After watching the All Black victory in the kiwi-aussie bar in Seattle, I didn't begin my trip south in the best of conditions. On that Saturday, pitcher after pitcher followed the Badger football game as we mourned the loss and 'prepared' for a house/dance party we'd been invited to. At 12:30am, after more drinks at the party and dancing in the crowded basement, I dipped out and rode over to the bar for the start of the rugby world cup final between France and New Zealand. The bar had reached its capacity, so I found a spot in the crowd outside with a decent view of the game through the word 'Aussie' on the window. The game was relatively uneventful, but painful to watch with the All Blacks barely scraping by to claim the world title 8-7. Getting back to Kaytlyn's with a pint of chocolate ice cream and lying down on the couch at 3:30am would prove to be a poor decision as I woke up a few hours later to find myself still on the couch, hungover, with the pint of now melted ice cream still in my hand which I immediately dumped all over myself. Against all odds, however, I was on the 1:30pm ferry that day, leaving Seattle on my way across the Puget Sound and with nothing in my way to get to San Diego!!! I managed to pedal 50 miles that afternoon before the sun set at 6pm.
The rain that I expected of the Pacific Northwest held off for me and gave me sunny skies. I had a goal set to ride long and hard and get down the coast to where warm weather awaited me. Three 100 mile days was my target; I've done many 'century' rides on the trip, but something has always come up and I've never been able to do two in a row. The Pacific coast proved to be no exception... The high mileage days are difficult, especially now that the sun sets around 6pm every night. It comes down to time spent on the bicycle - the more little rests that I take, the more bakeries and ice cream shops I stop at, the more miles I lose for the day. But I wanted to see as much of the coast as I could while the weather remained good, so I pushed my legs onward. The next day I made it 110 miles to Long Beach, WA, where I finally arrived at a coast with real ocean waves crashing into the sand and I pitched my tent near the water. It was a beautiful night, one of the first nights it wasn't cloudy and the stars were finally visible. Nothing compared to the stars of Montana, but one can't complain about nights spent under the stars on a beach...
The next day found me pedaling across the Colombia River on a 5 mile long bridge into Oregon. I spent some time in a little coffee shop I found in Astoria, the Three Cups Coffee House which roasts its own coffee on premise as the Columbia River Coffee Roaster. After a lengthy stay in the shop enjoying the atmosphere, warm drinks and baked goods, I was in the saddle again with a second century in mind. Alas, as it was getting dark with only 4 miles to complete my century and I was outside of Tillamook (where I stopped for my second ice cream of the day at the famous creamery there). There, a truck pulled up to me offering help and recommending a house to knock on for water. I was soon welcomed into the house and before I knew it was in a hot shower and my exhausted body was falling asleep in one of the comfiest beds of my trip!
On my way to attempted century number three, the beauty of the coast and my worn out body started to slow me down. As I approached 80 miles for the day it was sunset and I found myself biking down a side road out to the coast. The only business with its lights on was "The Flying Dutchman Winery" - a small winery that advertised wine tasting and had its door open. Just around the block from the winery was a small green spot, with a public restroom, and no "no camping" signs, so I figured I had my campsite pretty well figured out. After some conversation inside and being in the right place at the right time, I walked out with a bottle of Pinot Noir to top off my 1.5pint bottle of strong, craft beer I purchased earlier in the day. What evening can go bad when you have a whole bottle of good wine to finish yourself? So I sat in the pretty little green spot and cooked up some shrimp I had from the store with veggies and spices and wine!
More fine weather awaited me the next day and by the end of the day, despite a slower morning, I had 85 miles behind me. I was in Reedsport, OR, with nowhere to stay so decided to give the churches a try. I had heard that if you're ever in need of a spot to crash, a church lawn is a good one to pick. As I biked by the Methodist church, I saw people going inside so decided to see what they thought. I was quickly ushered inside and shown to the kitchen where I could cook my dinner. It was singing worship night and I was invited to join in. I found myself in a position I never expected to be; singing 'Jesus' songs with elderly folks in a church. I don't think of myself as a 'follower' of Jesus and hence, not a christian, so some of the lyrics were hard to sing out... but then again, I reasoned, I sing along to vulgar and trashy songs that offend me when I think about them, but with a little filter the songs become alright. I was welcomed into my first church of the trip and had a great spot for my tent outside on the lawn, and was questioned by the church goers, 'where do you sleep when you don't sleep at churches???'
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
On the Road again...
...I just can't wait to get on the road again. Since leaving Vancouver about 2 weeks ago, life on the road has resumed its event-filled pace. Evan and I took the ferry to Vancouver Island, not arriving to Nanaimo until quite late because we missed our initial ferry. Instead of hitting the road, we had to instead head out in search of a Nanaimo Bar - a chocolate cookie based with a vanilla custard filling and melted chocolate on top. When we asked at the natural food store where the best place to find these coveted treats was, we were directed to an ice cream store which sold the Nanaimo Bar Sundae - nanaimo bar ice cream with the chocolatey bars stuck in the top. Our insides were reeling post-sundae experience and we quickly looked for a place to stay in town.
We found ourselves on the edge of a lake at a boat launch in a small park. There was just enough shade from the trees, shrubs and nearby forest to convince us to pitch a tent there for the night and wake up early so as not to get 'caught.' We were told, however, that a fenced in area about 1/2 mile away from us around the lake was the provincial penetentiary facility - a large jail/prison from which we could hear announcements over the loudspeakers on a sporadic basis. The fence in front of the forest held a sign "no trespassing, motion detection system in place." Throughout that long night, every stick that cracked from the forest between us and the prison, every rustle in the woods, was the sound of a recently escaped inmate, on the verge of running into our tent and taking advantage of the first sign of the outside that he ran into.
I spent 3 more nights on the island, trying to see as much as I can but with an overwhelming feeling about me of the need to get south to warm weather. Evan left due to knee pains, so I was left to my own thoughts of warm San Diego beaches and a daily weather forecast of 70 and sunny, trying not to think of the rain and cold I would have to brave before then. Fortunately, the weather treated me spectacularly on the island, and I managed to make it south to Seattle to stay with Kaytlyn and Ely just in time for the beginning of the rain.
I still made time for distractions, however, and found myself on Whidby Island, about 40 miles north of Seattle, at a farm in front of a sign that read "Community Potluck 19, Everyone Welcome 5pm." I looked at my watch, and indeed it was the 19th, approaching 4pm. I stopped at the little cafe to get a piece of pie and inquire about the potluck and was invited with welcoming arms. What I discovered was an amazing community powered food system, wonderful people, and a table-full of homemade chili, quiches, curries, salads, pies, cookies, home-grown veggies and meats... too much for a room full of about 50 people to eat (even if there was a bike tourist there)!!!
Greenbank Farm is a community owned organic farm that supports an apprenticeship program - an intense 7 month course of study in all things related to starting, running, and managing a small organic farm - weekly CSA baskets to community members, and several small shops including a cafe, pie, cheese and wine shops. I was stunned at the wealth of friendly people and incredible community that the community farm was able to create with its focus on fresh, local, organic food. That night I was welcomed into the home of Ed and Carol who lived on a couple of acres with their chickens, cattle, dog and cat, and large vegetable garden. Conversations ensued about my route down the pacific coast, global water problems and the future of water consumption around the nation, and the Occupy Wall Street movement which appears the historically recurrent struggle of the poor vs. the rich; the fight against greed.
Although the road was becoming more and more interesting, and the wealth of community that I had just discovered at the farm re-ignited my urge to continue my travels - to stay outdoors on my bicycle and see the world inspite of the cold, I was happy to finally arrive in Seattle. I had decided to go straight to highway 101 and stay on the coast for my entire trip south - bypassing cities that I still want to see such as Eugene, Portland, and Corvalis. It's the rural life, small towns, artisans and farmers that I have appreciated the most on my trip. Although cities draw me in with their promises of food, site-seeing, and 'culture,' it's much easier to experience real life, real culture, and real food in the small towns.
Yet, Seattle drew me in for 3 days, and through my great hosts, showed me its beauty though the sun never really showed its face. Although its hills were daunting for riding a bike, and rainy days were ominous, bicycle commuters were out and about and the city was enjoyable to get around in on two wheels - inspite of the charged politics against bicycles and the difficutly in promoting bicycles as a sensible form of transportation that Willie Weir talked about. Ely and Kaytlyn treated me to a TGR premier, "One for the Road," with Ian McIntosh and Dana Flahr, as well as a salmon bake (so many different kinds of cooked salmon!), and the Badger's depressing hail mary loss to MI State (win or lose, we still b....). At least the All Blacks won the rugby world cup.
Biking down the Oregon coast has had its own plethora of stories... currently in Bandon, OR almost to California.
We found ourselves on the edge of a lake at a boat launch in a small park. There was just enough shade from the trees, shrubs and nearby forest to convince us to pitch a tent there for the night and wake up early so as not to get 'caught.' We were told, however, that a fenced in area about 1/2 mile away from us around the lake was the provincial penetentiary facility - a large jail/prison from which we could hear announcements over the loudspeakers on a sporadic basis. The fence in front of the forest held a sign "no trespassing, motion detection system in place." Throughout that long night, every stick that cracked from the forest between us and the prison, every rustle in the woods, was the sound of a recently escaped inmate, on the verge of running into our tent and taking advantage of the first sign of the outside that he ran into.
I spent 3 more nights on the island, trying to see as much as I can but with an overwhelming feeling about me of the need to get south to warm weather. Evan left due to knee pains, so I was left to my own thoughts of warm San Diego beaches and a daily weather forecast of 70 and sunny, trying not to think of the rain and cold I would have to brave before then. Fortunately, the weather treated me spectacularly on the island, and I managed to make it south to Seattle to stay with Kaytlyn and Ely just in time for the beginning of the rain.
I still made time for distractions, however, and found myself on Whidby Island, about 40 miles north of Seattle, at a farm in front of a sign that read "Community Potluck 19, Everyone Welcome 5pm." I looked at my watch, and indeed it was the 19th, approaching 4pm. I stopped at the little cafe to get a piece of pie and inquire about the potluck and was invited with welcoming arms. What I discovered was an amazing community powered food system, wonderful people, and a table-full of homemade chili, quiches, curries, salads, pies, cookies, home-grown veggies and meats... too much for a room full of about 50 people to eat (even if there was a bike tourist there)!!!
Greenbank Farm is a community owned organic farm that supports an apprenticeship program - an intense 7 month course of study in all things related to starting, running, and managing a small organic farm - weekly CSA baskets to community members, and several small shops including a cafe, pie, cheese and wine shops. I was stunned at the wealth of friendly people and incredible community that the community farm was able to create with its focus on fresh, local, organic food. That night I was welcomed into the home of Ed and Carol who lived on a couple of acres with their chickens, cattle, dog and cat, and large vegetable garden. Conversations ensued about my route down the pacific coast, global water problems and the future of water consumption around the nation, and the Occupy Wall Street movement which appears the historically recurrent struggle of the poor vs. the rich; the fight against greed.
Although the road was becoming more and more interesting, and the wealth of community that I had just discovered at the farm re-ignited my urge to continue my travels - to stay outdoors on my bicycle and see the world inspite of the cold, I was happy to finally arrive in Seattle. I had decided to go straight to highway 101 and stay on the coast for my entire trip south - bypassing cities that I still want to see such as Eugene, Portland, and Corvalis. It's the rural life, small towns, artisans and farmers that I have appreciated the most on my trip. Although cities draw me in with their promises of food, site-seeing, and 'culture,' it's much easier to experience real life, real culture, and real food in the small towns.
Yet, Seattle drew me in for 3 days, and through my great hosts, showed me its beauty though the sun never really showed its face. Although its hills were daunting for riding a bike, and rainy days were ominous, bicycle commuters were out and about and the city was enjoyable to get around in on two wheels - inspite of the charged politics against bicycles and the difficutly in promoting bicycles as a sensible form of transportation that Willie Weir talked about. Ely and Kaytlyn treated me to a TGR premier, "One for the Road," with Ian McIntosh and Dana Flahr, as well as a salmon bake (so many different kinds of cooked salmon!), and the Badger's depressing hail mary loss to MI State (win or lose, we still b....). At least the All Blacks won the rugby world cup.
Biking down the Oregon coast has had its own plethora of stories... currently in Bandon, OR almost to California.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Stagnation
I spent two weeks in Vancouver. Fourteen full days in a house with carpeted floors, sleeping in the same plush bed every night, eating food I could store in a refrigerator and connecting to the internet several times a day.
On the road, waking up at the beginning of the day is full of excitement for the possibilities of the day - until I realize that I have to go to the bathroom. This involves getting out of my sleeping bag and sheet, maybe putting some warm clothes on if I'm not feeling like braving the cold, unzipping tent and fly and stepping out onto the dew-soaked ground to find a tree or a bush... or a soft patch of ground I can pierce with my shovel if I really have to go... Then begins the slow process of preparing for the day. I get into my often still damp, sometimes a bit smelly biking clothes. I pack up my clothes into one pannier, sleeping bag and pad into another and get everything out of my tent. I take down my tent which is cold and wet with dew or rain, numbing my fingers throughout the process. Next, I get out my stove, fire it up, and wait for my oatmeal to cook. If I feel like I really need a warm, caffeinated drink (and I have some coffee grounds), I'll cook up a pot of cowboy coffee. 15 minutes later or so, I'm eating my hot porridge and possibly drinking a cup-o-jo. Just when my fingers have finally warmed up, I've finished breakfast and need to wash dishes before beginning the journey for the day. With dishes washed, my fingers numb again, I load my bike and am finally ready to start pedaling for the day...
On the other hand, when I stay indoors it's a the dream life of luxury! In Vancouver in the morning I would stumble upstairs and make myself a latte from the espresso machine. I would use a real bathroom without ever having to leave the warmth of the dwelling, the only discomfort coming from having to cross the cold tile floor with my bare feet. Breakfast came from the fridge and a frying pan, hot water from a tea kettle, and maybe even bacon from the freezer. Dishes were put into the dishwasher and forgotten about. Nothing was packed away, and my fingers would never become numb.
This is a lifestyle that I can only dream about while on the road biking. And the first several days of it are absolute bliss. The mere comfort of a roof above my head and insulated walls protecting me from the cold wind and rain outside being a royal luxury. My metabolism runs at its high biking-accelerated levels, converting everything I eat to chemical fuel my body thinks it will need. My thoughts are on food and of the different ways I can nap, sit, and relax the day away. Beers get opened once noon hits and afternoon cocktails and glasses of wine are consumed as I wonder what I'll eat for dinner (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating just a little bit, especially since liquor prices in Canada were suuuuper high). While in Vancouver, I expanded my culinary abilities making my first pie crust, my first chicken pot pie, quiche, cinnamon rolls, and seared halibut with broccoli.
But after a couple of days, my metabolism regained is usual sedentary levels and I was forced to consider if I was getting enough 'exercise' each day... Doing the mixing of a batch of cookie dough by hand doesn't really seem to count as the necessary exercise to justify eating the quantity of cookies that would result.
My metabolism wasn't the only thing that dropped, but my general mood became more stagnant. No longer were my days filled with unknown adventures. I knew everyday when I woke up where I would sleep that night. Although there's a lot to see in Vancouver, I lacked the motivation to continuously venture out into a city I'd been in and explored already for a few days. All parts of cities seem the same to me-the same shops, the same style buildings, and the same hills to go up and down. I yearned for mountains to hike and hills to climb. Fortunately, there was a popular hiking mountain very close to the house. Upon trying to climb the mountain, however, I was infuriated by the fact that the trail closed at 4pm, AND that, while it was free to hike up, it was mandatory to take the gondola back down to the bottom-a mandatory $10 gondola ride.
So my days fell into stagnation and while I was happy to have the luxury and comforts of a house, I grew tired of experiencing the same thing day in and day out and yearned for the adventure and unknown that only the road could give me. The road is upon me once again and, while it has taken a bit to get used to, new experiences hit me everyday, and I have one month to get to San Diego before Thanksgiving. Cheers to all!
On the road, waking up at the beginning of the day is full of excitement for the possibilities of the day - until I realize that I have to go to the bathroom. This involves getting out of my sleeping bag and sheet, maybe putting some warm clothes on if I'm not feeling like braving the cold, unzipping tent and fly and stepping out onto the dew-soaked ground to find a tree or a bush... or a soft patch of ground I can pierce with my shovel if I really have to go... Then begins the slow process of preparing for the day. I get into my often still damp, sometimes a bit smelly biking clothes. I pack up my clothes into one pannier, sleeping bag and pad into another and get everything out of my tent. I take down my tent which is cold and wet with dew or rain, numbing my fingers throughout the process. Next, I get out my stove, fire it up, and wait for my oatmeal to cook. If I feel like I really need a warm, caffeinated drink (and I have some coffee grounds), I'll cook up a pot of cowboy coffee. 15 minutes later or so, I'm eating my hot porridge and possibly drinking a cup-o-jo. Just when my fingers have finally warmed up, I've finished breakfast and need to wash dishes before beginning the journey for the day. With dishes washed, my fingers numb again, I load my bike and am finally ready to start pedaling for the day...
On the other hand, when I stay indoors it's a the dream life of luxury! In Vancouver in the morning I would stumble upstairs and make myself a latte from the espresso machine. I would use a real bathroom without ever having to leave the warmth of the dwelling, the only discomfort coming from having to cross the cold tile floor with my bare feet. Breakfast came from the fridge and a frying pan, hot water from a tea kettle, and maybe even bacon from the freezer. Dishes were put into the dishwasher and forgotten about. Nothing was packed away, and my fingers would never become numb.
