robertson and the like; if you’re looking to increase the size of your flock, coffee and cookies t’aint a bad way to do it. Beats xenophobia everytime.

Suitably jacked on caffeine and the genuine positive energy of the CMA, I made it to Idaho falls around three, despite my tailwinds turning to headwinds. Following the advice of the CMA folks I found a free, albeit populated community camp site. It is intended as a one night only stop over for through-travelers. More cities should definitely have those. There I enjoyed the company of a family from Payette, Idaho. There were two boys in the family, maybe 12 and 13, (who always referred to me as “Mister”) and they were very interested in my trip and peppered me with questions. They had never really had any experience with anyone doing a trip like this and were blown away that it was possible to cover as much ground as I had on a bicycle. A quick cloud burst gave me a chance to practice throwing up my tent ASAP and cooking in the tent’s vestibule. It cleared quickly though and I enjoyed a cool, clear, early night in bed.

8/8 - Idaho Falls to Arco 70 miles - Slept hard and well, finished last nights dinner for breakfast and rolled out. Almost trouble as I went to adjust my saddle height and the seat binder bolt snapped. Replaced it with a bolt from my stem and off I went, into 70 miles of hot, no shade anywhere, dead coyotes by the side of the road, desolate Idaho plain. Most of this stretch is occupied in some way by the Idaho Engineering and Environmental Laboratory which is more of an area than it is a particular building. Referred to as “the site,” by those in the know, this sprawling “X-Files” looking place, with fences, antennae and all manner of no trespassing signs contributes to a surrealness that takes over the landscape. By the way, the worlds first nuclear power plant is located out here. The road was smooth though, with a nice spacious shoulder on which to pedal and practice in-the-saddle meditation. It was actually rather perfect. The heat was something to try to escape and the barren landscape contributed to a cycling trance. Rolled into Arco, the first town in the world to be powered by a nuclear power plant. Ate dinner and chatted with some Harley folks in front of the grocery store. The guy at the RV park wanted $14 to let me pitch a tent so I talked to a woman at the local gas station, getting 7 cents of fuel for my camp stove. She recommended sleeping in the town park. After 70 miles through the desert, I just want to stop, drink water and sleep. I go to the park, wait for a Kareoke party to wrap up, make more food and crash. Appreciating what the bike does; Rolling into a small town, invisible, quietly watching lives, eavesdropping, sitting tired in a park, waiting cautiously for everyone to leave so I may sleep and not arouse concern. Who is that stranger man in the park?

8/9 - Arco to Fairfield 90 miles - The 18 miles to Craters of the Moon went by pretty fast. Craters of the Moon is something like 80 square miles of large dark volcanic rock strewn all about. A “short cut” on the Oregon trail, it is hard to imagine that this area could ever be passable with covered wagon. I’ve sometimes looked at some of the longer climbs on this trip with dread. I think of what these people dealt with. Forget it. I’m traveling in 1st class on a 747 compared to what those people survived. Before I left on this trip I was talking to my uncle, an old hardened goat farmer, and mentioned that this trip might allow me to appreciate what the pioneers encountered. “You never will,” he stated simply. How true.

Leaving Craters, I headed downhill and caught a delicious tailwind. I absolutely hauled ass, topping out at 46 mph. Amazing given that my highest speed on a bike is 54 mph on an unencumbered road bike with narrow 120 psi tires. That I came within 7 mph of that on a bike loaded for a 2 month self-supported tour is a testament to the aerodynamics and stability of the BOB. And never, ever underestimate the power of a tailwind.

The tailwinds kept coming and for the next ten miles I found myself cruising at an average of 30 mph. That was an anomaly certainly, but it was fun while it lasted and the Karmac gods would call in my debts only hours later.

On my map I spotted Moonstone campground. It was at the 70 mile mark and I figured that that would be a good place to break. Thanks to the hauling pace I set earlier in the day though, I got to Moonstone pretty early, the sun was still high in the sky, blazing away. And rather than being the oasis I envisioned, Moonstone more resembled a sandbox. No shade to be seen anywhere, the sun still high, I realized that the wisest thing for me to do was probably to keep going. A problem though was that stupidly I had planned on being able to get water at Moonstone so I passed up the last opportunity to fill up my bottles. I had 20 miles to go until I hit a town called Fairfield, no services between here and there and one bottle of water. No problem I assured myself; I just had to focus and knock out the miles. So I started to move. In a matter of minutes, a car flew by honking a friendly greeting with hands waving, it was the family from Idaho Falls. In two days I was 140 miles from where I had last seen them. I imagined that the boys were spinning, thinking of where they might be able to go, the world open to be explored by them on their bikes.

