Today’s trip took us by a series of little towns 6 to 20 miles apart - along the railroad - each with its tallest building - a grain elevator. Commerce is king, and wheat is commerce. They stand out as green islands on the prairie from afar. Our eyes go to them, seeking change. We are far enough into the plains to have a constant need to escape the same video. These towns have gravel streets and always a railroad crossing into the neighborhoods. The houses are small and tight against the cold. No high open porches and big glass expanses. This is serious winter weather country. The trees crowd the houses, few taller - and all are bent by the winds, like those along the gulf but without the moss. The bloom is off these little towns. Stores are unoccupied. Nothing new is in evidence. I’m told, “The kids are leaving. People are putting their farms in the WRI Program. The population is aging.” Passed a church with a hearse outside, a limousine and maybe four cars. Started to stop since it looked poorly attended. Maybe all the deceased’s friends have died or moved off. Seemed a sad situation but not so much for the deceased because just down the road we passed the cemetery. A fine high spot. Many other precedents in place already with wind-resistant plastic bouquets. The grave was lined with green velvet but had no green velvet chairs suggesting the absence of family, a possible very sad situation. The dirt from the grave was piled nicely in an old 1960 Ford dump truck - a little too close for my taste - and the backhoe used to dig the grave, likewise. Overall, there seemed to be a lack of sensitivity to those who might be attending the funeral that have a fear of suffocation, them seeing the actual dirt that is going in on top of that coffin after the words are said. Wasn’t creepy, but it was close. We were blowing by pretty fast so all of my impressions had to be quick and easy ones. It was a Lutheran Church, I think, but Garrison Keeler was not there. The wind does blow a lot here and did blow us. We covered 75 miles today without pedaling. One could make a case for a just God from this information alone if so inclined and bad at statistics.
Our camp is in the city park in Hingham under the water tower. We have a water hose for washing places that need washing, a toilet, a picnic table, deep lush green grass and enough wind to tear your hair out by the follicles. Two of the Bellingham 7 left after their tents started to shred. They will be in Maine by the morning with this as a tailwind. We’ll see if the other tents hold. The wind should be as noisy tonight as the trains have been.
Dave decided to make a change tonight - and for supper, to cook beans and rice and cheese instead of beans and rice and cheese.
This area gets 15 inches of rain a year, and everybody grows wheat. They can get outside three months out of the year without death by climate. Sometimes, even for the uninitiated, it is hard to understand the choices people make. Two ladies at the courthouse told me, “great place to live, good hard-working people, no crime.” They couldn’t remember who won the county in the presidential election “even though we count the votes.” Some things aren’t important.
Pat Sewell
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
June 24, Wednesday, Shelby Mountain
The sailor loves the wind - and hates the calm. The cyclist loves only the tailwind, accepts a calm calmly and abhors the headwind. And we had it our way just like Frank Sinatra today - 75 miles, East Glacier to Shelby with a turbo-charged tailwind. What a difference a day makes and a wind. Give us the flat and get out of the way. Restored our sense of competency in the saddle. The floating community of cyclists we have become entwined with blew through to the small campground here at Lake Shel-oola which has no lake. The Bellingham Seven, Dave and Gordon and us, so far. Broquest.com, three guys from Oklahoma, may have continued.
The countryside has changed dramatically. Your eye can see forever. No chance of being snuck up on here, so our brains like the view. Long rolling hills with many wetlands between. Saw Wilson phalarope, northern shoveler, gray duck, mallards, blue wing teal, black bellied plover, lesser yellow legs, yellow headed blackbird, red wing blackbird, western king bird, long billed curlew, northern harrier and others. These wetlands are the nesting ground for so many birds.
I continue my investigation of motivation with the bicyclists I meet. Most have not thought deeply and give rather simple answers, “To see if I could” - “I had the time before grad school” - “My friend was doing it, so I thought, ‘Why not’.” This must remain an open area of research. It appears, though, that patterns are emerging. Old guys finally breaking loose and young guys taking a break before putting on the career traces. The one woman I have talked to was coming out of a career, seeking a new beginning - more of a classical midlife position revision. I guess we’re old guys taking a big break and seeing if we can do it. Today and getting over the two mountain ranges says we can.