This is a lifestyle that I can only dream about while on the road biking. And the first several days of it are absolute bliss. The mere comfort of a roof above my head and insulated walls protecting me from the cold wind and rain outside being a royal luxury. My metabolism runs at its high biking-accelerated levels, converting everything I eat to chemical fuel my body thinks it will need. My thoughts are on food and of the different ways I can nap, sit, and relax the day away. Beers get opened once noon hits and afternoon cocktails and glasses of wine are consumed as I wonder what I'll eat for dinner (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating just a little bit, especially since liquor prices in Canada were suuuuper high). While in Vancouver, I expanded my culinary abilities making my first pie crust, my first chicken pot pie, quiche, cinnamon rolls, and seared halibut with broccoli.
But after a couple of days, my metabolism regained is usual sedentary levels and I was forced to consider if I was getting enough 'exercise' each day... Doing the mixing of a batch of cookie dough by hand doesn't really seem to count as the necessary exercise to justify eating the quantity of cookies that would result.
My metabolism wasn't the only thing that dropped, but my general mood became more stagnant. No longer were my days filled with unknown adventures. I knew everyday when I woke up where I would sleep that night. Although there's a lot to see in Vancouver, I lacked the motivation to continuously venture out into a city I'd been in and explored already for a few days. All parts of cities seem the same to me-the same shops, the same style buildings, and the same hills to go up and down. I yearned for mountains to hike and hills to climb. Fortunately, there was a popular hiking mountain very close to the house. Upon trying to climb the mountain, however, I was infuriated by the fact that the trail closed at 4pm, AND that, while it was free to hike up, it was mandatory to take the gondola back down to the bottom-a mandatory $10 gondola ride.
So my days fell into stagnation and while I was happy to have the luxury and comforts of a house, I grew tired of experiencing the same thing day in and day out and yearned for the adventure and unknown that only the road could give me. The road is upon me once again and, while it has taken a bit to get used to, new experiences hit me everyday, and I have one month to get to San Diego before Thanksgiving. Cheers to all!
Monday, October 10, 2011
"I just ate a big ice cream sundae and now I'm ready for the road"
-the motto of my trip. Or, as it has been in Canada, "I just at a cinnamon roll with a coffee and now I'm ready for the cold again." The cold and impending winter freeze became a part of the tour in the north. Upon leaving Jasper, I crossed the continental divide with relative ease and sunny forecasts for the ride through eastern BC. At the pass, I started talking to a guy taking a cigarette break from his drive.
"Not much of a pass, eh?"
"This is the second lowest pass in the Canadian Rockies."
The pass was a mere bump in the road, un-identifiable from the mountain valleys and snow crested peaks; a small rise in the road compared to the routes I was imagining through the jutted, rocky pinnacles that surrounded me. But a small amount of work going up a pass usually means a small amount of coasting going downhill. So instead of the high speed euphoria that I usually experience after a summit, I was presented with relatively flat terrain and a need to pedal to make any progress for the day. Slowly, I made my way down from the pass and into British Colombia.
At Moose Lake I saw hundreds of little splashes along the shore. Equipped with a small spinning fishing rod - an old rod that Ben Rosemeyer broke in half and, still being usable, was passed on to me for my trip - I found a spot right next to the road and fished for an hour, hoping to catch some free dinner. My plan was to catch a fish, find a small pullout on the side of the road to pitch my tent, cook dinner, and have an early night. Instead, I didn't catch anything and got back on my bicycle. When I arrived at the pullout for Overlander Falls - a short 20 minute hike to see a historic waterfall - a familiar looking SUV vehicle pulled up next to me and a guy stepped out.
"I don't believe in fate, and I don't believe in coincidence either," he said, "but you seemed like a cool guy back at the pass, do you want to go camp with me tonight?"
Still grasping to figure out that this was the same guy I spoke to at the top of Yellowhead Pass, about 50 miles back, I accepted his offer. It took a little bit to find an acceptable campsite; it's much easier to camp in the woods for free when the only thing you need to hide is a tent and a bicycle - hiding a car is much more work. Fortunately, Rich knew some people with property on the Fraser river and we camped on a sandbar in the middle of the river underneath an unclouded and picturesque Mt. Robson - the highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies. Rich proceeded in unpacking his car camping equipment which consisted of a gigantic tent, a full queen size blow up mattress, a camping stove powered by a tank of propane, and full kitchen equipment. After having a brief conversation with me on top of Yellowhead Pass, he had driven the 60 miles back from Jasper to find me because he felt like camping with "the crazy biking tourist he had just met." We had a fire and drank beer as we watched the stars and the trains pass by us until late in the evening. I couldn't understand why he made such a big drive back to find me but was happy for the unexpected good cheer and company
The next morning, the sunny forecast that I was expecting turned a complete 180 and clouded over. After a late start I made it about 20 miles before getting to a bakery I'd heard a lot about. "The Swiss Bakery" was young in age, but its reputation was already reaching far distances. After a coffee, a small callah loaf, a sausage pastry roll, and a little chocolate pastry (remember, it's easy to eat a lot when you're biking, ahem, 80+ miles, aheeeem, a day... cough cough cough), the sky was really darkening with clouds and I was reconsidering biking any further for the day.
Although I had stayed under a roof a mere two nights ago and had promised myself to cover some serious miles before taking advantage of other rainproof refuges, the feeling of humidity in the air and the dark, overcast skies made me think twice. I biked by the only house in Valemount, that was on warmshowers.org - a hospitality site similar to couchsurfing.org except exclusively for bicycle tourists. Fortunately for my body and unfortunately for my milage promise, the owner of the house was outside. After a brief conversation of bicycle touring stories, I quickly realized that it would be a better to stay under a warm roof with a warm meal than to forge onwards in the quickly dimming daylight and darkening skies.
It turned out into a wonderful evening conversing with my host, Thomas, a woodworker and ex-monk-turned-bike tourist/backcountry skier. We talked about life as a monk and the transition to starting a new life - a 50 year old ex-monk living the dream life of a 20 year old. We discussed the mountains and land ownership. Snowmobiles are taking over, he told me, and there is a continuous fight between the sledders and heli-ski companies in the area for usable terrain. Unfortunately, the self propelled folks-the alpine ski tourists who hike everywhere-don't get their say very much and they're left with difficult-to-access slopes. In many cases, it's a long trek into the mountains to access the heli-ski slopes where snowmobilers aren't allowed to play. I guess it would be pretty cool to wake up early though, tour up to the top of a mountain and get there before a heli-ski operation - giving the helicopter a wave as it passes by before you shred the coveted line of the day.
New pictures from Jasper to Vancouver are HERE!
"Not much of a pass, eh?"
"This is the second lowest pass in the Canadian Rockies."
The pass was a mere bump in the road, un-identifiable from the mountain valleys and snow crested peaks; a small rise in the road compared to the routes I was imagining through the jutted, rocky pinnacles that surrounded me. But a small amount of work going up a pass usually means a small amount of coasting going downhill. So instead of the high speed euphoria that I usually experience after a summit, I was presented with relatively flat terrain and a need to pedal to make any progress for the day. Slowly, I made my way down from the pass and into British Colombia.
At Moose Lake I saw hundreds of little splashes along the shore. Equipped with a small spinning fishing rod - an old rod that Ben Rosemeyer broke in half and, still being usable, was passed on to me for my trip - I found a spot right next to the road and fished for an hour, hoping to catch some free dinner. My plan was to catch a fish, find a small pullout on the side of the road to pitch my tent, cook dinner, and have an early night. Instead, I didn't catch anything and got back on my bicycle. When I arrived at the pullout for Overlander Falls - a short 20 minute hike to see a historic waterfall - a familiar looking SUV vehicle pulled up next to me and a guy stepped out.
"I don't believe in fate, and I don't believe in coincidence either," he said, "but you seemed like a cool guy back at the pass, do you want to go camp with me tonight?"
Still grasping to figure out that this was the same guy I spoke to at the top of Yellowhead Pass, about 50 miles back, I accepted his offer. It took a little bit to find an acceptable campsite; it's much easier to camp in the woods for free when the only thing you need to hide is a tent and a bicycle - hiding a car is much more work. Fortunately, Rich knew some people with property on the Fraser river and we camped on a sandbar in the middle of the river underneath an unclouded and picturesque Mt. Robson - the highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies. Rich proceeded in unpacking his car camping equipment which consisted of a gigantic tent, a full queen size blow up mattress, a camping stove powered by a tank of propane, and full kitchen equipment. After having a brief conversation with me on top of Yellowhead Pass, he had driven the 60 miles back from Jasper to find me because he felt like camping with "the crazy biking tourist he had just met." We had a fire and drank beer as we watched the stars and the trains pass by us until late in the evening. I couldn't understand why he made such a big drive back to find me but was happy for the unexpected good cheer and company
The next morning, the sunny forecast that I was expecting turned a complete 180 and clouded over. After a late start I made it about 20 miles before getting to a bakery I'd heard a lot about. "The Swiss Bakery" was young in age, but its reputation was already reaching far distances. After a coffee, a small callah loaf, a sausage pastry roll, and a little chocolate pastry (remember, it's easy to eat a lot when you're biking, ahem, 80+ miles, aheeeem, a day... cough cough cough), the sky was really darkening with clouds and I was reconsidering biking any further for the day.
Although I had stayed under a roof a mere two nights ago and had promised myself to cover some serious miles before taking advantage of other rainproof refuges, the feeling of humidity in the air and the dark, overcast skies made me think twice. I biked by the only house in Valemount, that was on warmshowers.org - a hospitality site similar to couchsurfing.org except exclusively for bicycle tourists. Fortunately for my body and unfortunately for my milage promise, the owner of the house was outside. After a brief conversation of bicycle touring stories, I quickly realized that it would be a better to stay under a warm roof with a warm meal than to forge onwards in the quickly dimming daylight and darkening skies.
It turned out into a wonderful evening conversing with my host, Thomas, a woodworker and ex-monk-turned-bike tourist/backcountry skier. We talked about life as a monk and the transition to starting a new life - a 50 year old ex-monk living the dream life of a 20 year old. We discussed the mountains and land ownership. Snowmobiles are taking over, he told me, and there is a continuous fight between the sledders and heli-ski companies in the area for usable terrain. Unfortunately, the self propelled folks-the alpine ski tourists who hike everywhere-don't get their say very much and they're left with difficult-to-access slopes. In many cases, it's a long trek into the mountains to access the heli-ski slopes where snowmobilers aren't allowed to play. I guess it would be pretty cool to wake up early though, tour up to the top of a mountain and get there before a heli-ski operation - giving the helicopter a wave as it passes by before you shred the coveted line of the day.
New pictures from Jasper to Vancouver are HERE!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Canadian Impressions
Canada. That country to the north. It may seem like there's nothing further north in the United States save the endless barren steppe of North Dakota, or the mosquito filled lakes and wetlands of Minnesota; where areas that boast even a meager population density are rare. But cross this little line painted on maps - some places you may cross it without even knowing while in others large control buildings and gates have been constructed to control access - and you enter a completely different country, encounter huge population centers, and find some of the most vast and wild areas of North America.
When it comes to the outdoors, Canada has it all. The Canadian Rockies jut for miles and miles from the American Glacier National Park to the north. Just outside of Calgary, the Rockies are home to 5 Canadian National Parks, all but one of them sharing a border with eachother. Together, they make up one of the largest wilderness reserves on the planet. Within 2 days of crossing the border, we had seen 3 black bears - one that burst from its berry bushes between the bike trail we were on and the main road, almost taking Brint along with him. As I biked through Jasper National Park, a lone cayote meandered along a floodplain. I stopped to watch and in doing so, attracted cars passing by to stop and check out the scene, scaring the animal into the bushes. In Jasper, late in the evening as I biked back into town from a hike, I heard elk bugling from the trees on either side of the road. I rode to what I deemed to be a safe distance from the calls of the bull elk in rut before I began to look for him in the trees. Cars whizzed by me; people encased in a sound resistant metal shell oblivious of the things going on in the forest around them. All of a sudden, a cow popped out of the forest and crossed the road. She was closely followed by a huge bull with fully developed antlers. The magic of having first heard the elk, then seen them appear into view as they crossed the road made me very glad I was on a bicycle and not in a car.
It seems that when Canadians aren't enjoying the wealth of natural beauty, they are playing hockey. Upon leaving Calgary, we made it to Canmore - a small town located 30km south of Banff and just outside the park gate. The town, surrounded by a plethora of mountains, is a haven for outdoorsy folks who participate in activities like hiking, mountain biking, backcountry and resort skiing, cross-country skiing, hangliding and parasailing, and anything else imaginable in the mountains. Of course, the town would not be complete without a hockey rink. I stumbled upon the rink at the end of the day just as two teams in uniform were beginning a game of street hockey - no skates and no pads, just shoes, sticks and a ball. Apparently, the summer streetball season was coming to a close and this was the first game of the playoffs. Upon learning this, I gave up hope of joining in on the game, until one of the team captains burst out, "You wanna play? You shoot left? Here, you can use this stick." He got me a shirt and just like that, I was running around the seasonally flooded outdoor hockey rink after a ball in a playoff game. I ended up with one goal in my team's first playoff victory. "Come back again tomorrow night!" I was told. If I would have returned, however, I knew Canmore would have marked the end of my journey. Game after game I would have stayed for and probably ended up with a job in the small mountain town with "Help Wanted" signs posted on nearly every shop window.
As the NHL regular season comes to a start and hockey is becoming a topic of conversation, the weather has taken a drastic turn. As we biked through Banff and Jasper along the 200+km Icefields Parkway, we would constantly wake up to frigid mornings. My fingers would be numb every morning by the time my gear was packed and I was ready to leave. The temperature sunk to below freezing in the early morning hours, and it wouldn't be until 11 or noon when things finally warmed up. On some occasions, the day never warmed up; we found ourselves in the middle of a snow storm on the last mountain pass before Jasper.
By the time I hit Jasper, I was cold and ready for the comforts of a house. After an hour or so walking the streets of the small mountain town, I began a short conversation with a middle aged man, Roy, and was promptly invited to put my tent in his yard and eat dinner with him. I gladly agreed, and after a visit to one of the local coffee shop/bakeries, I was seated inside Roy's warm house drinking tea and talking about the mountains. In total, I spent 3 nights and four days with Roy and Jacinta and their son David. I would wake up early in the morning, go to the bakery for a coffee and cinnamon roll (The Bear's Paw if you're ever in Jasper), and read the paper for an hour or so, before taking off to climb one of the many peaks that surround the town. In the afternoon I drank tea and enjoyed the warmth and community that only roof and insulated building can provide.
You could say I became a little soft during my stay in Jasper. I began to yearn for a roof of my own. A warm bed I could crawl into everynight. Cups of warm tea all day. A kitchen full of spices and veggies and meat and baking supplies. A comfy couch to read stories of adventure and travel, geology and nature. As David left for school every morning, I realized how happy I was to be done; the daily chore of waking up to go to class and study a completed phase in my life. I even thought of work and jobs and my warm house at the end of the day. The cold weather was driving me inside and I knew I had to leave and get south!
So to the south I embarked and currently am in Lillooet, BC, a couple days ride through rain and headwinds to Vancouver. Comments are well appreciated if you are reading, and you can see pictures from Banff and Jasper here. Thanks for reading!
When it comes to the outdoors, Canada has it all. The Canadian Rockies jut for miles and miles from the American Glacier National Park to the north. Just outside of Calgary, the Rockies are home to 5 Canadian National Parks, all but one of them sharing a border with eachother. Together, they make up one of the largest wilderness reserves on the planet. Within 2 days of crossing the border, we had seen 3 black bears - one that burst from its berry bushes between the bike trail we were on and the main road, almost taking Brint along with him. As I biked through Jasper National Park, a lone cayote meandered along a floodplain. I stopped to watch and in doing so, attracted cars passing by to stop and check out the scene, scaring the animal into the bushes. In Jasper, late in the evening as I biked back into town from a hike, I heard elk bugling from the trees on either side of the road. I rode to what I deemed to be a safe distance from the calls of the bull elk in rut before I began to look for him in the trees. Cars whizzed by me; people encased in a sound resistant metal shell oblivious of the things going on in the forest around them. All of a sudden, a cow popped out of the forest and crossed the road. She was closely followed by a huge bull with fully developed antlers. The magic of having first heard the elk, then seen them appear into view as they crossed the road made me very glad I was on a bicycle and not in a car.
It seems that when Canadians aren't enjoying the wealth of natural beauty, they are playing hockey. Upon leaving Calgary, we made it to Canmore - a small town located 30km south of Banff and just outside the park gate. The town, surrounded by a plethora of mountains, is a haven for outdoorsy folks who participate in activities like hiking, mountain biking, backcountry and resort skiing, cross-country skiing, hangliding and parasailing, and anything else imaginable in the mountains. Of course, the town would not be complete without a hockey rink. I stumbled upon the rink at the end of the day just as two teams in uniform were beginning a game of street hockey - no skates and no pads, just shoes, sticks and a ball. Apparently, the summer streetball season was coming to a close and this was the first game of the playoffs. Upon learning this, I gave up hope of joining in on the game, until one of the team captains burst out, "You wanna play? You shoot left? Here, you can use this stick." He got me a shirt and just like that, I was running around the seasonally flooded outdoor hockey rink after a ball in a playoff game. I ended up with one goal in my team's first playoff victory. "Come back again tomorrow night!" I was told. If I would have returned, however, I knew Canmore would have marked the end of my journey. Game after game I would have stayed for and probably ended up with a job in the small mountain town with "Help Wanted" signs posted on nearly every shop window.
As the NHL regular season comes to a start and hockey is becoming a topic of conversation, the weather has taken a drastic turn. As we biked through Banff and Jasper along the 200+km Icefields Parkway, we would constantly wake up to frigid mornings. My fingers would be numb every morning by the time my gear was packed and I was ready to leave. The temperature sunk to below freezing in the early morning hours, and it wouldn't be until 11 or noon when things finally warmed up. On some occasions, the day never warmed up; we found ourselves in the middle of a snow storm on the last mountain pass before Jasper.