The positive energy flowed and I pedaled on, the wide shoulder giving plenty of distance between me and the 70 mph traffic. WHACK! I was tagged by a bunch of something as a Large Ryder truck flew by. What it was I could never find out. It felt like a handful of rocks though. A couple nailed my back, one right on my spine, another on the back of my neck and yet another hit the back of my head just under my helmet. Thrown off balance by the sheer force of whatever it was, I struggled to maintain my balance and deal with the pretty intense pain that I was instantly confronted with.

Maybe something thrown up by the wheels of the truck? No, the trajectory was all wrong. I looked up as the truck moved off, and I could see the passenger hanging out of the window smiling. He had thrown something at me. I was in pain. My mind snapped into a reaction mode and I was now absolutely furious. Having regained my balance, I sat up no handed and let both birds fly. “Motherf#&!*r!” I shouted, “Come on! I’ll kick your f#&!ing ass!” Obscenities spewed forth. As he flew out of sight I could see his smile dim. Perhaps he was just beginning to calculate the physics of what happens when you throw a handful of something at someone at 70 mph.

Perhaps though calculation of any kind was beyond his brain and he was simply disappointed that I hadn’t crashed. Regardless, I was so profoundly angry, not just because he did this but because he was the first person on this trip to do anything mean. Up until this moment everyone had been so cool, so generous. I was blown away, so disappointed. I couldn’t for the life of me understand how anyone could have justified an assault like that on a total stranger. Why did he have to do that? No cars were around to see it, the only cop I had seen in days had just passed five minutes earlier and I wasn’t injured enough to warrant the involvement of anyone. Aargh! I cursed a blue streak and hammered on. I wanted to catch these guys, but going 15 mph on a bike rarely catches a Ryder truck doing 70.

Hot, thirsty and thoroughly toast, an hour or so later, I pulled into Fairfield and up to the town convenience/grocery store. I scanned for the truck but it was nowhere. Inside, I picked up two bottles of Gatorade and some beans for dinner. At the check out lane I asked the woman if she had seen a Ryder truck come through, explaining what had happened. She hadn’t. I then asked about camping spots.

“Hey Jill,” she inquired of a friend who was shopping, “Do you think it would be okay if he camped in the 4-H park?”

Jill came over, affirming that the 4-H would probably be cool. “But,” Jill continued, “We’ve had cyclists who were traveling through stay over at our place, take a shower and sleep in a bed. I’d have to ask my other half first, is that something you would be interested in?”

“Oh yeah!” was my enthusiastic response.

“Okay, will you be at the park? I can come get you there,” she continued. I told her I’d be there and pedaled off to the park. Only five minutes later I was there draining the last of the two Gatorades, I sighed in relief to the end of such a day as this and tried to let all of the bad energy from the Ryder truck flow away. And off to my left, down the main street in town, the very same Ryder truck drove by. My eyes widened in disbelief and I contemplated chasing after it. But my luck had changed and I didn’t want to breathe any life back into that event. I let it go.

Soon Jill and her brother-in-law Dave showed up with his 5 year old daughter Douglas and a mystery child of unknown (to me) parentage. Jill introduced us and then took off. Dave and I chatted while the kids ran around and I made dinner #1.

It seems that Dave works for the Forest Service in several capacities, as a surveyor of sorts I think. He surveys the wildlife in the area (Dave, if I’m totally off-base please drop me an email and set me straight) and also works with farmers in the area convincing them and then helping them to rehabilitate creeks and streams that run through the area. It seems that over a century ago beavers were a very important part of the ecosystem around here, building damns and creating wetland area. Given the double whammy of having the beavers trapped almost out of existence and the introduction of cattle, the waterways are pale representatives of their former selves. Dave also works and hunts with falcons. Very cool. While we talked I offered Dave some food but he gallantly declined. Famished, I killed the entire batch of beans and rice.