The Broquest.com guys arrived later. Stuart, absent a significant portion of skin from a crash at 20 mph on open road, by something that deflected his front wheel, and he was down. Wrecked his helmet. His advice - “Wear a helmet.” It did “ring my bell good,” he says, and we will watch him for seqelae. If he can’t ride in the morning, he gets left. The tour is bigger than any of us.
David lost the Frisbee, bocce ball, chase game. And his tooth again. Same IQ drop - same glue solution. That’s the fourth time.
Question of the day: What is the basis of choice? Send your answer. To qualify as a winner, no questions addressed to me can be asked of the question. Wrong answers predict a bad outcome. Confusion clears eventually for some. Robert Frost started this.
Pat Sewell
The countryside has changed dramatically. Your eye can see forever. No chance of being snuck up on here, so our brains like the view. Long rolling hills with many wetlands between. Saw Wilson phalarope, northern shoveler, gray duck, mallards, blue wing teal, black bellied plover, lesser yellow legs, yellow headed blackbird, red wing blackbird, western king bird, long billed curlew, northern harrier and others. These wetlands are the nesting ground for so many birds.
I continue my investigation of motivation with the bicyclists I meet. Most have not thought deeply and give rather simple answers, “To see if I could” - “I had the time before grad school” - “My friend was doing it, so I thought, ‘Why not’.” This must remain an open area of research. It appears, though, that patterns are emerging. Old guys finally breaking loose and young guys taking a break before putting on the career traces. The one woman I have talked to was coming out of a career, seeking a new beginning - more of a classical midlife position revision. I guess we’re old guys taking a big break and seeing if we can do it. Today and getting over the two mountain ranges says we can.
The Broquest.com guys arrived later. Stuart, absent a significant portion of skin from a crash at 20 mph on open road, by something that deflected his front wheel, and he was down. Wrecked his helmet. His advice - “Wear a helmet.” It did “ring my bell good,” he says, and we will watch him for seqelae. If he can’t ride in the morning, he gets left. The tour is bigger than any of us.
David lost the Frisbee, bocce ball, chase game. And his tooth again. Same IQ drop - same glue solution. That’s the fourth time.
Question of the day: What is the basis of choice? Send your answer. To qualify as a winner, no questions addressed to me can be asked of the question. Wrong answers predict a bad outcome. Confusion clears eventually for some. Robert Frost started this.
Pat Sewell
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, East Glacier Mountain, 3 p.m.
Someone threw a switch somewhere, and the world transformed. Actually, we pried ourselves away from the Issac Walton Inn, climbed the 17 miles to Maria’s Pass over the Continental Divide under a sunny sky, then blew down the eastern slope with a tailwind at 30 mph to big sky and rolling plains. So different it is from the tortured canyons, roaring white-capped rivers and towering mountains that crowded out the sun on the western slope. Our view to the west and north is of those mountains of Glacier Park, and they are a compelling presence but better they be behind us now. We’ve crossed the Cascades and the Rockies now. The plains are ahead. We’ve been tested and survived the two mountain ranges. Our trip name keeps evolving with the experience. The current rendition is “the dogged contemplative crawl across America.” If the tailwind we had from Maria’s Pass persists, we will drop the crawl - and maybe the dogged. We’re camped in East Glacier under aspen trees, looking back from where we came. $5 a night, showers 25 cents for two and a half minutes, if you need one. Beans and rice for supper. Pepper Jack, crackers, plums and apples for appetizer. You can’t get food like this just anywhere.
There is gradually developing a network of communicating cyclists working this route. Individuals and groups going each way - and this far out now, as this or that group overtakes, falls behind or passes another - there is talk of who each has seen, who might be seen, how they were doing, etc. Blog sites are being exchanged. It is a rolling community of sorts that is coming into being. We heard today of Double-Jointed Party Trick Brooke, who was encountered on Loup Loup Pass by seven riders who started in Bellingham. Yesterday, John and Laura caught us at the Issac Walton - laid up luxuriating as we were - and they had been forewarned about us. When a cyclist is encountered, we stop and take all the questions from opposite sides of the road, with cars flashing between - oblivious to them; “Where you going, when did you leave, who have you seen?” The Northern Tier community cycling group; no dues, no scheduled meeting but a strange consensus that this is worthwhile. “It’s the people,” as Andrew Yapp said in Eureka - and not something we anticipated.
*Small political note: Small because this is a politically and religiously-neutral journal.