By the time I hit Jasper, I was cold and ready for the comforts of a house. After an hour or so walking the streets of the small mountain town, I began a short conversation with a middle aged man, Roy, and was promptly invited to put my tent in his yard and eat dinner with him. I gladly agreed, and after a visit to one of the local coffee shop/bakeries, I was seated inside Roy's warm house drinking tea and talking about the mountains. In total, I spent 3 nights and four days with Roy and Jacinta and their son David. I would wake up early in the morning, go to the bakery for a coffee and cinnamon roll (The Bear's Paw if you're ever in Jasper), and read the paper for an hour or so, before taking off to climb one of the many peaks that surround the town. In the afternoon I drank tea and enjoyed the warmth and community that only roof and insulated building can provide.
You could say I became a little soft during my stay in Jasper. I began to yearn for a roof of my own. A warm bed I could crawl into everynight. Cups of warm tea all day. A kitchen full of spices and veggies and meat and baking supplies. A comfy couch to read stories of adventure and travel, geology and nature. As David left for school every morning, I realized how happy I was to be done; the daily chore of waking up to go to class and study a completed phase in my life. I even thought of work and jobs and my warm house at the end of the day. The cold weather was driving me inside and I knew I had to leave and get south!
So to the south I embarked and currently am in Lillooet, BC, a couple days ride through rain and headwinds to Vancouver. Comments are well appreciated if you are reading, and you can see pictures from Banff and Jasper here. Thanks for reading!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Trust Humanity
From time and time again on this trip, I'm constantly reminded of the vast amount of wonderful people that exist in this world. Whether this reminder comes from a brief conversation with someone in a gas station, or spending an evening and a morning with a group of people, I come to the same conclusion. People are inherently good, they mean good and want to do good deeds to others. The only thing holding people back from these good deeds is the fear that is spread by society via the media of bad experiences that select people have. Fear is spread through societies in the form of horror stories, pictures, and the news. People are lead to believe that there are very few other people that can actually be trusted.
After four magical days in the back-country with Christa I said goodbye to her on a Sunday morning at the train stop in West Glacier. The night prior, we were 3 miles away from our intended campsite. The site was the result of the thoughtfulness of a man who, not only had given me a ride with my bike and multiple bags of groceries into the park 5 days prior, but had also lent me his whitewater kayak and shuttled me up river for an 8 mile run down the middle fork of the Flathead River. I stuck out my thumb in the pitch black of the moon-less evening and immediately a truck pulling a boat with two scuffy looking men pulled over. After a brief conversation, Christa climbed inside, and I pedalled like mad after the car that carried my girlfriend to our intended meeting place 3 miles down the road. Upon arrival, I saw the truck in a parking lot and glimpsed Christa walking into the only bar in West Glacier. I walked in and was confronted with a jubilant Saturday night atmosphere in what turned out to be the local whitewater rafting and kayaking, trekking, backcountry skiing, adventurer bar. The guys who had helped us out had offered us free beer and we were soon laughing, joking, and having a grand time with the locals that had at first given me a fright. Later, Christa managed to convince me that she really did have a train to catch the next morning and that we shouldn't accept our new friends offers for a round of shots at around 11pm.
After a short nights sleep, a quick breakfast, and an even faster goodbye as Christa was hurried onto the east-bound train, I finally got underway on my bike again the next morning at 9:30am. I was headed east on the Going to the Sun Road towards the divide through Glacier National Park. The road possessed certain restrictions to bicycles, I would have to summit the pass before 11am, an estimated 3 hour ride from the location I began. I got underway, and by 11am I had made significant progress, but was still about 1.5 hours from the top. It was clear to me why the restrictions were in place - the non-existence of a shoulder and the twisted winding road with a constant 6% grade uphill made it a difficult road for inexperienced tourist drivers and especially dangerous for bicycles. The traffic jams on the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend caused by a careless biker going 7mph would create many unhappy vacationers as they tried to drive the extraordinarily scenic road to the top of Logan Pass.
Before 11am and the beginning of the bicycle restrictions, I was completely aware of these problems I could cause, so was fully conscious of my need to get off my bike and stand aside when large streams of cars would pass me. I took care not to upset the hundreds of cars that passed me while protecting myself from careless drivers at the same time. The comments I received from drivers as they passed me, or as I passed them stopped on the side of the road were nothing but positive. "You can do it," "We're with you, glad it's you and not me biking," "We believe in you!"
When 11am came and went, I decided I wasn't causing traffic jams and people enjoyed seeing me biking, so I continued up the pass. My presence, however, was not appreciated by the law enforcement personnel in the park and a mere 2 miles from the top of the pass, I was stopped by an officer. There was no way to avoid the $125 ticket. "That's 2 weeks of food for me, I wasn't causing any problems it was the tourists driving slowly, parked in the middle of the lanes that caused the traffic jams, I constantly stopped to let cars around me as they came up! Isn't there anything I can do? Could I work for a couple days for the park? Anything???" "I'm saving your life," was the reply from the %&#$ officer.
The day was quickly going downhill. The descent of the pass was not at all gratifying like pass descents should be. The usual overwhelming flood of endorphins and accomplishment that I usually felt after summiting a pass was replaced by remorse, sadness, homesickness, and anger. It was my first time in about 2 weeks on my own again and I missed the companionship of my friends and especially my girlfriend. A quick phone call with Brint however gave me hope. He had just crossed the Canadian border and would wait for me at a campsite a mile or two away from the line. I pedalled with a renewed pace of ambition out of the park and across the Blackfoot reservation north toward the border.
14 miles shy of the border, however, I had the idea to get my passport and everything in order for the officials. It quickly dawned on me that my passport was not in the place it had been everyday of my trip. I had moved it into my backpacking backpack which Christa had brought out to me for our trip together; my passport was with her on the Amtrack, by this time somewhere in North Dakota, headed away from me and back to Wisconsin at 60 miles an hour.
I was devastated. The weight of the day took over my entire being. I was completely alone, missing Christa and my friends terribly, feeling even worse because of the ticket, and my only glimmer of hope at crossing the border and being reunited with Brint had been dashed out by my own forgetfulness. I sat in the ditch in the middle of the grassy ranch land on the reservation with my head between my legs. A car stopped next to me and an asian tourist with limited english got out and asked me if this was the way to the border. In desperate need of a person to talk to to share my pains with, I hoped he would see the distraught look in my face, but after answering his question, he was back on the road, speeding toward the border I could not cross.
My phone was my only connection with my friends and family that could comfort me, but it was soon out of battery and I was completely done; out of energy and an emotional wreck. As I biked back toward Glacier, the tears flowed freely down my face and I cried out in anguish at the flood of negative emotions I was feeling. I needed a bed, I needed some dinner, I needed a friend to talk to.
A campground that advertised warm showers and laundry among other things sparked my attention and I pulled off the road to test my luck. "$20 is the cost," I was told by the native that sat at the entrance in a lawn chair. "Glacier would charge me only $5 for a site..." I told him, and he agreed with my price. I pedalled over to the site I was directed to and started up a conversation with my neighbors, the only people in my proximate vicinity.
My neighbors were a elderly native couple, Mary and Tiny, recent grandparents. Mary was taking care of three younger children that ran back and forth between the lake and their camper and offered me dinner. As I sat around their fire eating hot dogs and talking with Tiny, my sadness slowly flowed away. I told them about my day and about my trip, about Christa and about the ticket and my passport. They told me about their recent trip to Jasper, about life on the reservation and the problems that the Native American community faces in today's world. I was invited back the next morning for breakfast. By the morning I was feeling significantly better, and after a bacon, sausage, pancake, egg breakfast I was treated to, all my problems had washed away. Listening to a phone message from Brint about the probability of me being able to cross the border without a passport added to my increasing mood, and I set out for the Canadian border, refreshed, with a new light inside of me of love for Mary and Tiny, love for the Blackfeet people, and love for humanity in general.
While there are bad people that will rob you, steal from you, and perhaps hurt you, the majority of people are good; willing to give what they can for the assistance to another human and the betterment of society in general.
I crossed the border at noon, and reunited with Brint headed for Waterton National Park in Canada. By Friday, we had made it to Calgary and the hospitality and shelter of Anthony's old room mates and friends. The goodness of people has been the saving and most beneficial grace of my entire trip, and my faith is in humanity.
New pictures
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/MontanaAndIntoCanada?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCO34h-uigpXqJQ&feat=directlink
After four magical days in the back-country with Christa I said goodbye to her on a Sunday morning at the train stop in West Glacier. The night prior, we were 3 miles away from our intended campsite. The site was the result of the thoughtfulness of a man who, not only had given me a ride with my bike and multiple bags of groceries into the park 5 days prior, but had also lent me his whitewater kayak and shuttled me up river for an 8 mile run down the middle fork of the Flathead River. I stuck out my thumb in the pitch black of the moon-less evening and immediately a truck pulling a boat with two scuffy looking men pulled over. After a brief conversation, Christa climbed inside, and I pedalled like mad after the car that carried my girlfriend to our intended meeting place 3 miles down the road. Upon arrival, I saw the truck in a parking lot and glimpsed Christa walking into the only bar in West Glacier. I walked in and was confronted with a jubilant Saturday night atmosphere in what turned out to be the local whitewater rafting and kayaking, trekking, backcountry skiing, adventurer bar. The guys who had helped us out had offered us free beer and we were soon laughing, joking, and having a grand time with the locals that had at first given me a fright. Later, Christa managed to convince me that she really did have a train to catch the next morning and that we shouldn't accept our new friends offers for a round of shots at around 11pm.
After a short nights sleep, a quick breakfast, and an even faster goodbye as Christa was hurried onto the east-bound train, I finally got underway on my bike again the next morning at 9:30am. I was headed east on the Going to the Sun Road towards the divide through Glacier National Park. The road possessed certain restrictions to bicycles, I would have to summit the pass before 11am, an estimated 3 hour ride from the location I began. I got underway, and by 11am I had made significant progress, but was still about 1.5 hours from the top. It was clear to me why the restrictions were in place - the non-existence of a shoulder and the twisted winding road with a constant 6% grade uphill made it a difficult road for inexperienced tourist drivers and especially dangerous for bicycles. The traffic jams on the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend caused by a careless biker going 7mph would create many unhappy vacationers as they tried to drive the extraordinarily scenic road to the top of Logan Pass.
Before 11am and the beginning of the bicycle restrictions, I was completely aware of these problems I could cause, so was fully conscious of my need to get off my bike and stand aside when large streams of cars would pass me. I took care not to upset the hundreds of cars that passed me while protecting myself from careless drivers at the same time. The comments I received from drivers as they passed me, or as I passed them stopped on the side of the road were nothing but positive. "You can do it," "We're with you, glad it's you and not me biking," "We believe in you!"
When 11am came and went, I decided I wasn't causing traffic jams and people enjoyed seeing me biking, so I continued up the pass. My presence, however, was not appreciated by the law enforcement personnel in the park and a mere 2 miles from the top of the pass, I was stopped by an officer. There was no way to avoid the $125 ticket. "That's 2 weeks of food for me, I wasn't causing any problems it was the tourists driving slowly, parked in the middle of the lanes that caused the traffic jams, I constantly stopped to let cars around me as they came up! Isn't there anything I can do? Could I work for a couple days for the park? Anything???" "I'm saving your life," was the reply from the %&#$ officer.
The day was quickly going downhill. The descent of the pass was not at all gratifying like pass descents should be. The usual overwhelming flood of endorphins and accomplishment that I usually felt after summiting a pass was replaced by remorse, sadness, homesickness, and anger. It was my first time in about 2 weeks on my own again and I missed the companionship of my friends and especially my girlfriend. A quick phone call with Brint however gave me hope. He had just crossed the Canadian border and would wait for me at a campsite a mile or two away from the line. I pedalled with a renewed pace of ambition out of the park and across the Blackfoot reservation north toward the border.
14 miles shy of the border, however, I had the idea to get my passport and everything in order for the officials. It quickly dawned on me that my passport was not in the place it had been everyday of my trip. I had moved it into my backpacking backpack which Christa had brought out to me for our trip together; my passport was with her on the Amtrack, by this time somewhere in North Dakota, headed away from me and back to Wisconsin at 60 miles an hour.
I was devastated. The weight of the day took over my entire being. I was completely alone, missing Christa and my friends terribly, feeling even worse because of the ticket, and my only glimmer of hope at crossing the border and being reunited with Brint had been dashed out by my own forgetfulness. I sat in the ditch in the middle of the grassy ranch land on the reservation with my head between my legs. A car stopped next to me and an asian tourist with limited english got out and asked me if this was the way to the border. In desperate need of a person to talk to to share my pains with, I hoped he would see the distraught look in my face, but after answering his question, he was back on the road, speeding toward the border I could not cross.
My phone was my only connection with my friends and family that could comfort me, but it was soon out of battery and I was completely done; out of energy and an emotional wreck. As I biked back toward Glacier, the tears flowed freely down my face and I cried out in anguish at the flood of negative emotions I was feeling. I needed a bed, I needed some dinner, I needed a friend to talk to.
A campground that advertised warm showers and laundry among other things sparked my attention and I pulled off the road to test my luck. "$20 is the cost," I was told by the native that sat at the entrance in a lawn chair. "Glacier would charge me only $5 for a site..." I told him, and he agreed with my price. I pedalled over to the site I was directed to and started up a conversation with my neighbors, the only people in my proximate vicinity.
My neighbors were a elderly native couple, Mary and Tiny, recent grandparents. Mary was taking care of three younger children that ran back and forth between the lake and their camper and offered me dinner. As I sat around their fire eating hot dogs and talking with Tiny, my sadness slowly flowed away. I told them about my day and about my trip, about Christa and about the ticket and my passport. They told me about their recent trip to Jasper, about life on the reservation and the problems that the Native American community faces in today's world. I was invited back the next morning for breakfast. By the morning I was feeling significantly better, and after a bacon, sausage, pancake, egg breakfast I was treated to, all my problems had washed away. Listening to a phone message from Brint about the probability of me being able to cross the border without a passport added to my increasing mood, and I set out for the Canadian border, refreshed, with a new light inside of me of love for Mary and Tiny, love for the Blackfeet people, and love for humanity in general.
While there are bad people that will rob you, steal from you, and perhaps hurt you, the majority of people are good; willing to give what they can for the assistance to another human and the betterment of society in general.
I crossed the border at noon, and reunited with Brint headed for Waterton National Park in Canada. By Friday, we had made it to Calgary and the hospitality and shelter of Anthony's old room mates and friends. The goodness of people has been the saving and most beneficial grace of my entire trip, and my faith is in humanity.
New pictures
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/MontanaAndIntoCanada?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCO34h-uigpXqJQ&feat=directlink
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Mighty Gallatin River
In the most southern reaches of Montana, on the border of Yellowstone National Park, high up in the smoldering volcanic cinders of the fuming mountains, there exists a small wetland with a little stream running through it. The wetland consists of rodents and waterfowl, raptors circling overhead, and black bears and grizzly bears meandering in search of trout that fill the waters of the river and berries that line its shores. The wetland's green, grassy expanses are strikingly different than the mountainous sides that erupt on either side. The stream, that begins as a mere trickle, soon turns into a gurgling flow as it leaves Yellowstone and becomes the Gallatin River. Grassy fields line its shore and the river supports vibrant ecosystems and ranches for more than 100 miles as it gains more volume until it reaches Three Forks and joins forces with the East Gallatin and the Madison River to become the Missouri River.
The Gallatin is like any mountain stream; during the spring melt its banks become flooded as the icy snowpack turns to its liquid form and rushes to the ocean. During this flood phase when the water is high, it carries debris as far downstream as possible before becoming en-snagged and stopped due to lowering water levels. Fully grown, downed trees are transported for miles; sticks and branches get thrown high up on shore, and the rocky, meandering river bed gets completely changed as boulders get pushed downstream by the force of the high flow. Boating the Gallatin during high flow must be an entertaining experience; one that many whitewater kayakers took full advantage of this past spring and into the summer as the enormous snowpack of the previous winter melted away.
My second or third day in Bozeman, Ben's idea was to float this river in his canoe. Of course it would be an easy float, he explained to me. We would bring a cooler with beer, our fishing rods, and have a grand old time lazily floating down the 6 mile stretch of river in the late afternoon. We put on the river around 5 or 6, with about 3 hours of daylight left ahead of us. We were dressed in shorts and t-shirts - typical summer wear for the season and just barely sufficient for the evenings and nights that were beginning to be cooler as the fall season approached.
By this time in the season, the water was about five vertical feet below the spring levels Ben had last seen it, and we followed the river slowly, lackadaisically looking for fishing spots and finding the route downstream. We were in Ben's old, heavy, aluminum canoe - a canoe he had found discarded in Hyalite Reservoir close to Bozeman. An excellent find and a vessel that had served him well, in spite of the lesser handling ability and heavy, plow-through-the-rapids type build. We had a cooler with beer, three fishing rods, a jar of peanuts, Ben in front, his room mate Brett in the middle, and me steering the boat in the stern. We seemed to be set up for success and a great afternoon.
Yet the streams tight curves, vast quantity of dead wood, and completely different path than expected yielded challenges we weren't expecting. "Huh, this is waaay different than I remember it," exclaimed Ben as we narrowly avoided scraping up on rocks and beaching the old canoe. I had just steered the canoe down a route through a rapid putting us in precariously close vicinity to some dead trees, but remaining in the swift current and avoiding the shallow rocks a couple of inches from the draft of the boat.
"You sure you got this," questioned Ben?
"This isn't really what I was expecting, we might have to put the fishing aside for a while and really paddle," I replied.
