70+ mile passage along Skagit River - through fir forest. Many creeks, ferns, dense growth and big logging trucks who do not care to share the road. Met an Indian who told us so. A smoker but a concerned man. Said tobacco was sacred in his tribe which I think is an old term for addictive. Road gentle on us - a few swells but none that brought tears or regrets; temperature, bicycle friendly, with 15 degrees differential sun to shade. Mountains loom not far from river’s edge - many snow-capped and with an ability unusual for the inanimate to strike fear in the heart and anticipatory fatigue in the legs. Only a sincere and practiced capacity for denial keeps us moving forward knowing and not knowing at the same time. It is said to be uphill from here; the party being over, so to speak. Eight miles to Rockport and a camp. Have been advised to seek out Rockport Bar and Grill tonight by more than one tatooed bench sitter - and by Kat “Just meow if you need me,” our waitress, who served up a massive reuben that rated a 5 on my reuben scale. I intend to do reubens across America and have that question - burning in so many minds - answered finally of who makes the best reuben.
Pat Sewell
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