Tending to his parental responsibilities, Dave took a walk with the kids, taking “unknown” home and returning with a pick-up truck. We loaded up my bike and trailer and drove out of the back of town up to Jill and Steve’s farmhouse up one of the backdrop hills. Along the way we picked up some beer (buying a twelve was the least I could do given the hospitality). Once we hit dirt road, Douglas climbed into Dave’s lap and took over the steering. By her comments, it seemed that she had been doing this for quite a while and she was pretty skilled at it. I couldn’t believe how quickly I had been welcomed and included into these people’s lives. I felt very privileged. And it only got better.

Soon after Dave and I arrived, Steve and his buddy Trevor showed up. Introductions all around and Steve manned the grill, fixing what would be my first steak in ten years. This trip thoroughly ended, or at least suspended 10 years of vegetarianism. Anyway, despite having just feasted on a huge beans and rice dinner, I sat down to another, far more tasty meal of green beans, some middle eastern grain dish (Jill and Steve didn’t even know the name of it) and of course the steak which was fresh off the hoof.

Seems that one of Jill’s mom’s cows had a bum leg. Steaks all around. We talked all about the area, about my trip and road trips in general. After dinner we all hit the hot tub. At Jill’s bequest I showered first. I even shaved. Beer, food, friendship, shower, shave, hot tub? Forget it, this was nirvana. At last I crashed into the bed so generously prepared and drifted off to sleep wondering if it wouldn’t be better to sleep outside under the stars.

8/10 - Fairfield/Galena Summit to near Bonneville campground 70 miles - I awoke sprawled wide in a bed of cotton sheets, well after sunrise (outside I usually wake up with the sun which is not always a good thing) and realized that sometimes sleeping inside is not such a bad thing. I arose absolutely drunk on sleep, dopamine that happy natural thing. Jill and Steve were already up. Coffee brewed and Steve whipped up scrambled eggs. Good morning. Days before, an unfortunate cow, or was it two, wandered out into the road and was nailed by a semi carrying all manner of dairy aisle products. Steve happened upon the scene where the company’s clean-up efforts amounted to allowing passerbys to help themselves to whatever was salvageable. The orange juice we drank that morning, and I think the yogurt, was courtesy of the cow’s misfortune. Steve announced to me that he had been thinking of where I was planning on riding and thought that I should be further north, on the other side of The Sawtooths, so I might experience a greener and friendlier Idaho. He would drive me back through where I had come from. We took the back gravel roads, up past the madness that is Sun Valley (home of failed restaurateurs Bruce Willis and Awnold). Development proceeds, apparently unchecked. Everything is oh so bright and brand-spankin’ new. Along the way on the gravel roads, before we were near Sun Valley, we stopped briefly to chat with some of his buddies who were building a hay-bale house. On the way out of there we were jammed up in traffic. Sheep traffic that is. It seems that this area had at one time been one of the largest sheep raising areas in the world and today still has a significant sheep population. I wasn’t quick enough on the draw with the camera to capture what would have been an award winning photograph, certain to bring me fame and fortune. Guiding the sheep were a dog, a young Peruvian and the very image of a cowboy. Sitting atop his horse, his feet out of the stirrups, his face coated in brown dust save for the triangular swaths of flesh around his eyes, wiped clean with the back of his shirt sleeve no doubt. His clear, bright busy eyes shone outward, taking in every movement around him. An image from another time. We climbed and climbed in Steve’s old-school 4-Runner, essentially lateralling me north and back east a bit. We arrived at Galena Pass. We pulled out my bike and trailer; I hooked everything up and bid farewell to Steve. I knew we had all connected. I’m already wondering when I might make it back to Idaho, looking forward  to rolling into Fairfield to visit old friends. After Steve left I met a couple of Harley guys and hung out with them for a while, discussing the Harley rally in Sturgess. It seems that the cops are pulling over a hundred at a time and running drug dogs through the crowd. Not exactly a sporting hunt. So I mounted up and rolled down the mountain. Clouds over head kept the sun at bay, a welcome reprieve from the blazing heat of the last two days.