A couple of rapids later, we were confronted with a bend to the right in the river. The setting sun cast a glare into our eyes, blinding us from the river left bank that the stream carried us towards before cutting right. A shallow rocky shore blocked our path from cutting straight down the river; in order to follow the channel we would have to stay high then cut hard downstream to avoid hitting the river left bank. But, if we happened to crash into the left bank, whatever trees and strainers that existed there would surely push us downstream and we would be okay. It may get a little hairy, I thought, but in the end we would be sent straight downstream and avoid danger.
As our speed picked up and we entered the shade of the trees, the far bank revealed itself to us. As we speed towards it sideways trying to shoot ourselves downstream, razor sharp tree trunks jutted out perpendicularly to the water flow - the work of friendly beavers. These dead trees weren't harmless wood that would merely push us downstream, they would impale us if we came too close and stop our progress down the river with a painful and bloody shove.
As the boat came around, Ben in the front cleared the danger. Brett saw it and swerved around it. But as the spike came at my torso, I couldn't do anything about it. The only choice was to lean away from it - leaning upstream at the current - and in a second we were swimming in the water, beer cans and fishing poles floating away from the boat in the chilly melt water.
After the debris had been collected and we were drying off on the shore of the river assessing the damage we were at a loss for words. Was it my fault, I asked myself? Maybe Ben could have paddled a little bit harder and we could have hit the route as I had intended. But if Ben would have been in the stern, he argued, he would have taken the easy way around, beaching the canoe in the shallows, walking the boat and avoiding danger all together.
What would have been done, given differing circumstances will never be known. As for the rest of the trip, Ben took over in the stern, and with my guidance from the bow we commandeered the canoe down the rest of the river avoiding danger the entire way.
Beware, the spring flood waters change rivers. Easy float trips become challenging, technical rapids full of dead wood and unexpected death traps - in our case, razor sharp, beaver shaved, tree trunks of death...
The Gallatin is like any mountain stream; during the spring melt its banks become flooded as the icy snowpack turns to its liquid form and rushes to the ocean. During this flood phase when the water is high, it carries debris as far downstream as possible before becoming en-snagged and stopped due to lowering water levels. Fully grown, downed trees are transported for miles; sticks and branches get thrown high up on shore, and the rocky, meandering river bed gets completely changed as boulders get pushed downstream by the force of the high flow. Boating the Gallatin during high flow must be an entertaining experience; one that many whitewater kayakers took full advantage of this past spring and into the summer as the enormous snowpack of the previous winter melted away.
My second or third day in Bozeman, Ben's idea was to float this river in his canoe. Of course it would be an easy float, he explained to me. We would bring a cooler with beer, our fishing rods, and have a grand old time lazily floating down the 6 mile stretch of river in the late afternoon. We put on the river around 5 or 6, with about 3 hours of daylight left ahead of us. We were dressed in shorts and t-shirts - typical summer wear for the season and just barely sufficient for the evenings and nights that were beginning to be cooler as the fall season approached.
By this time in the season, the water was about five vertical feet below the spring levels Ben had last seen it, and we followed the river slowly, lackadaisically looking for fishing spots and finding the route downstream. We were in Ben's old, heavy, aluminum canoe - a canoe he had found discarded in Hyalite Reservoir close to Bozeman. An excellent find and a vessel that had served him well, in spite of the lesser handling ability and heavy, plow-through-the-rapids type build. We had a cooler with beer, three fishing rods, a jar of peanuts, Ben in front, his room mate Brett in the middle, and me steering the boat in the stern. We seemed to be set up for success and a great afternoon.
Yet the streams tight curves, vast quantity of dead wood, and completely different path than expected yielded challenges we weren't expecting. "Huh, this is waaay different than I remember it," exclaimed Ben as we narrowly avoided scraping up on rocks and beaching the old canoe. I had just steered the canoe down a route through a rapid putting us in precariously close vicinity to some dead trees, but remaining in the swift current and avoiding the shallow rocks a couple of inches from the draft of the boat.
"You sure you got this," questioned Ben?
"This isn't really what I was expecting, we might have to put the fishing aside for a while and really paddle," I replied.
A couple of rapids later, we were confronted with a bend to the right in the river. The setting sun cast a glare into our eyes, blinding us from the river left bank that the stream carried us towards before cutting right. A shallow rocky shore blocked our path from cutting straight down the river; in order to follow the channel we would have to stay high then cut hard downstream to avoid hitting the river left bank. But, if we happened to crash into the left bank, whatever trees and strainers that existed there would surely push us downstream and we would be okay. It may get a little hairy, I thought, but in the end we would be sent straight downstream and avoid danger.
As our speed picked up and we entered the shade of the trees, the far bank revealed itself to us. As we speed towards it sideways trying to shoot ourselves downstream, razor sharp tree trunks jutted out perpendicularly to the water flow - the work of friendly beavers. These dead trees weren't harmless wood that would merely push us downstream, they would impale us if we came too close and stop our progress down the river with a painful and bloody shove.
As the boat came around, Ben in the front cleared the danger. Brett saw it and swerved around it. But as the spike came at my torso, I couldn't do anything about it. The only choice was to lean away from it - leaning upstream at the current - and in a second we were swimming in the water, beer cans and fishing poles floating away from the boat in the chilly melt water.
After the debris had been collected and we were drying off on the shore of the river assessing the damage we were at a loss for words. Was it my fault, I asked myself? Maybe Ben could have paddled a little bit harder and we could have hit the route as I had intended. But if Ben would have been in the stern, he argued, he would have taken the easy way around, beaching the canoe in the shallows, walking the boat and avoiding danger all together.
What would have been done, given differing circumstances will never be known. As for the rest of the trip, Ben took over in the stern, and with my guidance from the bow we commandeered the canoe down the rest of the river avoiding danger the entire way.
Beware, the spring flood waters change rivers. Easy float trips become challenging, technical rapids full of dead wood and unexpected death traps - in our case, razor sharp, beaver shaved, tree trunks of death...
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
To Glacier National Park
After a long spell in Bozeman with Ben (1.5 weeks) Ben and I set out together for Glacier National Park. I have to admit, I cheated a little bit during this segment - Ben and I drove until we were just northwest of Helena. We could have driven to the top of the continental divide pass to start our trip, but some masochistic tendency within us told us to bike all the way up and over. We skipped Missoula and headed straight north through the Swan Valley, a valley with the Swan mountains to the east and the Mission mountains separating us from Flathead lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. Through the valley we biked, passing snow capped peaks and crystal clear rivers with trout rising from their stream homes.
We arrived at the Flathead brewery in the early afternoon, a little distraught after missing all the Montana microbreweries in Helena and Missoula, but looking forward to some good pints and the Flathead Brewery's new claim to fame, the "tackle box" - beer in a bag - the perfect product for the touring cyclist. After three alcoholic pints and a little tour of the brewery's operations, we were on our way to find a camping spot where we could fish and consume the gallon of beer - 8 pints - that our new "tackle box" held. The campsite ended up being a little sketchy. It was on the way to a National Forest campground where water levels in the lake had flooded the causeway that crossed it. With the road being closed, we camped in the dead end and awaited our friend Grace who was coming from Havre in a car to meet us. Alas, there were no fish to be caught in the lake, but the pints of fermented malty soda slid down our throats like cold water on a hot day and the evening was a success.
Once finally inside Glacier - and here I cheated again as Grace drove both Ben and myself the remaining 40 or so miles to the park - we were amazed at what we saw. Initially called "The Crown of the Continent," Glacier National Park and Waterton National Park on the Canadian side rise abruptly from the prairie plains on the east. Once within the green mountain valleys, the mountains reveal huge glaciated troughs where gigantic rivers of ice snaked their way to the plains. Waterfalls spewed over the cliffs of hanging valleys where one glacier's path was cut off high in the peaks by another. Alpine meadows of wildflowers covered the hills, fueled by the consistent streams of melt water from the glaciers. As the glaciers disappear, this place will indeed be different without the streams and meadows of flowers. By 2030 the glaciers are projected to be completely gone, melting and receding since 1850.
I had two days to spend alone while I waited for Christa to arrive on the train with backpacking gear. On the first day, I found myself out of the park buying supplies for the camping trip. Sitting on the curb outside the grocery store with piles of food scattered around my bike, I sipped a beer wondering how I would fit everything on my bike and bike the 15 miles uphill back to the park. Fortunately, luck was on my side and after a few more sips of beer I was sitting in the front seat of a pick up truck with my bike and groceries in the back. Turned out Gerard and his wife Lynette who picked me up from the store were bike tourists themselves and were happy to help me out. The conversation went from politics and the little care that people in the area seem to have for the environment to whitewater kayaking. Gerard ran one of "the most scenic school bus routes in the United States." He couldn't believe that all the kids he gave rides to played video games on their cell phones for the entire length of the 45 minute journey to school. Kids who he swore would shoot the entire Montanan wolf population dead in a heartbeat if they had the chance (Montana wolf permits this year only $19, it'll be the first year of permissible wolf hunting). I tried to offer optimism in that the video games were a phase that kids go through and there was hope for the future. But it must be hard to see this hope surrounded by people that don't see similarly to you. By the time I was dropped off in the park, Gerard had arranged for me to meet him the next day for me to use his old Prijon creeker boat for a run down the middle fork of the Flathead River.
Everything was set for Christa's arrival. Although the weather forecast held a winter storm warning and a 100% chance of rain on the first 2 days of our 4 day hiking trip, I had the permit to hike 40 miles from the east, over the divide, to end up in West Glacier. The run down the Flathead River was magical, wonderful to be in a boat again, but this time floating down pristine glacial runoff looking up at the towering peaks of Glacier above me. Logs and dead trees were scattered about the shore, 10 feet above me, a reminder that just a month ago the river was still in high flood stage from the huge snowfall of the past winter. The rapids were great with a couple little surfing waves to play about on and no rafts to worry about pushing me off. After the run, I awaited the arrival of my girlfriend by Lake McDonald in the park, reading a book on the shore of the lake.
We arrived at the Flathead brewery in the early afternoon, a little distraught after missing all the Montana microbreweries in Helena and Missoula, but looking forward to some good pints and the Flathead Brewery's new claim to fame, the "tackle box" - beer in a bag - the perfect product for the touring cyclist. After three alcoholic pints and a little tour of the brewery's operations, we were on our way to find a camping spot where we could fish and consume the gallon of beer - 8 pints - that our new "tackle box" held. The campsite ended up being a little sketchy. It was on the way to a National Forest campground where water levels in the lake had flooded the causeway that crossed it. With the road being closed, we camped in the dead end and awaited our friend Grace who was coming from Havre in a car to meet us. Alas, there were no fish to be caught in the lake, but the pints of fermented malty soda slid down our throats like cold water on a hot day and the evening was a success.
Once finally inside Glacier - and here I cheated again as Grace drove both Ben and myself the remaining 40 or so miles to the park - we were amazed at what we saw. Initially called "The Crown of the Continent," Glacier National Park and Waterton National Park on the Canadian side rise abruptly from the prairie plains on the east. Once within the green mountain valleys, the mountains reveal huge glaciated troughs where gigantic rivers of ice snaked their way to the plains. Waterfalls spewed over the cliffs of hanging valleys where one glacier's path was cut off high in the peaks by another. Alpine meadows of wildflowers covered the hills, fueled by the consistent streams of melt water from the glaciers. As the glaciers disappear, this place will indeed be different without the streams and meadows of flowers. By 2030 the glaciers are projected to be completely gone, melting and receding since 1850.
I had two days to spend alone while I waited for Christa to arrive on the train with backpacking gear. On the first day, I found myself out of the park buying supplies for the camping trip. Sitting on the curb outside the grocery store with piles of food scattered around my bike, I sipped a beer wondering how I would fit everything on my bike and bike the 15 miles uphill back to the park. Fortunately, luck was on my side and after a few more sips of beer I was sitting in the front seat of a pick up truck with my bike and groceries in the back. Turned out Gerard and his wife Lynette who picked me up from the store were bike tourists themselves and were happy to help me out. The conversation went from politics and the little care that people in the area seem to have for the environment to whitewater kayaking. Gerard ran one of "the most scenic school bus routes in the United States." He couldn't believe that all the kids he gave rides to played video games on their cell phones for the entire length of the 45 minute journey to school. Kids who he swore would shoot the entire Montanan wolf population dead in a heartbeat if they had the chance (Montana wolf permits this year only $19, it'll be the first year of permissible wolf hunting). I tried to offer optimism in that the video games were a phase that kids go through and there was hope for the future. But it must be hard to see this hope surrounded by people that don't see similarly to you. By the time I was dropped off in the park, Gerard had arranged for me to meet him the next day for me to use his old Prijon creeker boat for a run down the middle fork of the Flathead River.
Everything was set for Christa's arrival. Although the weather forecast held a winter storm warning and a 100% chance of rain on the first 2 days of our 4 day hiking trip, I had the permit to hike 40 miles from the east, over the divide, to end up in West Glacier. The run down the Flathead River was magical, wonderful to be in a boat again, but this time floating down pristine glacial runoff looking up at the towering peaks of Glacier above me. Logs and dead trees were scattered about the shore, 10 feet above me, a reminder that just a month ago the river was still in high flood stage from the huge snowfall of the past winter. The rapids were great with a couple little surfing waves to play about on and no rafts to worry about pushing me off. After the run, I awaited the arrival of my girlfriend by Lake McDonald in the park, reading a book on the shore of the lake.
Monday, August 22, 2011
The Mountains are beckoning
When I got to Gillette, Wyoming, the first store I saw said "Wisconsin Cheese." Although I'm on the road traveling, trying to experience life as the locals do at each place I come to, how could I pass up the opportunity to walk into a Wisconsin cheese store, 1500 miles away from home? At least, I had to see if the sign was for real, to see if it really was Wisconsin cheese. Once inside, I found it really was Wisconsin cheese, sold by an old Wisconsinite who had found a good life and beautiful countryside on the plains of Wyoming. The one thing that he didn't like about Wyoming, he told me, was the wind. Day after day, the wind would blow, he said, an interminable gale that tore away at your skin and penetrated you to your bones.
Fortunately, I had hit Wyoming at a good time, there was no wind forecast for the next few days. I crossed the plains in a hurry, anxious to get through Yellowstone and to Bozeman, MT where quarts of Wilcoxson's ice cream, growlers of beer, and my good friend Ben Rosemeyer awaited me. I crossed rolling expanses of brown, arid plains where cattle grazed in lonely, desolate fields and red, flat-topped buttes stuck out of the ground like a scene from a movie on Mars. At one point I got to the top of one of the hills and gasped as I caught my first sight of the snow-capped Bighorn Mountains. I had heard about them as I got closer, I had been warned about them, but I could only imagine what they would be like.
I'm a mountain person, I love the fresh air, the freedom of the spirit, and the potential for solitude in a wilderness untouched. I love the streams that start out as trickles high up in green valleys and get bigger and bigger until they come gushing and churning over waterfalls, through canyons in a sea of white holes, gigantic waves, and clear water that follows the path of least resistance until it meets the sea. I love the mountain meadows, full of deer, elk, bears, and bison. I love the wetlands that form high up in the meadows as a result of nature's first engineer, the beaver. I love to watch hawks, eagles and vultures, soaring on the air currents by the peaks above my head. I love the green forests that cover the mountain sides, the rocky outcroppings that jut out thousands of feet above the treeline, and the cliff faces that, despite their ominous appearance, provide homes to birds, insects, and even bighorn sheep and mountain goats. (I wish I was more of a naturalist).
But when I saw the Bighorn Mountains from 80 miles away, their snow capped peaks still visible in mid August, I realized the enormity of the climb that I faced on my fully loaded touring bike. My original plan was to bike through the mountains in one day. I would start early, summit the pass by 2 or 3, then coast downhill to the base of the peaks and camp on the other side. Instead, I started a bit later after a long breakfast I shared with Paul, a bike tourist from Vancouver who crossed path with me. By the time it was 4:30pm I had come 44 miles and had reached the first pass, 4500ft above where I started. All day my legs had burned but I was the 'Little Engine that Could,' with "I think I can I think I can" running through my mind. In need of a break and someone to talk to, I ran into a man with a Wisconsin plate parked at the top of the hill who turned out to be from Madison as well. A little way down the hill and into the meadows and valleys nestled in the peaks of the Bighorns, he stopped me and asked me if I wanted to spend the night at his campsite.
"We've got plenty of room for you, too many margaritas, quesadillas, and burritos for us all to consume, you'll be hanging out with old people, but you'll have as much as you want to eat."
I couldn't pass it up. Yet again I was shown the enormous generosity of people that admired what I was doing. A clear stream trickled by the campsite, deep enough for a refreshing swim. Within moments the cold mountain water numbed my body and I could've swum all day if it weren't for a lounge chair sitting in the sun, my book and a beer enticing me from the shore. I was given beers and margaritas, told to eat more and feel at home. Conversation lasted into the evening with my hosts by a campfire until the sun's final rays disappeared behind the mountain peaks and it was time for bed. With the help of my hosts, I had endured my first mountain climb.
The next day was the descent. Never before have I had so much fun on a bicycle. The endorphins, adrenaline and energy that my body had been pumping on the climb surged through my veins. I sat on my bicycle, didn't touch the pedals or my brake, and hooted and hollered at the top of my voice as mountain peaks passed by me at a solid 30 miles per hour. For 18 miles straight, my average speed was 27mph. As I've found with backcountry skiing, you'll never enjoy a descent more than if you earn your turns yourself. An 80 mile stretch of flat plains lay below me, followed by the peaks of Yellowstone National Park.
When it came to the climb from Cody, WY into Yellowstone, I didn't have so much fortune with the winds of Wyoming. I was following the Shoshone river canyon all the way into the park, a ride that I was told would be very gradual and not too bad. While this may have been the case, a 15-20mph headwind slowed my progress by about half. It wasn't long before the wind pierced through my skin and got to my mind. No longer was biking fun, but a painful, frustrating struggle against a force I couldn't do anything about. I would yell and swear until my throat hurt, but the wind wouldn't listen. I asked the wind "why? why? why? what did I do to deserve this?" Thoughts of giving up and trying again the next day raced through my head. But I needed to make the pass by that night to get to Bozeman by the following day. The climb didn't bother me; I was raising my potential energy with every foot I gained. But the wind sapped the strength from my limbs and it angered me to my core. It was the hardest day of biking I had ever experienced.
Just before I got into Yellowstone Park, still 15 miles of climbing remaining, I stopped at a grocer/restaurant/bar to take a break. I was fed up with life, angry and disgusted, so I ordered the biggest ice cream I could. A few moments later, a lady came up to me, "My husband and I saw you on the road earlier, he's a biker, we'd like to buy you a beer." Given the offer and the circumstances - 12 miles of pass and 30 miles remained to get to a campsite, it was 5:30 in the afternoon and I'd come only 50 miles or so on the day - I had to accept. "Ice cream and beer, huh, that's an interesting combination," I was told. Interesting indeed, but that was the winning combination. The food brought me all the way into Yellowstone to arrive at the campsite with the sun completely set, and an almost full moon rising over Yellowstone Lake. Once again, the generosity and kindness of people had saved my day, boosted me from the angry frustration that I was encapsulated in and deposited me in one of America's most beautiful locations.
The next day, I faced 155 miles of biking to get to Bozeman. I was out of camp by 7am, in a hurry, yet conscious of the need to enjoy the park. I explored the geysers, hiked with the tourists around the Upper and Lower Falls of the Yellowstone river, took a 2 mile hike up a hill to get away from the crowds and see some volcanic hot spots and finally rolled out of the park into West Yellowstone at 2:30pm - 60 miles down, 90 to go. At that point I did the only think I knew I could do - I bought a large huckleberry ice cream and ate it down before jumping on my bike and trying to keep my average speed at 20mph for the next 4 hours. By 7:30pm I was in Bozeman, just in time to catch the last two bluegrass songs at the Bozone and drink two beers with Ben before the tasting room closed at 8pm. Safe and sound and resting in Ben's Montana home, I'm pondering the next leg of my journey, north through Missoula to Glacier National Park and Canada.
Fortunately, I had hit Wyoming at a good time, there was no wind forecast for the next few days. I crossed the plains in a hurry, anxious to get through Yellowstone and to Bozeman, MT where quarts of Wilcoxson's ice cream, growlers of beer, and my good friend Ben Rosemeyer awaited me. I crossed rolling expanses of brown, arid plains where cattle grazed in lonely, desolate fields and red, flat-topped buttes stuck out of the ground like a scene from a movie on Mars. At one point I got to the top of one of the hills and gasped as I caught my first sight of the snow-capped Bighorn Mountains. I had heard about them as I got closer, I had been warned about them, but I could only imagine what they would be like.
I'm a mountain person, I love the fresh air, the freedom of the spirit, and the potential for solitude in a wilderness untouched. I love the streams that start out as trickles high up in green valleys and get bigger and bigger until they come gushing and churning over waterfalls, through canyons in a sea of white holes, gigantic waves, and clear water that follows the path of least resistance until it meets the sea. I love the mountain meadows, full of deer, elk, bears, and bison. I love the wetlands that form high up in the meadows as a result of nature's first engineer, the beaver. I love to watch hawks, eagles and vultures, soaring on the air currents by the peaks above my head. I love the green forests that cover the mountain sides, the rocky outcroppings that jut out thousands of feet above the treeline, and the cliff faces that, despite their ominous appearance, provide homes to birds, insects, and even bighorn sheep and mountain goats. (I wish I was more of a naturalist).
But when I saw the Bighorn Mountains from 80 miles away, their snow capped peaks still visible in mid August, I realized the enormity of the climb that I faced on my fully loaded touring bike. My original plan was to bike through the mountains in one day. I would start early, summit the pass by 2 or 3, then coast downhill to the base of the peaks and camp on the other side. Instead, I started a bit later after a long breakfast I shared with Paul, a bike tourist from Vancouver who crossed path with me. By the time it was 4:30pm I had come 44 miles and had reached the first pass, 4500ft above where I started. All day my legs had burned but I was the 'Little Engine that Could,' with "I think I can I think I can" running through my mind. In need of a break and someone to talk to, I ran into a man with a Wisconsin plate parked at the top of the hill who turned out to be from Madison as well. A little way down the hill and into the meadows and valleys nestled in the peaks of the Bighorns, he stopped me and asked me if I wanted to spend the night at his campsite.
"We've got plenty of room for you, too many margaritas, quesadillas, and burritos for us all to consume, you'll be hanging out with old people, but you'll have as much as you want to eat."
I couldn't pass it up. Yet again I was shown the enormous generosity of people that admired what I was doing. A clear stream trickled by the campsite, deep enough for a refreshing swim. Within moments the cold mountain water numbed my body and I could've swum all day if it weren't for a lounge chair sitting in the sun, my book and a beer enticing me from the shore. I was given beers and margaritas, told to eat more and feel at home. Conversation lasted into the evening with my hosts by a campfire until the sun's final rays disappeared behind the mountain peaks and it was time for bed. With the help of my hosts, I had endured my first mountain climb.
The next day was the descent. Never before have I had so much fun on a bicycle. The endorphins, adrenaline and energy that my body had been pumping on the climb surged through my veins. I sat on my bicycle, didn't touch the pedals or my brake, and hooted and hollered at the top of my voice as mountain peaks passed by me at a solid 30 miles per hour. For 18 miles straight, my average speed was 27mph. As I've found with backcountry skiing, you'll never enjoy a descent more than if you earn your turns yourself. An 80 mile stretch of flat plains lay below me, followed by the peaks of Yellowstone National Park.
When it came to the climb from Cody, WY into Yellowstone, I didn't have so much fortune with the winds of Wyoming. I was following the Shoshone river canyon all the way into the park, a ride that I was told would be very gradual and not too bad. While this may have been the case, a 15-20mph headwind slowed my progress by about half. It wasn't long before the wind pierced through my skin and got to my mind. No longer was biking fun, but a painful, frustrating struggle against a force I couldn't do anything about. I would yell and swear until my throat hurt, but the wind wouldn't listen. I asked the wind "why? why? why? what did I do to deserve this?" Thoughts of giving up and trying again the next day raced through my head. But I needed to make the pass by that night to get to Bozeman by the following day. The climb didn't bother me; I was raising my potential energy with every foot I gained. But the wind sapped the strength from my limbs and it angered me to my core. It was the hardest day of biking I had ever experienced.
Just before I got into Yellowstone Park, still 15 miles of climbing remaining, I stopped at a grocer/restaurant/bar to take a break. I was fed up with life, angry and disgusted, so I ordered the biggest ice cream I could. A few moments later, a lady came up to me, "My husband and I saw you on the road earlier, he's a biker, we'd like to buy you a beer." Given the offer and the circumstances - 12 miles of pass and 30 miles remained to get to a campsite, it was 5:30 in the afternoon and I'd come only 50 miles or so on the day - I had to accept. "Ice cream and beer, huh, that's an interesting combination," I was told. Interesting indeed, but that was the winning combination. The food brought me all the way into Yellowstone to arrive at the campsite with the sun completely set, and an almost full moon rising over Yellowstone Lake. Once again, the generosity and kindness of people had saved my day, boosted me from the angry frustration that I was encapsulated in and deposited me in one of America's most beautiful locations.
The next day, I faced 155 miles of biking to get to Bozeman. I was out of camp by 7am, in a hurry, yet conscious of the need to enjoy the park. I explored the geysers, hiked with the tourists around the Upper and Lower Falls of the Yellowstone river, took a 2 mile hike up a hill to get away from the crowds and see some volcanic hot spots and finally rolled out of the park into West Yellowstone at 2:30pm - 60 miles down, 90 to go. At that point I did the only think I knew I could do - I bought a large huckleberry ice cream and ate it down before jumping on my bike and trying to keep my average speed at 20mph for the next 4 hours. By 7:30pm I was in Bozeman, just in time to catch the last two bluegrass songs at the Bozone and drink two beers with Ben before the tasting room closed at 8pm. Safe and sound and resting in Ben's Montana home, I'm pondering the next leg of my journey, north through Missoula to Glacier National Park and Canada.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Winding into Wyoming
The day I made it out of South Dakota and the Black Hills I had been skirting my way around large, ominous looking thunder clouds all day. I had awoken above Hill City on the Michelson trail to a bright but chilly morning at 6am. But by the time I had my bags packed away around 7 it had started to drizzle. Fortunately it was a downhill ride into Hill City, and I ducked into a store for a coffee just in time for the clouds to release the condensed vapor they had been holding. It rained hard for a full hour and I was happy to be inside, nursing my warm coffee as I watched the rain come down with a cold fury through the windows.
An hour later, the storm had finished, the sun came out, and I started my way on the trail again. It was another uphill battle along the crushed limestone trail to get to the unfinished sculpture that will hopefully one day depict Crazy Horse pointing into the distance with his hair flowing in the wind - what will be the largest sculpture in the world. Unfortunately, the sculpture looked very similar to what I saw about 8 years ago on a trip with my family. I biked downhill once again to get to Custer where, upon a recommendation from some fellow Wisconsinites I had met, I ducked into The Bakery just as the clouds released their moisture once again. I wasn't disappointed with my recommendation, the food was incredible. After my meal I was even able to recommend some motorcyclists that were trying to decide where to eat.
"Eat here," I said, "you won't regret it, the food's incredible."
"Oh really? Yeah, you probably work here or something..."
I pointed to my bicycle outside the shop window, "That's my ride."
There was a pause while I paid my bill, then,
"Right on man, you're doing it the right way! You got it figured out," I was told as I walked out of the store...
Unfortunately, my dream reality of following a little bike trail through the hills with green trees, wildflowers, meandering, gushing streams and lush meadows on both sides of me was over. I resigned myself to the motors and the highway and said goodbye to the Black Hills as I entered Wyoming. Wyoming looked dark and threatening. Black clouds stretched out before me; the towering heights of the cumulus clouds visible from miles away. The road lead me straight into the blackness and it wasn't long before it began to rain. I was trying to make it to Newcastle to shelter the storm, but the gusts of wind from the easterly directed storms slowed my pace quite substantially. I found shelter under a tree at a historic marker where another cyclist was munching away at cheeto's awaiting the blue sky that was visible just a couple miles to the west. As it turned out, we had skirted our way through the middle of two storms with lightening striking about 15 miles to the north and south of us.
"Where are you going to stay tonight?" Eileen asked me after we had cycled into Newcastle. It was 5:30 so I hadn't really thought about where I was going to camp that night. Usually if I'm trying to cover ground, around 6 or 7pm I make sure I have enough water and food on me for the night (I carry one pannier full of food with my stove and fuel and 5 liters of water capacity). Then I'll find a spot to pitch my tent in a city park, National Forest, or someone's front yard around 8pm, or whenever the sun is starting to go down. This way, I can make some food, read or write and watch the sunset for a little bit as the daylight disappears, and be in bed around 9 or whenever the darkness engulfs the pages of my book.
"I don't know," I replied. I looked at the map; the next town was about 20 miles away and didn't look like there was much to it. In my experience with South Dakota, towns that were on the map but didn't look very big had the possibility of being but a meager cluster of dilapidated looking houses, lacking even the most practical of small businesses such as a bar or a convenience store to fill up on water.
"I guess maybe I could call it a day, I've come 65 miles, that's not that bad, do you know of any places where I could pitch a tent in town?"
"Well, if you want, you could stay in the bed in my guest room, I bet you haven't slept in a bed in a long time."
An offer like that was difficult to pass up, even though I've noticed that I've been starting to sleep better in my tent on my pad. When I have the opportunity to sleep in a bed, they seem overly cushy and warm, situated in the stale environment of a bedroom with a thick wall separating me from the noises and fresh air of the outside world. Still, I accepted her offer with enthusiasm since the possibility of sleeping indoors in a real bed doesn't present itself on a regular basis.
As we biked up the road I noticed a large house on the top of a hill overlooking the plains of eastern Wyoming. 'What a view it must be from the porch on that house,' I thought, 'sure would be nice to stay in a place like that some day.' A moment later Eileen was pointing at that very house, explaining that she and her husband had built it years ago - it was their dream house.
What ensued was relaxation and luxury. I was treated by the most hospitable of hosts, sipping a beer as I sat in a swing chair on the very porch I had admired on the way up, watching storms blow their way across the brown expanse of the Wyoming plains. Lightening struck down vertically every few moments, yet there was no rain where I was sitting, miles and miles away. I enjoyed the rest of the evening eating hamburgers and sweet corn and talking with Eileen about life as a middle school guidance counselor in Newcastle - a town of about 3000 people and an oil refinery situated on the busy western railway that brings coal from the mines of the west to the power plants of the east. Eileen's aunt-in-law was also over for the night; a spunky, quick, well-opinionated elderly lady originally from Wisconsin but now from Colorado for about 30 years. She liked to travel and had strong opinions about politics. Fortunately, we shared similar political views and disagreements didn't erupt as we watched the democrats fail to obtain 3 republican seats in the Wisconsin senate recall elections.
One of the best things about life on the road, I realized that night. Every day when I wake up, I have no idea what I'm going to see during the day; no idea what's going to happen to me, and above all, no idea where I'm going to sleep that night. When I awoke that morning above Hill City in my own secluded piece of National Forest, surrounded by swarms of motorcyclists, I had no idea the road would take me to Eileen's house where I would lounge in the luxury of her hillside home. I figure it's this connection to society - the close yet distant proximity to city conveniences - as well as wonderful people like Eileen and her husband Wayne, that keep me going on my bicycle. Without them, I would be tired of this life by now, yearning for a familiar couch to sit on and a beer to drink instead of the open road and the unknown.
An hour later, the storm had finished, the sun came out, and I started my way on the trail again. It was another uphill battle along the crushed limestone trail to get to the unfinished sculpture that will hopefully one day depict Crazy Horse pointing into the distance with his hair flowing in the wind - what will be the largest sculpture in the world. Unfortunately, the sculpture looked very similar to what I saw about 8 years ago on a trip with my family. I biked downhill once again to get to Custer where, upon a recommendation from some fellow Wisconsinites I had met, I ducked into The Bakery just as the clouds released their moisture once again. I wasn't disappointed with my recommendation, the food was incredible. After my meal I was even able to recommend some motorcyclists that were trying to decide where to eat.
"Eat here," I said, "you won't regret it, the food's incredible."
"Oh really? Yeah, you probably work here or something..."
I pointed to my bicycle outside the shop window, "That's my ride."
There was a pause while I paid my bill, then,
"Right on man, you're doing it the right way! You got it figured out," I was told as I walked out of the store...
Unfortunately, my dream reality of following a little bike trail through the hills with green trees, wildflowers, meandering, gushing streams and lush meadows on both sides of me was over. I resigned myself to the motors and the highway and said goodbye to the Black Hills as I entered Wyoming. Wyoming looked dark and threatening. Black clouds stretched out before me; the towering heights of the cumulus clouds visible from miles away. The road lead me straight into the blackness and it wasn't long before it began to rain. I was trying to make it to Newcastle to shelter the storm, but the gusts of wind from the easterly directed storms slowed my pace quite substantially. I found shelter under a tree at a historic marker where another cyclist was munching away at cheeto's awaiting the blue sky that was visible just a couple miles to the west. As it turned out, we had skirted our way through the middle of two storms with lightening striking about 15 miles to the north and south of us.
"Where are you going to stay tonight?" Eileen asked me after we had cycled into Newcastle. It was 5:30 so I hadn't really thought about where I was going to camp that night. Usually if I'm trying to cover ground, around 6 or 7pm I make sure I have enough water and food on me for the night (I carry one pannier full of food with my stove and fuel and 5 liters of water capacity). Then I'll find a spot to pitch my tent in a city park, National Forest, or someone's front yard around 8pm, or whenever the sun is starting to go down. This way, I can make some food, read or write and watch the sunset for a little bit as the daylight disappears, and be in bed around 9 or whenever the darkness engulfs the pages of my book.
"I don't know," I replied. I looked at the map; the next town was about 20 miles away and didn't look like there was much to it. In my experience with South Dakota, towns that were on the map but didn't look very big had the possibility of being but a meager cluster of dilapidated looking houses, lacking even the most practical of small businesses such as a bar or a convenience store to fill up on water.
"I guess maybe I could call it a day, I've come 65 miles, that's not that bad, do you know of any places where I could pitch a tent in town?"
"Well, if you want, you could stay in the bed in my guest room, I bet you haven't slept in a bed in a long time."
An offer like that was difficult to pass up, even though I've noticed that I've been starting to sleep better in my tent on my pad. When I have the opportunity to sleep in a bed, they seem overly cushy and warm, situated in the stale environment of a bedroom with a thick wall separating me from the noises and fresh air of the outside world. Still, I accepted her offer with enthusiasm since the possibility of sleeping indoors in a real bed doesn't present itself on a regular basis.
As we biked up the road I noticed a large house on the top of a hill overlooking the plains of eastern Wyoming. 'What a view it must be from the porch on that house,' I thought, 'sure would be nice to stay in a place like that some day.' A moment later Eileen was pointing at that very house, explaining that she and her husband had built it years ago - it was their dream house.