Vicious headwinds frustrated my every attempt to nurse speed out of the slope. Although I couldn’t feel too bad since I hadn’t climbed the lead-up to this hill, in general there is probably nothing more frustrating on a tour like this than climbing a hill and then being denied the reward of a ripping descent. You think, “This is no fair! I paid my dues. This hill is mine!” But sometimes you are faced with the Yin of the Yang that allows you to cruise at 30 mph on straight-aways. Working hard to hit 10 mph, downhill, seems mighty unjust but it’s part of the whole equation. Rolling out of the wholly unsatisfying descent I noticed more and more cyclists heading the opposite way as I was. I found out later they were part of a group of 100+ cyclists who were out on a fully supported tour in the area. I think they were doing Boise to Idaho falls. Turning left at Stanley, a small town that really amounted to a couple of tourist oriented shops and restaurants, I started a climb that would take the rest of the day. I got in a groove though and the climb cruised by. My legs felt surprisingly good, given that I had ridden 90 miles the day before. As I neared the Bonneville campground, which I had picked out earlier on the map, I noticed that all of the campgrounds on said map were fee spots and heavily populated. Scattered about along the way there were many other spots not on the map, that were less crowded and more scenic by far. So I took an educated guess that Bonneville and the hot springs there would be very occupied and chose to stop at the next no facilities/no charge spot. It was set back from the road, right on a stream and totally empty. I rolled in, made dinner, made a fire and kicked back.

As darkness fell and I was writing postcards by the fire I caught sight of movement around camp. Peering through the trees I spotted a couple of coyotes checking me out. Coyotes are perfectly harmless to humans by the way so this “encounter” was a purely positive one. Camping in the midst of the wildlife, I slid into my bag and fell asleep.

8/11 - Bonneville to Bank 65 miles - At first it was easy since I had spent the night near the summit. I pretty much pedaled 50 yards and then went down hill. I checked out Bonneville and indeed it was automobile and RV central. The hot spring there was very occupied so I decided to just move on.  Soon after I busted back onto the road I realized that what I needed more than anything was a day off. While I felt okay yesterday, my legs had really wanted was a break. I found it hard to get settled into a spin. The sun was hiding behind the cloud, putting a chill in the air that kept my dragging legs from warming up. Frustrated by my lack of energy, I kept stopping to rest and eat. I wanted to just stop and camp but kept passing by spots that might have sufficed for one night. Wherever I stopped, I wanted it to be nice enough to hang out for an off-day, someplace where I could relax. My mind set on a nice low key spot. I was out of National Forest so this was hard to come by. Finally I came into Bank. There isn’t much of a town to speak of and the campsite on the map has been gone for two years. Upon finding out that I was riding my bike, the guy at the local store/restaurant instantly became more helpful and pointed me out to a small tent village used by local river guides. If I “bullshitted” with them he said I’d have no problem and they probably wouldn’t even charge me. The only problem was that it was two miles back on another road that proved to be the most dangerous of the trip. Very windy, little to no shoulder and highway speed traffic. I was glad to make it to the site alive. I pushed my bike down a steep embankment, over a log bridge and into a wooded area populated by maybe a dozen tents. No one was around though. I wouldn’t see or talk to anybody until the next day. Off and on drizzle forced me into my tent with the rain fly on. Before bed though, I waded into an eddy (a quiet spot on the shore where the water slows) in the river and took a bath. The water was surpassingly warm and even though it had only been two days since a shower, getting clean again was absolute joy. As I lay in the tent, falling asleep, knowing that I wouldn’t ride tomorrow made me smile. And I started to fantacize about the food that I would treat myself to. Chicken. It was all I could think of, and my mouth watered. Chicken sandwich. Chicken. Chicken. My body cried out for it.

8/12 - Bank - Off day - So I rose early and left immediately for the store/restaurant/ where I had gotten directions to the campsite. I walked instead rode though, convinced that this stretch of road was far safer on foot.

Lumber trucks whizzed by, their multi-ton loads held on by two chains. At one point a wide load came by, forcing me to jump up on some rocks off the side of the road. Off to the right, I noticed railroads tracks on the far side of the river which ran right by my camp. The tracks ran high by the campsite, crossing the camp access road via a trestle. I could have scampered up the side of the hill that the trestle joined. I quickly put the pieces together and wondered if the track was accesible from the restaurant. Perhaps I could walk back on the tracks, more direct and far from the traffic of death. Until then, I still had to make it to the restaurant alive.

And alive and very hungry I arrived. For the sake of making an informed decision, I looked at the menu, but looking at the breakfast menu did nothing for me. I was so hungry, I could feel it in my shoulders. I looked at the chicken breast sandwich and my mouth watered. “I’ll have that,” I said to the waitress behind the counter, “and a salad and fries.”