What ensued was relaxation and luxury. I was treated by the most hospitable of hosts, sipping a beer as I sat in a swing chair on the very porch I had admired on the way up, watching storms blow their way across the brown expanse of the Wyoming plains. Lightening struck down vertically every few moments, yet there was no rain where I was sitting, miles and miles away. I enjoyed the rest of the evening eating hamburgers and sweet corn and talking with Eileen about life as a middle school guidance counselor in Newcastle - a town of about 3000 people and an oil refinery situated on the busy western railway that brings coal from the mines of the west to the power plants of the east. Eileen's aunt-in-law was also over for the night; a spunky, quick, well-opinionated elderly lady originally from Wisconsin but now from Colorado for about 30 years. She liked to travel and had strong opinions about politics. Fortunately, we shared similar political views and disagreements didn't erupt as we watched the democrats fail to obtain 3 republican seats in the Wisconsin senate recall elections.
One of the best things about life on the road, I realized that night. Every day when I wake up, I have no idea what I'm going to see during the day; no idea what's going to happen to me, and above all, no idea where I'm going to sleep that night. When I awoke that morning above Hill City in my own secluded piece of National Forest, surrounded by swarms of motorcyclists, I had no idea the road would take me to Eileen's house where I would lounge in the luxury of her hillside home. I figure it's this connection to society - the close yet distant proximity to city conveniences - as well as wonderful people like Eileen and her husband Wayne, that keep me going on my bicycle. Without them, I would be tired of this life by now, yearning for a familiar couch to sit on and a beer to drink instead of the open road and the unknown.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Sturgis - an afterthought
In my time since visiting Sturgis, I've had a lot of time to think about the motorcyclists I met there and the experiences I had. The biggest and most immediate impression the rally had on me was the night I spent in the bars. But of course, if you go anywhere, you're not going to see life in its most real and true sense in the bars.
Not to say I didn't have fun and meet interesting people at the bars. One conversation I had went like this:
"So where are you from?"
"Wisconsin, how bout you?"
"Mississippi. Did you ride out here then?"
"Yeah, I did, it was a long way..."
"Oh wow, congratulations, that's quite the achievement. I would have liked to do it, but it's such a long way, we just trailered our bikes and we ride them around the Hills here. What kind of bike do you ride?"
"Well, you may not have heard of it before... It's called a Trek. Trek 620 to be exact."
"Huh. Trek. Like T-R-E-K, huh? Nope, I've never heard of that. What kind of ride is it?"
"Well, it's like a cruiser, touring bike, ya know..."
"No, but is it a low rider, or a cruiser bike... that sort of thing?"
"Yeah, I guess its a like a cruiser. Use it for touring, you know?"
....... and this went on for a little bit until I didn't know what I was talking about anymore.....
"Ok, I gotta admit, my bike is unusual in that it doesn't have a motor... it's a bicycle."
"No way. And you rode it all the way out here??? I don't believe you. There's no way..."
... And this went on for a little while until I maybe had him convinced and he bought me a beer. In any case, the entire conversation was great to have - from discussing my life on the road to his life in Mississippi and the roads of the Black Hills and South Dakota.
The bikers I met on the way to the rally and ever since have been the most kind hearted and understanding people - even if they drive by me with noisy motors. They all have stories to share of long rides they have done, of living on the road and getting around on two wheels. Some are even old cyclists that went on bicycle journeys before bicycle touring was even a thing-cyclists who got tired of pedaling and resorted to the motor. All I can say is to keep pedaling on friends, let your legs do the work while your mind does the wandering, your heart does the loving, and your mouth does the drinking.
Link to Wyoming photos
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/WindsOfWyoming?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCI7spt6-iICn8QE&feat=directlink
Link to my route so far:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203617401863148848612.0004aaa4f2b58845af1e4&msa=0&ll=44.087585%2C-100.151367&spn=25.384847%2C39.506836
Not to say I didn't have fun and meet interesting people at the bars. One conversation I had went like this:
"So where are you from?"
"Wisconsin, how bout you?"
"Mississippi. Did you ride out here then?"
"Yeah, I did, it was a long way..."
"Oh wow, congratulations, that's quite the achievement. I would have liked to do it, but it's such a long way, we just trailered our bikes and we ride them around the Hills here. What kind of bike do you ride?"
"Well, you may not have heard of it before... It's called a Trek. Trek 620 to be exact."
"Huh. Trek. Like T-R-E-K, huh? Nope, I've never heard of that. What kind of ride is it?"
"Well, it's like a cruiser, touring bike, ya know..."
"No, but is it a low rider, or a cruiser bike... that sort of thing?"
"Yeah, I guess its a like a cruiser. Use it for touring, you know?"
....... and this went on for a little bit until I didn't know what I was talking about anymore.....
"Ok, I gotta admit, my bike is unusual in that it doesn't have a motor... it's a bicycle."
"No way. And you rode it all the way out here??? I don't believe you. There's no way..."
... And this went on for a little while until I maybe had him convinced and he bought me a beer. In any case, the entire conversation was great to have - from discussing my life on the road to his life in Mississippi and the roads of the Black Hills and South Dakota.
The bikers I met on the way to the rally and ever since have been the most kind hearted and understanding people - even if they drive by me with noisy motors. They all have stories to share of long rides they have done, of living on the road and getting around on two wheels. Some are even old cyclists that went on bicycle journeys before bicycle touring was even a thing-cyclists who got tired of pedaling and resorted to the motor. All I can say is to keep pedaling on friends, let your legs do the work while your mind does the wandering, your heart does the loving, and your mouth does the drinking.
Link to Wyoming photos
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/WindsOfWyoming?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCI7spt6-iICn8QE&feat=directlink
Link to my route so far:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203617401863148848612.0004aaa4f2b58845af1e4&msa=0&ll=44.087585%2C-100.151367&spn=25.384847%2C39.506836
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Motorcycles and Mountains
"Are ya goin to Sturgis then?" we were asked.
"What's Sturgis?"
"You haven't heard of Sturgis? Wow, everyone's heard of Sturgis. Biggest motorcycle rally in the world!"
"But we're the non-motorized type..."
"It doesn't matter, it'd be worth it to check it out, you'll be so close..."
Still, being in close quarters with half a million motorcyclists wasn't so appealing to me. They're not the same sort of people as me-they share different views. When they pass me on the highway they give me a fright with their noisy motors and higher speeds. While I like to hear the insects buzzing and the birds chirping while I ride, they seem to enjoy the sound of petroleum burning in their engines.
"I think the louder the better. It sounds rough, like an animal does - pretty manly," said Gerald Roberts as reported by the Rapid City Journal's article "Decibel debate: Do loud pipes save lives?" He continued to say "We're a free country. Being a motorcyclist is all about freedom and doing what we're allowed to do."
Yet somehow, I found my idea of motorcycles start to change as I got closer to the Black Hills. I would meet them in places I'd stop and they all seemed like nice people. I'd get all sorts of comments, ranging from "You just need to put a motor on that," to "That's one way to beat the gas price," to "Now look at that, that's a real bike." One rider I talked to from Wisconsin told me "One day you'll make a list of things you want to see in your life. Sturgis will be on there."
By the time I got to Rapid City, I had pretty much made up my mind, I would ride 30 miles north in the evening and see what the big deal was about. The ride north was exhilerating. I could feel the energy in the air as I rode along the service road north. The sound of Harleys filled the air. A never-ending stream of motorbikes passed me on the freeway as I headed north. There was an 8 mile stretch I had to take along the interstate. As I hit 30mph on the downhill stretches - half the speed of the motorbikes - I really felt like I was sharing the road with them. I was going fast so I was a vehicle on their radar, rather than the silly guy hugging the pavement next to the ditch without a motor to power my two wheels.
When I got to Sturgis, the uniqueness of my form of transportation once again proved a huge benefit to me. While bikers were being charged $30/night to set up their tent on people's lawns downtown, I found a spot on a couple's driveway for free. As I got my gear sorted out I heard "Forrest, are you hungry?" Before I could muster up an answer, there was a plate with grapes, a ginger ale, and a huge piece of grilled chicken before me.
I headed down to the bars to see what all the crazy fuss was about. I had been warned "You're going to the bars? Watch out, the girls there are wild, you won't come back a virgin." What I found, however, was far different than what I had expected. Middle aged to older men that, in any other bar would be labeled as 'creepers,' stood around bars where girls in their early 20s dressed in bikinis flaunted themselves for dollar bills. I was disgusted. At least I knew that I'd never have to put Sturgis on my list of places to see - in fact, I could double cross it off with a permanent marker.
After falling asleep to the sound of motors, I awoke to a similar noise and got ready to leave. A brief encounter at the grocery store on my way out of town boosted my experience. A tall man, skinny with long shoulder length hair rode up to me on his low-rider bike. "Nice ride," he told me. After taking a closer look at his, I realized he was on a 'bicycle' as well. His, however, was a front wheel drive, battery powered, solar charged cycle. He claimed to be able to race Harleys from light to light in town. "20 years ago they were all talking about going green, man. I went green and nobody followed," the old hippie said in a grooved out voice. At least, it was nice to meet someone with a similar mindset.
As I biked further out of town, I saw a sign "Learn to Weld." Being slightly worried about the integrity of my front rack, I stopped and had the experts at Lincoln Electric take a look at the problem. About an hour later, I had two weld jobs done on the rack that was about to fall apart. Perhaps Sturgis had been a good idea in the end.
When I finally hit the road, I headed west to the historic town of Deadwood. The sound of motors filled the air of the Black Hills. An extremely sacred spot to the Lakota Sioux, the hills are literally a green bubble in the middle of brown arid plains. The hills finally came alive to me when I got on the Michelson bike trail in Deadwood - 108 miles along an old railway track. Immediately, I was carried away from the noise of the road and transported to the beauty of the hills. The trail followed a mountain stream up up up. I could hear the noise of the stream, saw fauns and bucks, birds and wild mountain flowers. I followed a kingfisher as he soared along the stream, searching for a morsel. The trail lead me over old railway bridges and through old tunnels, past mountain wetlands and meadows where cattle grazed and under rocky outcroppings that jutted hundreds of feet above me. I was in a state of euphoric bliss, on the verge of tears, realizing how much I missed the sound of silence and the sound of the forest.
That night I camped above Hill City, just off the bike trail in the Black Hills National Forest. It was a perfect night. No bugs bothered me as I made a quick dinner in the forest. I was in bed by 9pm. At 2am I woke up and stuck my head outside my tent. The Milky Way appeared above me like a great rift in the sky. Shooting stars shot above my head every 20-30 seconds. I could feel it, I was in a different world, lost in time and space with no thought about the constant drone of motors that filled the air miles away in the same sacred hills.
Should motorcycles be allowed to make noise? It's a controversy, one that is valid for debate and reflection. In the city, the sounds of motors, people's stereos and cars are noises that should be expected. When the noises of the city fill the air of the countryside, noise is a public issue. It's the econ 101 issue regarding the use of public resources. Motorcyclists should be respectful of the fact that, while they may enjoy the sound of their motors, many people searching for peace and solitude in the hills do not. It's not about "freedom and doing what we're allowed to do," but about sharing the beautiful resources of this country with eachother and being respectful of other people's methods of enjoyment - by motorcyclists and nature enthusiasts alike.
Regarding the Sturgis rally, for one week a year they bring thousands of dollars to the people of the Black Hills which allows many of the small towns to continue to exist. One week a year of noise in the Black Hills seems a decent price to pay in exchange for the money that is brought in.
"What's Sturgis?"
"You haven't heard of Sturgis? Wow, everyone's heard of Sturgis. Biggest motorcycle rally in the world!"
"But we're the non-motorized type..."
"It doesn't matter, it'd be worth it to check it out, you'll be so close..."
Still, being in close quarters with half a million motorcyclists wasn't so appealing to me. They're not the same sort of people as me-they share different views. When they pass me on the highway they give me a fright with their noisy motors and higher speeds. While I like to hear the insects buzzing and the birds chirping while I ride, they seem to enjoy the sound of petroleum burning in their engines.
"I think the louder the better. It sounds rough, like an animal does - pretty manly," said Gerald Roberts as reported by the Rapid City Journal's article "Decibel debate: Do loud pipes save lives?" He continued to say "We're a free country. Being a motorcyclist is all about freedom and doing what we're allowed to do."
Yet somehow, I found my idea of motorcycles start to change as I got closer to the Black Hills. I would meet them in places I'd stop and they all seemed like nice people. I'd get all sorts of comments, ranging from "You just need to put a motor on that," to "That's one way to beat the gas price," to "Now look at that, that's a real bike." One rider I talked to from Wisconsin told me "One day you'll make a list of things you want to see in your life. Sturgis will be on there."
By the time I got to Rapid City, I had pretty much made up my mind, I would ride 30 miles north in the evening and see what the big deal was about. The ride north was exhilerating. I could feel the energy in the air as I rode along the service road north. The sound of Harleys filled the air. A never-ending stream of motorbikes passed me on the freeway as I headed north. There was an 8 mile stretch I had to take along the interstate. As I hit 30mph on the downhill stretches - half the speed of the motorbikes - I really felt like I was sharing the road with them. I was going fast so I was a vehicle on their radar, rather than the silly guy hugging the pavement next to the ditch without a motor to power my two wheels.
When I got to Sturgis, the uniqueness of my form of transportation once again proved a huge benefit to me. While bikers were being charged $30/night to set up their tent on people's lawns downtown, I found a spot on a couple's driveway for free. As I got my gear sorted out I heard "Forrest, are you hungry?" Before I could muster up an answer, there was a plate with grapes, a ginger ale, and a huge piece of grilled chicken before me.
I headed down to the bars to see what all the crazy fuss was about. I had been warned "You're going to the bars? Watch out, the girls there are wild, you won't come back a virgin." What I found, however, was far different than what I had expected. Middle aged to older men that, in any other bar would be labeled as 'creepers,' stood around bars where girls in their early 20s dressed in bikinis flaunted themselves for dollar bills. I was disgusted. At least I knew that I'd never have to put Sturgis on my list of places to see - in fact, I could double cross it off with a permanent marker.
After falling asleep to the sound of motors, I awoke to a similar noise and got ready to leave. A brief encounter at the grocery store on my way out of town boosted my experience. A tall man, skinny with long shoulder length hair rode up to me on his low-rider bike. "Nice ride," he told me. After taking a closer look at his, I realized he was on a 'bicycle' as well. His, however, was a front wheel drive, battery powered, solar charged cycle. He claimed to be able to race Harleys from light to light in town. "20 years ago they were all talking about going green, man. I went green and nobody followed," the old hippie said in a grooved out voice. At least, it was nice to meet someone with a similar mindset.
As I biked further out of town, I saw a sign "Learn to Weld." Being slightly worried about the integrity of my front rack, I stopped and had the experts at Lincoln Electric take a look at the problem. About an hour later, I had two weld jobs done on the rack that was about to fall apart. Perhaps Sturgis had been a good idea in the end.
When I finally hit the road, I headed west to the historic town of Deadwood. The sound of motors filled the air of the Black Hills. An extremely sacred spot to the Lakota Sioux, the hills are literally a green bubble in the middle of brown arid plains. The hills finally came alive to me when I got on the Michelson bike trail in Deadwood - 108 miles along an old railway track. Immediately, I was carried away from the noise of the road and transported to the beauty of the hills. The trail followed a mountain stream up up up. I could hear the noise of the stream, saw fauns and bucks, birds and wild mountain flowers. I followed a kingfisher as he soared along the stream, searching for a morsel. The trail lead me over old railway bridges and through old tunnels, past mountain wetlands and meadows where cattle grazed and under rocky outcroppings that jutted hundreds of feet above me. I was in a state of euphoric bliss, on the verge of tears, realizing how much I missed the sound of silence and the sound of the forest.
That night I camped above Hill City, just off the bike trail in the Black Hills National Forest. It was a perfect night. No bugs bothered me as I made a quick dinner in the forest. I was in bed by 9pm. At 2am I woke up and stuck my head outside my tent. The Milky Way appeared above me like a great rift in the sky. Shooting stars shot above my head every 20-30 seconds. I could feel it, I was in a different world, lost in time and space with no thought about the constant drone of motors that filled the air miles away in the same sacred hills.
Should motorcycles be allowed to make noise? It's a controversy, one that is valid for debate and reflection. In the city, the sounds of motors, people's stereos and cars are noises that should be expected. When the noises of the city fill the air of the countryside, noise is a public issue. It's the econ 101 issue regarding the use of public resources. Motorcyclists should be respectful of the fact that, while they may enjoy the sound of their motors, many people searching for peace and solitude in the hills do not. It's not about "freedom and doing what we're allowed to do," but about sharing the beautiful resources of this country with eachother and being respectful of other people's methods of enjoyment - by motorcyclists and nature enthusiasts alike.
Regarding the Sturgis rally, for one week a year they bring thousands of dollars to the people of the Black Hills which allows many of the small towns to continue to exist. One week a year of noise in the Black Hills seems a decent price to pay in exchange for the money that is brought in.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Badlands by Bicycle
The National Park system, it truly was the United State’s best idea. Where else can you find foreign visitors, license plates from all 50 states, large families with kids, senior citizens, bikers, and kids in their 20s all enjoying and learning about the same place? The environmental education that the parks offer to people is outstanding, and I really hope that people take the messages home with them. Yet it is slightly upsetting to see RVs pulling an SUV through the park-I guess you can’t convince everyone.
The amount of people that the parks attract is wonderful, but being one in a crowd like that-not so fun. Where is a person to go? To the backcountry... In countless national parks I’ve had the same experience. The touristy places that attract throngs of people are way overrated, far better to get out on the trail and make your own discoveries, which is exactly what I did. I locked my bike up at a trailhead, changed my shorts, and took the path less traveled. Somehow I was transported from crowds of people to being back, completely on my own in the middle of the badlands. I saw birds again, watched hesitantly/hopefully for rattlesnakes, prairie dogs chirped, vultures soared the heights and the grassland was alive. The path lead me up river paths where, just the night before, water had gushed down small waterfalls, became stagnant in small pools, and eroded away at the small canyon’s sides in its rush to shed its potential energy and get to the White River. At the end of the 6 mile, one-way hike, I got a ride from some fellow hikers from South Dakota back to my bike.
Biking through the badlands proved to be a harder ordeal than I had anticipated. My destination was the Sage Creek “primitive camping” site, 34 miles from the visitor center. (Primitive, I thought!?!! That’s how I’ve been living! It’s not primitive…). Going through the passes as the scenic road wound itself up and down the ancient, eroded lake-bed brought my bike down to its lowest “granny” gear. Cheers and thumbs up from
passing car windows gave me the energy I needed to complete the climbs. One “bikers r sexy” sign from a passing Subaru (with two young women in the front seats) completely made my day and powered me to the campsite. The loaded touring bike completely stuck out and it seemed like every other person wanted to know my story and where I was going.
As for now, I met up with Brint in Rapid City and we’re deciding our next move. Sturgis seems like a good idea, but we’ll be in Wyoming and headed west through the least densely populated state in the US soon enough.
Photos of the plains at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/TheGreatPlains?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPeprIDd1fGUiQE&feat=directlink
sorry for the disorder, they got disorganized during the upload...
The amount of people that the parks attract is wonderful, but being one in a crowd like that-not so fun. Where is a person to go? To the backcountry... In countless national parks I’ve had the same experience. The touristy places that attract throngs of people are way overrated, far better to get out on the trail and make your own discoveries, which is exactly what I did. I locked my bike up at a trailhead, changed my shorts, and took the path less traveled. Somehow I was transported from crowds of people to being back, completely on my own in the middle of the badlands. I saw birds again, watched hesitantly/hopefully for rattlesnakes, prairie dogs chirped, vultures soared the heights and the grassland was alive. The path lead me up river paths where, just the night before, water had gushed down small waterfalls, became stagnant in small pools, and eroded away at the small canyon’s sides in its rush to shed its potential energy and get to the White River. At the end of the 6 mile, one-way hike, I got a ride from some fellow hikers from South Dakota back to my bike.
Biking through the badlands proved to be a harder ordeal than I had anticipated. My destination was the Sage Creek “primitive camping” site, 34 miles from the visitor center. (Primitive, I thought!?!! That’s how I’ve been living! It’s not primitive…). Going through the passes as the scenic road wound itself up and down the ancient, eroded lake-bed brought my bike down to its lowest “granny” gear. Cheers and thumbs up from
passing car windows gave me the energy I needed to complete the climbs. One “bikers r sexy” sign from a passing Subaru (with two young women in the front seats) completely made my day and powered me to the campsite. The loaded touring bike completely stuck out and it seemed like every other person wanted to know my story and where I was going.
As for now, I met up with Brint in Rapid City and we’re deciding our next move. Sturgis seems like a good idea, but we’ll be in Wyoming and headed west through the least densely populated state in the US soon enough.
Photos of the plains at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/TheGreatPlains?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPeprIDd1fGUiQE&feat=directlink
sorry for the disorder, they got disorganized during the upload...
First encounter with the West
As we headed west of Pierre, the landscape changed drastically. The large expanses of corn and soybeans disappeared, and we instead found hills covered in prairie grasses, with far fewer grazing cattle to entertain us. If I didn’t find the middle of no-where before, certainly I found it west of Pierre. Not to say that it didn’t have its own beauty, by all means it did. The hills, while they created an additional challenge for us as we began to use our climbing muscles again, stretched as far as the eye could see. As I climbed, I lost all knowledge and sight of the expanse of land that lay around me. But when I summited the small hill, immense grasslands and large, rolling hills swept the landscape before me. The road went down, up, down, up, down, until finally up a bigger hill and out of sight.
We thought that on the road west of Pierre we would be relatively secluded and on our own. A sign saying “next services 66 miles” confirmed our belief that we would really be on our own. But the day we left Pierre -Friday- happened to be the day before a little biker rally in the small town of Sturgis, SD, about 30 miles north of Rapid City. For those of you not familiar with this event (I wasn’t until we got to South Dakota…), from what I’ve since gathered it’s the biggest motorcycle rally in the nation. The small town of Sturgis (roughly 2000 people) increases by at least 10,000 bikers, but I’ve heard numbers far higher than that... So instead of being relatively on our own for the 66 miles, we instead hugged the shoulder the whole way, being passed by countless numbers of loaded motorcycles headed to Sturgis. I guess I don’t have such a sophisticated appreciation or understanding of motors, but it seems like the louder the bike, the better it is. The sounds of cicadas and prairie birds was constantly drowned out by the buzz of engines.
We rolled into Midland at about 3pm, a town that consists of a couple of bars and a convenience mart. The tap beers were only $1.50 which turned out to be very hard to turn down after my second beer with the knowledge that we still had 30 miles to pedal to get to our intended destination for the day, Philip. Fortunately we had a tailwind all the way to Philip (pop. ~800) and got there by 5pm, just in time for happy hour in the largest town for 100 miles in all directions. If you’re ever near Philip, SD on a Friday night, the
Saloon 78 is the place to be. There was a steak roast-$15 for a GIGANTIC cut of local ribeye with all you can eat garlic bread and potato wedges. The grills got set up and you grill the meat yourself. We ate until we were thoroughly stuffed and retired to play pool the rest of the night.
After Philip, Brint decided to go to Sturgis to pick up his bike shoes which his neighbor had brought out for him. I headed south into the Badlands National Park.
We thought that on the road west of Pierre we would be relatively secluded and on our own. A sign saying “next services 66 miles” confirmed our belief that we would really be on our own. But the day we left Pierre -Friday- happened to be the day before a little biker rally in the small town of Sturgis, SD, about 30 miles north of Rapid City. For those of you not familiar with this event (I wasn’t until we got to South Dakota…), from what I’ve since gathered it’s the biggest motorcycle rally in the nation. The small town of Sturgis (roughly 2000 people) increases by at least 10,000 bikers, but I’ve heard numbers far higher than that... So instead of being relatively on our own for the 66 miles, we instead hugged the shoulder the whole way, being passed by countless numbers of loaded motorcycles headed to Sturgis. I guess I don’t have such a sophisticated appreciation or understanding of motors, but it seems like the louder the bike, the better it is. The sounds of cicadas and prairie birds was constantly drowned out by the buzz of engines.
We rolled into Midland at about 3pm, a town that consists of a couple of bars and a convenience mart. The tap beers were only $1.50 which turned out to be very hard to turn down after my second beer with the knowledge that we still had 30 miles to pedal to get to our intended destination for the day, Philip. Fortunately we had a tailwind all the way to Philip (pop. ~800) and got there by 5pm, just in time for happy hour in the largest town for 100 miles in all directions. If you’re ever near Philip, SD on a Friday night, the
Saloon 78 is the place to be. There was a steak roast-$15 for a GIGANTIC cut of local ribeye with all you can eat garlic bread and potato wedges. The grills got set up and you grill the meat yourself. We ate until we were thoroughly stuffed and retired to play pool the rest of the night.
After Philip, Brint decided to go to Sturgis to pick up his bike shoes which his neighbor had brought out for him. I headed south into the Badlands National Park.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Middle of no-where?
When I set out from Wisconsin, I didn't know what to expect from the plains states of the mid-west. I'd been through them too many times to count behind the wheel of a car, or jammed into the backseat staring at endless fields out of the window that never seemed to end. No trees, no turns in the highway and with barely a hill in sight, I was worried that biking across the plains would be a similar experience to driving. But I tried to keep my hopes up, I tried to avoid having expectations which, without failure, taint an experience to a point where an enjoyable time can be viewed as a failure. I tried to keep an open attitude toward the state and the experience. What will the people be like? Will the backroads really be as bad as the interstate? So we ventured across the South Dakota border from Minnesota, leaving behind flat acres and acres of corn and soybeans, and finding thousands more acres of corn and soybeans. Now however, the ancient eroded landscape rolled before us so we had hills to climb, and the wind, which lacked impeding structures in the surface of the earth like trees and mountains, blew with regularity into our faces. The hot sun rained down on us, bringing the temperature of the earth to the upper 90's, with a humidity of 70+%. Brint's thermometer on a keychain read 113 degrees at one point and, though we knew this was incorrect, the number still frightened us. While biking, it's hard to know exactly how hot it is. The constant wind on your face keeps sweat evaporating quickly, so you can't get an accurate feeling for the temperature outside until you take a break, sit in the shade, and walk back out into the sun. Then the heat hits you with its full force and tells you "watch out, don't even try it, go inside and drink a margarita. Or two...
South Dakota, however, did not remain the unlivable, desolate, middle-of-nowhere place that I was afraid of. Instead, the landscape came alive with geological formations, prairie, and wildlife. Along state highway 14, we discovered many small towns with life of their own. People that are raised out here seem to come to enjoy life in the small towns where everyone knows everyone and you can do as you please. We came across the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder in De Soto, and spent a long time trying to figure out what drew pioneers to such a landscape. It wasn't until I read a quote of Laura's that I really understood. It said that the prairie looks the same everywhere you look, but if you take a little time, it holds many wonders and secrets that can only be found with patience.
From Huron, we took the smallest country roads west through the prairie. We didn't see a single town for about 70 miles and about 20 cars over the course of the day. When we finally rolled into what we thought would be a small town - Mac's Corner - we found it was nothing more than a small convenience store and gas station. After going through 5 liters of water over the course of the day though, we filled up, bought some food and rolled another 30 miles to camp on the banks of the Missouri river.
The country roads along the way turned out to be the best decision we'd made for directions. Although it could have been because of the cooler temperatures and lower humidity (85degrees and 50%), I was pretty sure it was because of the landscape. The hills rolled onward so much so that we experienced our first climbs since leaving the hills of Wisconsin. A small "mountain" range loomed ahead of us all morning and, while it couldn't have been more than 200ft high, at least it was something to look at as we rolled up and down the small hills of the state. At the bottom of every hill was a wetland, or an eroded river valley. The hills around the river having been eroded for thousands of years before becoming what we have today. Meandering rivers wind themselves through tiny river valleys, disappearing from view in what appears to be a sure uphill rise. The ground water dynamics of the area seem visable even from the surface, as one stream's groundwater surely flows into the stream on the other side of the small hill.
Wetlands bring an abundance of life, and the feeling of it was palpable in the air when we stopped next to a watery area. Birds wouldn't cease chirping, waterfowl would half fly, half swim away from the roadside through their algae filled home. The grasses of the prairie sang with life as crickets, grasshoppers, and prairie birds would jump, chirp, and sing the blades of grass to life. At one point, I followed a red-tailed hawk as he soared across the prairie, about 10ft off the ground, in search of a morsel to eat. Killdear flew on either side of the road, and entire flocks of red-winged blackbirds soared by. Am I really about to admit this online? I wished I knew more bird species...
The cornfields and soybeans gave way to prairie fields where cattle grazed away. Small ponds and wetlands appear in the middle of the driest fields giving cattle a perfect place to cool themselves off in the heat of the day. The cattle out here have a different sense about them than the cows in Wisconsin. When we stop to take a picture, they sense something is not right, and it doesn't take long for one of them to trigger the herd to go galloping away from us in fear of the weird creatures that for some reason stopped on the road instead of passing straight by.
Indeed, in the grasslands of South Dakota, we didn't find the middle-of-nowhere. We found life. Life in the fields, in the wetlands, and even in the rocks in the geology of the area. What a beautiful place and a privilage to be able to enjoy. Next time you drive through the plains, take a moment, slow down, and think about life slightly differently, the way the prairies of the plains are meant to be appreciated, before you cruise on to the next state border.
South Dakota, however, did not remain the unlivable, desolate, middle-of-nowhere place that I was afraid of. Instead, the landscape came alive with geological formations, prairie, and wildlife. Along state highway 14, we discovered many small towns with life of their own. People that are raised out here seem to come to enjoy life in the small towns where everyone knows everyone and you can do as you please. We came across the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder in De Soto, and spent a long time trying to figure out what drew pioneers to such a landscape. It wasn't until I read a quote of Laura's that I really understood. It said that the prairie looks the same everywhere you look, but if you take a little time, it holds many wonders and secrets that can only be found with patience.
From Huron, we took the smallest country roads west through the prairie. We didn't see a single town for about 70 miles and about 20 cars over the course of the day. When we finally rolled into what we thought would be a small town - Mac's Corner - we found it was nothing more than a small convenience store and gas station. After going through 5 liters of water over the course of the day though, we filled up, bought some food and rolled another 30 miles to camp on the banks of the Missouri river.
The country roads along the way turned out to be the best decision we'd made for directions. Although it could have been because of the cooler temperatures and lower humidity (85degrees and 50%), I was pretty sure it was because of the landscape. The hills rolled onward so much so that we experienced our first climbs since leaving the hills of Wisconsin. A small "mountain" range loomed ahead of us all morning and, while it couldn't have been more than 200ft high, at least it was something to look at as we rolled up and down the small hills of the state. At the bottom of every hill was a wetland, or an eroded river valley. The hills around the river having been eroded for thousands of years before becoming what we have today. Meandering rivers wind themselves through tiny river valleys, disappearing from view in what appears to be a sure uphill rise. The ground water dynamics of the area seem visable even from the surface, as one stream's groundwater surely flows into the stream on the other side of the small hill.
Wetlands bring an abundance of life, and the feeling of it was palpable in the air when we stopped next to a watery area. Birds wouldn't cease chirping, waterfowl would half fly, half swim away from the roadside through their algae filled home. The grasses of the prairie sang with life as crickets, grasshoppers, and prairie birds would jump, chirp, and sing the blades of grass to life. At one point, I followed a red-tailed hawk as he soared across the prairie, about 10ft off the ground, in search of a morsel to eat. Killdear flew on either side of the road, and entire flocks of red-winged blackbirds soared by. Am I really about to admit this online? I wished I knew more bird species...
The cornfields and soybeans gave way to prairie fields where cattle grazed away. Small ponds and wetlands appear in the middle of the driest fields giving cattle a perfect place to cool themselves off in the heat of the day. The cattle out here have a different sense about them than the cows in Wisconsin. When we stop to take a picture, they sense something is not right, and it doesn't take long for one of them to trigger the herd to go galloping away from us in fear of the weird creatures that for some reason stopped on the road instead of passing straight by.
Indeed, in the grasslands of South Dakota, we didn't find the middle-of-nowhere. We found life. Life in the fields, in the wetlands, and even in the rocks in the geology of the area. What a beautiful place and a privilage to be able to enjoy. Next time you drive through the plains, take a moment, slow down, and think about life slightly differently, the way the prairies of the plains are meant to be appreciated, before you cruise on to the next state border.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Being Homeless
Being on the road is, in a sense, being homeless. It is a nomadic lifestyle; I have what I need to survive on my bicycle and stay alive by visiting towns, markets, grocery stores, bars, and right now, a public library. I see now why the Madison Central public library is a beacon to the homeless of Madison. Being on the road, I feel much closer to the homeless. While I don't lack financially speaking, or have a drug addiction, I don't have a place to shower at the end of the day, there's no guarranteed roof above my head (although my tent promises to be a good substitute now that I re-sealed the previously leaky seems...), no air conditioned haven free of mosquitoes, ants, flies and bugs.
I sat reflecting upon this idea today as I sat on the curb of a Hy-vee supermarket. I had just been inside the chilled sanctuary walking the isles packed with tasty morsels of food that my tummy cried for at every step. It was a difficult ride this morning, there was a strong wind from the south, which resulted in a headwind since we intended to travel south to get to Brookings, SD. I emerged from the cold supermarket with more than I had intended on purchasing; some meat and a tomato to make a sandwich with the bread, cheese and avacado I already had, a bag of chips, some yogurt, and a bar of reeses chocolate which melted within 5 minutes of being outside, inspite of the fact that I had placed it in the shade. Forecasts said 95 degrees was the high, with only 70% humidity, indeed a better day than conditions we had previously experienced. But stepping into the sun after being inside the supermarket yielded a cry of disbelief at the temperature we had just been biking through. After aclimatizing myself to the refeshing feel of the air conditioned supermarket, the sun and humidity was almost too much to bear. Yet bear it I did, and I sat on the curb next to my bike like I had the previous day and they day before that, eating my food, watching people entering and leaving the store, looking hot, sweaty, and extremely dirty. My white shirt, although it had been washed, still bears the mud stains from the pig wrestling the week before. Sitting on the curb, receiving funny looks from passers-by (or worse, no acknowledgement at all), gave me feelings of what I thought the homeless might feel on occasion.
A couple days ago, in Fairfax, MN, we had a good homeless experience. It was our second day on the road after leaving Erinn's in Lakeville and we were shot. It's amazing how civilization sort of just drops off the map. Within a couple of hours (not many miles on bicycle...) the people and towns we passed through went from Minneapolis suburbs to "You're from Wisconsin? oh, I went to Wisconsin once! Where ya headed?" "to the west..." "No, what town ya headed to? There's not much out there..." Indeed, there wasn't much out there, and before we knew it, we were in the middle of no-where (although some would call it Minnesota ;). We had the choice of a gravel road south, or a gravel road west, both of which didn't so much wind their way, but just go straight as an arrow past the fields of corn and soybeans. At least the monotony made directions easy...
About 35 miles after leaving a small town where we filled up our water bottles at the only store-the bar-we reached Fairfax and went straight to the grocery store. It was heaven on earth. Air conditioned, and stocked with everything a town of 1200 people should need. Before we had left the store we were almost done with a box of 6 ice cream snicker bars, and sitting just outside we feasted on watermelon, apples, blackberries, and bananas with peanut butter. It wasn't long before a young lady asked us what we were doing and why on earth were we in Fairfax, MN. She was there for her sister-in-law's wedding reception that evening. After a brief talk she said goodbye and walked away, only to come back after she'd got to her car. "Oh my, I almost forgot," she said. Brint and I both thought the same thing... she had forgotten to invite us to the wedding... "Here take this and buy yourselves a hamburger or something," and after trying to refuse accepting it, we took the $20 in her hand with gratitude. Maybe our scruffy looks (especially Brint's mustache) and stories to share are worth something to some people-like the story the homeless man was worth something to me. It's just a matter of starting a conversation with somebody and the possibilities are enormous.