I read the paper, drank countless cups of coffee and destroyed the salad. And then the rather large, grilled breast sandwich of goodness came. As I ate, my blood grew warm, every bit of my body responded, I almost laughed out loud out of sheer pleasure. Shortly the sandwich and fries were gone.

“Wow!” said the waitress, “You enjoy that?”

“Yes I did!” I said, “I’ll have another, with fries”

Her eyes went wide, “Are you sure?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

She ducked into the kitchen and shortly afterward the cook leaned out, looked at me and then went back to work. And I killed that one too. No question. It wasn’t even an effort. Oh my god! Brimming with satifaction, I left the restaurant and hiked up the hillside to the track.

I’d walk back with the river to my right and traffic whizzing by on its far side. Just me on the tracks.

Feeling like and idiot I smiled and laughed as I felt my body devouring the sandwiches. I almost want to cry I was so satisfied. But instead I started to belt out Kerouac. “Skid Row Wine” is a poem I memorized for the sheer hell of it and it seemed like a damn fine time to enjoy it.

“I coulda done a lot worse than sit in Skid Row drinking wine. . .” I hollered out for all to hear. None did I’m sure, but traffic whizzed by fifty yards away, drivers’ eyes focused securely on the narrow twisty road ahead, deviate and die.

“. . .And nobody saw me, just my bottle and what they saw of it was empty.” And as I recited, I learned to walk, balancing on the rail. It really is much more efficient to walk on one rail, than kick the gravel and ties. Eyes looked further and further ahead, and soon it was so easy. Fifteen, twenty steps, soon I stopped counting, looking back, seeing my dusty footprints stamped on the shiny steel line. I remembered Rocky and his friend whom we met early in this trip and I wondered where they might be. The railway killer has been caught and their mode of transportation has probably been returned to normal.

And then I stopped and looking for a way down to the river, I back-tracked and walked through knee-high grass down to the water. And in clear view of the traffic, if they could look, I stripped down to nothing and in the river I went. I grabbed a rock under the water and hung out behind it, like a windsock. I stood up and rubbed my legs, breaking the dust loose and getting the blood moving, and in the water I went again. I thought of everything that had happened to me since I had first thought of this trip. I thought of girls, drugs, alcohol, school, jobs yet to be had, and realized that right here, right now was great. It was what I wanted. My belly was full and I knew a Jack Kerouac poem. I sat in the dry grass, in the sun and dried off, watching the drivers whiz by.

Eventually I tore myself away from the water and returned to the rail. I walked along and wondered if there was even a train that used this anymore. Probably yes I thought, the weeds were held at bay by something.

Nearing the camp, the trestle stretched out before me. And I continued to balance, the edge only a foot and a half to my right, forty feet down. Soon enough though I was across though and I halfway slid down the steep embankment, down to the road. The river guides who were in bed when I awoke were now gone, they were off working or just having fun and the place was mine alone. I wished I had some company though, wanting to talk with someone.

I got in my tent and took a nap.

Later in the afternoon, I walked around, trying to check out my surroundings without putting my nose where it didn’t belong. This was for the most part, home to these guides and I appreciated that I was allowed to stay here. I didn’t want anyone to return and find me snooping around.

Eventually though, a few guides returned to there tents at the periphery of the camp and finally one very attractive guide from New Zealand named Carol (I think), approached me. She was the “volunteered” person to approach the stranger who had made his home here. We chatted for a while, and as has been fairly typical of this trip, when she found out that I was riding all the way from the Canada/Montana border, her guard went down and everything was cool. The guides hit the sack right away though so I sat by the river and read and wrote and watched the paddlers go by until the sun set.

Off on a nearby hill, mybe 500 yards away, a deer climbed up to the peak and was silouetted perfectly by the evening sky. A perfect Bambi image.

I crawled into my bag and settled down. And it dawned on me that today was the first day in five weeks that I hadn’t ridden my bike. For a moment I thought about getting up and riding my bike around the camp, just to keep the streak going. But that’d be stupid; riding for the sake of a streak. I stayed in bed as off in the distance a coyote howled and chattered. I have grown quite fond of that sound, the sound of something that you rarely see. I drifted off to sleep.

8/13 - Bank to Vale, Oregon, 95 miles - Hurried out of camp by threatening rain (it did rain briefly and hard) Wanted to stop in Payette but there was nowhere to camp that I could find, not to mention that it was so busy and noisy and populated. So I kept going until Vale and that meant a 95 mile day. The road out of bank was twisty and scary. My legs felt good coming off the rest day though so I hammered till Payette. Payette led me into Ontario, Oregon. Lots of traffic funneled onto a main drag with all sorts of major strip mall stores/truck stops etc. With the sun still high I pedaled on with large hills in sight. Perhaps I could find something there. Arrived in Vale fried by the sun and worn out by the wind. Vale seemed to be the only town of substance that I would hit for at least 50 miles and I knew that I had lots of climbing ahead. Bummed by the lack of public campable land, I ended up at a RV park type place for $10 which wasn’t so bad since I was ready to spring for a hotel. Haven’t done that yet but sometimes at the end of a long day it is too damn tempting. Roll into a room, buy some beer, collapse on the bed with a TV remote on my stomach (this coming from a guy with a “Kill your TV” sticker on his car) order a pizza, and moan in relief. Sometimes thinking about such things are a formidable carrot on the end of a stick, pulling me through headwinds and up hills. But inevitably when I finally reach a town or some other oasis, the reality of spending money on a hotel shames me and with a little more effort I am able to find someplace to lay my head for the night. Tonight I pay for a spot, only the third time on this trip. Not too bad.

8/14 - Vale to Unity, 70 miles - I paid for the excesses of yesterday’s miles and was never really able to hammer. Left Vale fairly late with clouds heading at me from about 10 o’clock. They looked like rain, which for today didn’t thrill me and were blocking the sun, which when your worn out keeps you from warming up well. It drizzled then stopped, then drizzled then stopped, then rained. If it had been warm, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but given the temp, I had to keep pulling on and off my rain jacket. Stopped to eat at a restaurant in Unity. Talked to a couple who had passed two cyclists 35 miles before they passed me. According to them one of the guys had panniers and the other had a trailer. Obviously this description matched that of Joe and Jason. I knew that there was no way that it could have been them, but it was fun to think about the possibilities.

Left the restaurant and rolled into Unity’s small and rather scenic park. The sun was gone, the wind was whipping and dark clouds were moving in fast. I threw up my tent in record time, and secured my bag and bike, expecting the rain to come at any moment. A family camping near me struggled with a very large tent. They had a tarp thrown over it which slapped loudly and constantly as they moved things inside and debated whether or not to set up their second tent. Despite the sure-bet conditions, rain never came and the sky cleared dramatically. Despite having eaten only two hours before, I grew hungry again and fixed myself another dinner; the old stand-by, rice and beans. I’m still hungry and now I’m tired. I have to remember that these mega mile days are relatively new to my body and it is trying hard to adjust.

One of the park hosts is a very cool older woman. She’s by herself & retired w/ an RV and a VW bus. She rolls up to my spot on her mountain bike and is very interested in my journey. We talked all about moving around and she told me stories of her and her kids years ago piling into their bus, traveling around. Somehow we got on the topic of coffee and discovered our mutual love/obsession with the liquid loveness of caffeine. Quite a few of the campers at this spot have been hunting and have the carcasses hanging up to dry. On of them was a younger girl of 17 or so who took her buck on a back road around here. She is with her brother, maybe 12, and they gladly shared stories of hunting and camping. They are both self-assured and very confident.

8/15 - Unity to John Day, 54 miles - Boy it got cold last night. Cold and clear. I think I will ride today and aim for John Day - around 50 miles. Kids out here, a lot of them at least, are raised very well. Very independent and alive. More so than I was at their age, very sheltered and clueless. Today’s ride was a ride of transformation as the weather of indecision that marked the last 5 or so days lifted and the sun shined bright. The two dinners I had last night seemed to do the trick and my legs were renewed, recovered from the 95 mile Banks to Vale day. I powered up today’s 2 mountain passes. Cresting the Dixie summit, the second and last for a while, the Strawberry mountain range unfolded around me. An awesome reward for a gratifying climb. Worth mentioning is the small bar and restaurant located on rt. 26 at the Austin turnoff. A basket of fries and a free bottomless cup of coffee did wonders for fueling me up the hill. Crabs and Caffeine; hard to beat.