As for us, we're headed west now, Pierre is the next major city we plan to hit on the Missouri river, maybe not too far away if the temperatures actually drop to a more bearable level.
I sat reflecting upon this idea today as I sat on the curb of a Hy-vee supermarket. I had just been inside the chilled sanctuary walking the isles packed with tasty morsels of food that my tummy cried for at every step. It was a difficult ride this morning, there was a strong wind from the south, which resulted in a headwind since we intended to travel south to get to Brookings, SD. I emerged from the cold supermarket with more than I had intended on purchasing; some meat and a tomato to make a sandwich with the bread, cheese and avacado I already had, a bag of chips, some yogurt, and a bar of reeses chocolate which melted within 5 minutes of being outside, inspite of the fact that I had placed it in the shade. Forecasts said 95 degrees was the high, with only 70% humidity, indeed a better day than conditions we had previously experienced. But stepping into the sun after being inside the supermarket yielded a cry of disbelief at the temperature we had just been biking through. After aclimatizing myself to the refeshing feel of the air conditioned supermarket, the sun and humidity was almost too much to bear. Yet bear it I did, and I sat on the curb next to my bike like I had the previous day and they day before that, eating my food, watching people entering and leaving the store, looking hot, sweaty, and extremely dirty. My white shirt, although it had been washed, still bears the mud stains from the pig wrestling the week before. Sitting on the curb, receiving funny looks from passers-by (or worse, no acknowledgement at all), gave me feelings of what I thought the homeless might feel on occasion.
A couple days ago, in Fairfax, MN, we had a good homeless experience. It was our second day on the road after leaving Erinn's in Lakeville and we were shot. It's amazing how civilization sort of just drops off the map. Within a couple of hours (not many miles on bicycle...) the people and towns we passed through went from Minneapolis suburbs to "You're from Wisconsin? oh, I went to Wisconsin once! Where ya headed?" "to the west..." "No, what town ya headed to? There's not much out there..." Indeed, there wasn't much out there, and before we knew it, we were in the middle of no-where (although some would call it Minnesota ;). We had the choice of a gravel road south, or a gravel road west, both of which didn't so much wind their way, but just go straight as an arrow past the fields of corn and soybeans. At least the monotony made directions easy...
About 35 miles after leaving a small town where we filled up our water bottles at the only store-the bar-we reached Fairfax and went straight to the grocery store. It was heaven on earth. Air conditioned, and stocked with everything a town of 1200 people should need. Before we had left the store we were almost done with a box of 6 ice cream snicker bars, and sitting just outside we feasted on watermelon, apples, blackberries, and bananas with peanut butter. It wasn't long before a young lady asked us what we were doing and why on earth were we in Fairfax, MN. She was there for her sister-in-law's wedding reception that evening. After a brief talk she said goodbye and walked away, only to come back after she'd got to her car. "Oh my, I almost forgot," she said. Brint and I both thought the same thing... she had forgotten to invite us to the wedding... "Here take this and buy yourselves a hamburger or something," and after trying to refuse accepting it, we took the $20 in her hand with gratitude. Maybe our scruffy looks (especially Brint's mustache) and stories to share are worth something to some people-like the story the homeless man was worth something to me. It's just a matter of starting a conversation with somebody and the possibilities are enormous.
As for us, we're headed west now, Pierre is the next major city we plan to hit on the Missouri river, maybe not too far away if the temperatures actually drop to a more bearable level.
A brief encounter in Minneapolis
As we biked at 11:30pm to Amanda's place in uptown to stay the night , we passed a gas station on Lake St near the Mercado Central, and the natural inclination was to go in and buy an ice cream. Inspite of the neighborhood being slightly sketchy, we (maybe it was more me than Brint) gave into temptation and I soon emerged from the store with two ice cream treats in my hands. At that moment, a well built, slightly scruffy looking black man came up to us and started conversation. "Where ya'll from, where you biking to this late at night, across the country or something?" Of course, we had to tell him we actually were biking across the country, even though all our bags were at Erinn's in Lakeville, 30 miles away. When we told him we were from Madison he used the opportunity to connect with us; "Oh, I'm from Wisconsin too! Grew up in Milwaukee!" While I do my best to accept all people, no matter how they look, my brain was squirming with bad thoughts. 'Uh oh, maybe he'll just keep talking to us while his friends get in a better position to mug us,' I kept looking around to make sure we were still alone. After giving us a very brief description of his current life situation-homeless in Minneapolis-he asked for money. While I also don't give money to homeless people very often, I felt quite guilty that I was about to indulge in an ice cream treat, while he was going to sleep on the street somewhere, so I gave him a dollar.
I thought this would be the end of the encounter when he walked into the store and we started to bike off. But a few moments later he came out of the store yelling "hey madison, madison." We obliged and turned around to see what else he wanted. As he came up to us again, more thoughts raced through my mind. 'Why does he keep reaching behind his back? Is there a gun or a knife in his back pocket? Did he just call his friends now that he knows he found two clueless white kids with wallets?' Instead, he burst into a series of apologies; "I'm sorry, I don't like to beg, I don't really ever do it, I feel really bad about that," and further description of his current situation; "When I sleep at the salvation army, they kick us at 6am every day and tell us we can sleep there, but we can't stay there, and they kick us out, so now I pay an old man $25 a night to sleep on his porch, I don't know why I pay that much, that's just the way the deal worked out at the time." He then asked us if he could share something personal with us. We were very taken aback, still uneasy about trusting the man in that moment, but we agreed to hear what he had to say. What proceeded, was a 5 minute poem/rap/rhyme about what his life was like. Listening to him was like looking through the eyes of that man as he talked about his childhood as an orphan, addiction to drugs, need for a place to sleep at night, and his thoughts as he entered the darkest places of a city to sleep-dark corners of old abandoned houses that young children run quickly by during daylight hours in fear of what lies within. When he was finished, we thanked him, and I was happy to give him three more dollars, the last of the money I had on me. I told him he should try to get the poem published-if he spent all day thinking about the lines, they must be worth something, maybe even enough to get by without sleeping at the salvation army. As we left, I asked for his name, "Chris" he replied. "I'll look for your music," I said, and we were gone, biking down the greenway and completely shocked about what had happened.
I thought this would be the end of the encounter when he walked into the store and we started to bike off. But a few moments later he came out of the store yelling "hey madison, madison." We obliged and turned around to see what else he wanted. As he came up to us again, more thoughts raced through my mind. 'Why does he keep reaching behind his back? Is there a gun or a knife in his back pocket? Did he just call his friends now that he knows he found two clueless white kids with wallets?' Instead, he burst into a series of apologies; "I'm sorry, I don't like to beg, I don't really ever do it, I feel really bad about that," and further description of his current situation; "When I sleep at the salvation army, they kick us at 6am every day and tell us we can sleep there, but we can't stay there, and they kick us out, so now I pay an old man $25 a night to sleep on his porch, I don't know why I pay that much, that's just the way the deal worked out at the time." He then asked us if he could share something personal with us. We were very taken aback, still uneasy about trusting the man in that moment, but we agreed to hear what he had to say. What proceeded, was a 5 minute poem/rap/rhyme about what his life was like. Listening to him was like looking through the eyes of that man as he talked about his childhood as an orphan, addiction to drugs, need for a place to sleep at night, and his thoughts as he entered the darkest places of a city to sleep-dark corners of old abandoned houses that young children run quickly by during daylight hours in fear of what lies within. When he was finished, we thanked him, and I was happy to give him three more dollars, the last of the money I had on me. I told him he should try to get the poem published-if he spent all day thinking about the lines, they must be worth something, maybe even enough to get by without sleeping at the salvation army. As we left, I asked for his name, "Chris" he replied. "I'll look for your music," I said, and we were gone, biking down the greenway and completely shocked about what had happened.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Pigs and Weddings
Second day of the trip, riding west through the driftless area of Wisconsin, Brint and I came across a county fair. The Crawford county fair with a sign on the outside "Hug a Hog, tonight, 7pm." Ideas raced through our minds, we'd only come 50 miles for the day and were hoping for a bit more due to the late start the day before. But we're not riding just for miles, we're on the road for experiences and fun. So we entertained thoughts of camping at the county fair as we ate lunch by the dam at Gay's Mills. After lunch we walked into the natural foods coop in town, a coop that had a huge selection for its small size and we learned had been started years ago and was run by volunteers. The guy at the counter was extremely nice and it wasn't long before him, the one other customer in the store -Mike,- Brint and I were in an avid conversation about local food, and the ideas of the hippie generation to live sustainably off the land until they all got, in the words of Mike, "lazy." The conversation stretched onward to politics, life travels and experiences, and seemed like the typical kind of conversation that would go on in the natural food coop in Gay's Mills, heart of the driftless area and Kickapoo Valley in Wisconsin. It wasn't long until other kind hearted locals entered the store, and conversation switched to that of "The Wedding," happening the next day between the Organic Valley CEO's daughter, and her fiance; a couple referred to as 'driftless area royalty.' "Are you going to the wedding tomorrow?" "Yeah, I have to play in it, I'll be there." Everyone seemed to know everything about the events going on within the community. While this put more ideas in our head, we were really there to learn more about the 'Hug a Hog' contest. Two to three person teams were given 20 seconds to put a 70-80 pound pig in a barrel in the middle of a ~30ft diameter ring. The ring was composed of half a foot of standing water, plus a good foot of mud, plus the end product of every little piglet that would enter, against their will, see hundreds of people in the stands looking at them, plus the 3 pig catchers staring intently, realize they were separated from their friends and alone, and relax their abdominal muscles... There were two categories, men's and women's, and the first prize went to the quickest teams. Our competition, therefore, was burly looking farmer men who had claimed to have participated in this event for several years in a row. Neither Brint or myself had ever touched a pig... So we biked back to the fair, entered ourselves in the contest, and mingled with other fair-goers (our bikes draw a lot of attention). When the pig competition began, team introductions were made as we stepped into the ring. Everyone seemed to know who we were and our plans to bike west; we were the city slickers. Yet, upon the word "Go," Brint made a lung for the pig, held it in place, while I grabbed it around the belly, and hauled the 70 pounds of squirming and squealing muscle to the barrel in the center for a time of 10.8 seconds. We earned 4th place and $50 as a reward! Later that night, as we polka-ed and listened to the local band in the beer tent, we learned more about the wedding the next day...
Next morning we woke and met with Anthony, a friendly guy who we had arranged to bike with the next day. The plan was to bike about 60 miles north together and camp somewhere where Brint and I could make it to Minneapolis the next day. Instead, we struggled over a hill, headed west to the Mississippi, hit 45mph on the way back down, and found ourselves at a tractor pull outside of Ferryville, 6 miles away from where the wedding would take place that night. We stayed at the tractor pull long enough to get an idea of how the competition worked, drink some well deserved beers, and check out the farm machines before we tired and headed into town to eat lunch and swim out to a raft in the Mississippi. We discussed our options for the night. There seemed to be so many pros and cons. On one hand, we would have a tail wind going up the river which would make it easy to put more miles on top of the 15 we had covered for the day, yet we would miss out on a huge wedding with like-minded, open hearted people. It was just yesterday that we had cut our day short for the pig catching competition and promised ourselves to put on miles the next day. Yet, we may never have this opportunity again, huge community weddings of 300-400 people don't happen every day. So we decided upon the wedding. We went into the bar across the road to cool off from the 100+ degree weather and ended up having some drinks. Friendly folks in the bar decided to buy us shots, and after an hour inside it was 5pm and we had a pretty good buzz going, trying to keep in mind the night that lay ahead of us. After talking to a woman who offered us a spot on her land to pitch our tents, we stepped outside to make dinner (we had been told not to attend the wedding dinner due to a specific number of people that would attend, though the thought of the tasty meals that were being eaten made our mouths salivate). We found Ferryville in a state of celebration. The raft we had swum to hours before was now being loaded with 100s of fireworks. Merriment on the street was picking up; there were people grilling and playing bags. It turned out this was the equivalent of the 4th of July for the town, and it wasn't long before we were eating grilled pork and brats and drinking more beer. The generosity of the townspeople was overwhelming and we were close to staying in Ferryville for the night. But the idea of the wedding drew us away enough to bike up the road (after extensive goodbyes and more offers of food and drink) in more or less straight lines, and find the home of Donelda Surguy. She was a California woman, brought to Wisconsin on a whim, heading back to CA after retiring, but after discovering a piece of land for sale in the driftless area, stayed in Wisconsin. After making camp, we biked 5 miles up the road to the site of the wedding and were immediately shocked by the size of it. Cars lined the drive for miles. On our way in, we ran into friends from the previous night, "the dancing just started, and there's still cake left!" We were in our element. Equipped with the finest clothes we had brought (my chaco-like sandals, zip-off pants, and white button up shirt), we found ourselves folk dancing and blending in perfectly with the crowd of old hippies and organic farmers. When the second band came on, a mixture of jazz, rock, with a latino flavor, the dancing really got going. Mike, our friend from the natural food coop the day before, was ecstatic to see us. "This is the Shire," he told us, and we believed it. The mixture of good people who cared about the food they ate, community values, sense of the land and keeping old traditions alive was like stepping back in time, stepping into another world though we were 100 miles from Madison. Cider and wine were flowing, the cake was amazing, and there was a plethora of fresh veggies and dip that smelled like the produce section of an organic food store. People were amazingly kind, and it wasn't long before I was talking with the bride and groom and 'Gandalf,' the bride's father, congratulating them, telling them my story... 'Were we seriously considering missing this,' we thought? We somehow made it the 5 miles back to our tent that night in the pitch black, and by 3:30am, as a lightening storm rolled in, we fell quickly to sleep.
What a trip its been. After starting at 1pm the next day we rode 50 miles and camped just north of Lacrosse on the Black River before riding 123 the next day to arrive just before dusk, sore and tired to Erinn's house ready for sleep and a roof above our heads. Pictures at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/PigsAndWeddings?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCJqD1KvArfapowE&feat=directlink
Next morning we woke and met with Anthony, a friendly guy who we had arranged to bike with the next day. The plan was to bike about 60 miles north together and camp somewhere where Brint and I could make it to Minneapolis the next day. Instead, we struggled over a hill, headed west to the Mississippi, hit 45mph on the way back down, and found ourselves at a tractor pull outside of Ferryville, 6 miles away from where the wedding would take place that night. We stayed at the tractor pull long enough to get an idea of how the competition worked, drink some well deserved beers, and check out the farm machines before we tired and headed into town to eat lunch and swim out to a raft in the Mississippi. We discussed our options for the night. There seemed to be so many pros and cons. On one hand, we would have a tail wind going up the river which would make it easy to put more miles on top of the 15 we had covered for the day, yet we would miss out on a huge wedding with like-minded, open hearted people. It was just yesterday that we had cut our day short for the pig catching competition and promised ourselves to put on miles the next day. Yet, we may never have this opportunity again, huge community weddings of 300-400 people don't happen every day. So we decided upon the wedding. We went into the bar across the road to cool off from the 100+ degree weather and ended up having some drinks. Friendly folks in the bar decided to buy us shots, and after an hour inside it was 5pm and we had a pretty good buzz going, trying to keep in mind the night that lay ahead of us. After talking to a woman who offered us a spot on her land to pitch our tents, we stepped outside to make dinner (we had been told not to attend the wedding dinner due to a specific number of people that would attend, though the thought of the tasty meals that were being eaten made our mouths salivate). We found Ferryville in a state of celebration. The raft we had swum to hours before was now being loaded with 100s of fireworks. Merriment on the street was picking up; there were people grilling and playing bags. It turned out this was the equivalent of the 4th of July for the town, and it wasn't long before we were eating grilled pork and brats and drinking more beer. The generosity of the townspeople was overwhelming and we were close to staying in Ferryville for the night. But the idea of the wedding drew us away enough to bike up the road (after extensive goodbyes and more offers of food and drink) in more or less straight lines, and find the home of Donelda Surguy. She was a California woman, brought to Wisconsin on a whim, heading back to CA after retiring, but after discovering a piece of land for sale in the driftless area, stayed in Wisconsin. After making camp, we biked 5 miles up the road to the site of the wedding and were immediately shocked by the size of it. Cars lined the drive for miles. On our way in, we ran into friends from the previous night, "the dancing just started, and there's still cake left!" We were in our element. Equipped with the finest clothes we had brought (my chaco-like sandals, zip-off pants, and white button up shirt), we found ourselves folk dancing and blending in perfectly with the crowd of old hippies and organic farmers. When the second band came on, a mixture of jazz, rock, with a latino flavor, the dancing really got going. Mike, our friend from the natural food coop the day before, was ecstatic to see us. "This is the Shire," he told us, and we believed it. The mixture of good people who cared about the food they ate, community values, sense of the land and keeping old traditions alive was like stepping back in time, stepping into another world though we were 100 miles from Madison. Cider and wine were flowing, the cake was amazing, and there was a plethora of fresh veggies and dip that smelled like the produce section of an organic food store. People were amazingly kind, and it wasn't long before I was talking with the bride and groom and 'Gandalf,' the bride's father, congratulating them, telling them my story... 'Were we seriously considering missing this,' we thought? We somehow made it the 5 miles back to our tent that night in the pitch black, and by 3:30am, as a lightening storm rolled in, we fell quickly to sleep.
What a trip its been. After starting at 1pm the next day we rode 50 miles and camped just north of Lacrosse on the Black River before riding 123 the next day to arrive just before dusk, sore and tired to Erinn's house ready for sleep and a roof above our heads. Pictures at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/PigsAndWeddings?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCJqD1KvArfapowE&feat=directlink
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