Stopped and overate in the town before John Day. I didn’t mean to gorge myself, but the portions available at the grocery were kind of big and I wanted to finish off what I bought. So I’m now bloated and not feeling very mobile.

Bedded down for the night in the backyard of Lyle, Lynda and their daughter Lauren. I met Lyle and Lynda when I was  cruising through John Day looking for a place to camp. I saw them outside a church and asked them if I could use their hose to fill up on water. I then asked about campsites and soon enough we were having a conversation that included their pastor, about where to camp. Lyle and Lynda then offered me the use of their backyard. Yet again proving that all is right with the world.

8/16 - John Day to Mitchell, 70 miles - Woke up with the sun and found that Lyle and Lynda were preparing breakfast. We ate and then I cruised, hitting the road around 9 a.m., pretty early relatively speaking. Soon the green of the John Day area gave way to the dry Oregon plain. Sage and scrub brush returned with a vengeance. Cruising along, the road took a hard right toward a gap in a rocky ridgeline. The gap looked like a hole blown through the rock and I remarked outloud “Well they just blew the hell out of that thing didn’t they?” The road entered the gap and I immediately realized that this was no man made hole. The road joined up alongside a stream which quite naturally had etched out Picture Gorge. I had heard of the gorge but still new very little about it. And without a topographical map, I couldn’t really see what was coming up ahead. What came up was a 20 mile climb through an incredibly beautiful desert gorge. Imagine a scene from Road Runner/Wiley Coyote. RR screaming through the desert, the road ribboning out behind him. That’s the desert I was riding through.

The double edge to the desert’s beauty is its hostility to humans. Riding for hours, there is no shade to speak of which means no satisfying breaks. As a matter of fact, it seemed easier to remain on the bike and enjoy the breeze.  Stop to rest and you simply start to cook, the sun hammering down and radiating up. Again my white, long sleeved Capilene shirt rocked, providing my arms with much needed shade while still allowing a breeze to blow through. The desert is tough. It is beautiful but it is hostile. I’ve come to the conclusion that the popularity of living in desert climes (check out all the chic desert homes in Architectural Digest) is in no doubt thanks to the availability of a/c. With it in your home or car, the heat of the day is easily defeated, transforming the scenery around you. In a way it is perhaps similar to the difference between viewing a rattlesnake at your feet or behind a pane of very thick glass. Certainly one could argue that you miss out by not seeing the rattlesnake in the wild, which is true. I had a rattlesnake cross my path once, only a couple of feet away, while I was hiking in the smokies. It was awesome; I’m glad I got to see one in its native habitat. But as far as having an opportunity to appreciate its beauty, I was too busy high stepping it back out of striking range. I guess there is a balance to be achieved. I detest the notion that the wilderness is an amusement park, to be enjoyed from a climate controlled, 5-way adjustable seat. But the next time I hit the desert, I want a/c watching my back. We all have issues which bring out the wimp in us. Heat is it for me brother. It knocks me down and beats me with a humble stick. Picture Gorge wound around for hours and while my water lasted, I enjoyed it. Near the end, I passed an old abandoned shack, off to the left, worn down and open to the elements. Stopping to take a picture, I wondered if it had ever held a family. Unknown history always gets my mind going, as do thoughts of all the history that has passed while this shack stood silently. I finally emerged from Picture Gorge, not knowing quite what to expect. The climbing fortunately stopped but the heat continued. The road straightened and I rode past a cattle range to my right. Ranches appeared off in the distance. I paused to fill my water bottles, filtering from a stream which unfortunately ran through a rather expansive cow pasture. I ride and I ride and finally the hill breaks. I’m expecting to encounter Mitchell either at the top here or down at the bottom of the hill. Rarely does a town spring up in the middle of a downhill. Mitchell does and in my pursuit of speed thrills, I almost cruise right by. As a matter of fact I do a bit and have to back track fifty feet or so and turn onto the business route running through the town.

8/17 - Mitchell to Bend, 80 miles - I hadn’t ridden ten minutes when a small problem which had bothered me yesterday, got much worse. Yesterday, I had a couple times when my chain shifted off my big ring. This is usually easily remedied by adjusting one of the set screws. I ignored it though, writing it off to an anomoly that would right itself. Set screws don’t often just come undone for no reason.

So today right off the bat, as I hit the first major downhill, it happened again, with an authority that told me instantly something was very wrong. I got off the bike and inspected the front derailluer and its relation to the chain rings. It was very off. So much so that I knew there was something greater happening here than set screws. I looked closely at the cranks and my stomach sank as I saw that the none drive side bottom bracket cup ha backed almost all the way out allowing the cranks to slide to the left, completely changing the chainring/derailluer alignment. I had no bb tool and no crank puller, which I would need before I could have used the bb tool, if I had one. So I tried to tighten it back by hand but failed miserably. It wouldn’t really help to adjust the derailluer since I was sure the cup would back out the remaining few threads in only a few miles of the climb which I knew awaited me. Hmmm. Think! I’m a mechanic! I get paid to fix other people’s bikes.

Thinking . . . cup won’t tighten against bottom bracket to push it back . . . crank offset too far to the left. . . how can I get the crank back? . . . kick it!!!! So whap! I kicked the left crank right at the crank bolt and it popped right back in place, seating back into the right cup. And now that the left cup was no longer bound by the crank/bb assembly, I was able to tighten it almost all the way back in by hand. Shifting returned to normal and off I went. I figured I could keep kicking until I got to a shop where I could borrow some real tools.

About 9 miles later, about a mile into the following climb, I was chuggingslowly up when a guy came flying down on a bike. In the middle of nowhere,anyone else on a bike is a brother. He stopped and pulled over and I crossed the road to join him on the shoulder, sitting on the guardrail. Carl was his name, he was in his late forties with a well weathered face and he lit up a cigarette as soon as he could.We shook hands and quickly shared where we were from and where we were going. “I’m just finishing and your just getting started,” Carl said, referring to the fact that he had started much earlier in the day. He was a migrator, moving with the seasons, not the first wanderer I’d met on this trip. He lived down south in the winter and rode north in the summer. I had less equipment than he did, but his was bare bones and low dollar. That isn’t a slam at all, it’s more admiration. I looked at his ride, then mine and was humbled by the miles he had put on a bike that I wouldn’t have wanted to ride around the block. We talked about where to crash at our respective destinations. He would love Mitchell’s little park and I, he said, would be able to find a spot in Bend with only a little effort.

We enjoyed our conversation but it soon grew too hot to sit any longer. So we shook hands again and said goodbye. My climb was just beginning. My goal was to get to Bend by the end of the day. As interesting a mental challenge as a climb can be, it is a hard to translate the mental journey onto paper. For ten miles I climbed, the desert behind me. The winding gets to you sometimes, hiding the road ahead. Am I almost finished or is this an all day affair? Fortunately Carl did give me an idea how long the climb was going to be so I paced myself just right and stopped at the top to eat. “Please give me this downhill!” I pleaded. “No headwind, Bad headwind!”

While eating, a semi which had come up the other way, stopped right at the top of the pass with its engine racing and smoking. It had a tough climb back where I was now heading, downhill. Sweet!

I passed through Prineville and Redmond.

I arrived in Bend just before sunset, so I had no time to debate the subtleties of the campsite that I had just found, right in down, on the edge of the Deschutes River. After 80 miles and a lot of climbing, my day was done and I had pretty much decided that Bend, Oregon was going to be the last stop on this trip. I was tired. Emotionally, physically, motivationally, financially, I was done. I was cruising into town when I saw to my right, a shrubby, wooded area. There was a small dirt driveway/ turnaround right off the road. I pulled in, dropped the bike and sat down to eat a snack, something to tide me over til I could cook. There was a small canal, diverted from the river which ran under the road I had just left. I stepped into the water and washed off my legs. If you’ve been there, you know how good this feels. Dirt, sweat and sunscreen washed off my legs while I massaged them, bringing blood circulation back to the surface. What I loved so much about this trip was the extremes. Absolute exhaustion followed by good food and the sleep of the just. A motorcycle was parked there with no rider to be seen. I dropped my bike and scouted the area where I found a number of suitable squatting spots, the best of which overlooked a drop-off down to a wooded area which fronted the shore. I got out of my riding clothes just as the sun set and nestled into the spot and made food and laid back, gazed upward as the stars emerged knowing that this was probably my last night out here. I was tired. A long trip, I’ve met so many people, time to sleep.

-the 3 guys broke up somewhere on the road. something about a  dame. As of 2007, they are all alive & well, but probably have not talked with one another since this trip. Such is life.-mj
Please enjoy these final pics.