Met a couple at the Issac Walton Inn, Will and Shelby Young. They manufacture and then sell water testing equipment to businesses and universities in 70 countries. Will was subjected to a lot of disgruntled feedback from the world over from his customers who were so angry and disappointed in the United States under the Bush administration - and who have expressed to him much satisfaction with the changes being made by Obama to mend our ways and our relationship with other countries. He looks through a small, but loud, window to the world providing good information to us here at home. For those of you who disagree with this small politically-neutral note, you may turn the page and agree to disagree.
Being in the sun today is like emerging from a cave. Three days of rain and inside living. Ever wonder if you had been raised in a cave and never went outside what you would think; how you would be? How about if you never had met a person? And if you did, they were always mean? What would you think about people? Is this even worth thinking about? What would you know about anything but the inside of that cave and mean people? You might pass up Mother Theresa as a meanie. This could be considered a second small political note except that’s not allowed in this journal.
Pat Sewell
There is gradually developing a network of communicating cyclists working this route. Individuals and groups going each way - and this far out now, as this or that group overtakes, falls behind or passes another - there is talk of who each has seen, who might be seen, how they were doing, etc. Blog sites are being exchanged. It is a rolling community of sorts that is coming into being. We heard today of Double-Jointed Party Trick Brooke, who was encountered on Loup Loup Pass by seven riders who started in Bellingham. Yesterday, John and Laura caught us at the Issac Walton - laid up luxuriating as we were - and they had been forewarned about us. When a cyclist is encountered, we stop and take all the questions from opposite sides of the road, with cars flashing between - oblivious to them; “Where you going, when did you leave, who have you seen?” The Northern Tier community cycling group; no dues, no scheduled meeting but a strange consensus that this is worthwhile. “It’s the people,” as Andrew Yapp said in Eureka - and not something we anticipated.
*Small political note: Small because this is a politically and religiously-neutral journal.
Met a couple at the Issac Walton Inn, Will and Shelby Young. They manufacture and then sell water testing equipment to businesses and universities in 70 countries. Will was subjected to a lot of disgruntled feedback from the world over from his customers who were so angry and disappointed in the United States under the Bush administration - and who have expressed to him much satisfaction with the changes being made by Obama to mend our ways and our relationship with other countries. He looks through a small, but loud, window to the world providing good information to us here at home. For those of you who disagree with this small politically-neutral note, you may turn the page and agree to disagree.
Being in the sun today is like emerging from a cave. Three days of rain and inside living. Ever wonder if you had been raised in a cave and never went outside what you would think; how you would be? How about if you never had met a person? And if you did, they were always mean? What would you think about people? Is this even worth thinking about? What would you know about anything but the inside of that cave and mean people? You might pass up Mother Theresa as a meanie. This could be considered a second small political note except that’s not allowed in this journal.
Pat Sewell
Monday, June 22, 2009
June 22, Essex Mountain, 7 p.m.
Giving in to good sense, we decided to stay at the Issac Walton another day. Three hots and a cot while outside it’s 45 degrees and raining. Seemed the sensible thing this morning and now more so as the day has unfolded. The contemplative creep just added another “e” but who is counting? We are close to being the contemplative crawl. We’ve met a couple on a tandem - likewise, refugees driven in by the weather. John and Laura from Washington D.C. You can follow them on their blog Crazy Guy on a Bike. Cycling Santa.com. They, too, head for Bar Harbor, Maine. John, a veteran of many SAG supported tours in the Sierras and Rockies looks back on the Cascades as his most difficult riding. “Wouldn’t do it again,” he says.
Have met many people here; a Katherine Porter novel set in the Rockies. Every life worth a novel, someone said - maybe Shakespeare or did he say, “All life is a stage - each of us with many exits and entrances.” And how sweet the smell of this inn, this island in a cold rain storm. But who said, “How unique we all are and everything is, while nothing, really, is new under the sun”? The people come and go here - they leer - at the trains, at each other, us - and tomorrow the crank goes on for better or worse. A worthwhile stop in every sense, these two and one-half days. Tomorrow the Continental Divide.
Pat Sewell
Have met many people here; a Katherine Porter novel set in the Rockies. Every life worth a novel, someone said - maybe Shakespeare or did he say, “All life is a stage - each of us with many exits and entrances.” And how sweet the smell of this inn, this island in a cold rain storm. But who said, “How unique we all are and everything is, while nothing, really, is new under the sun”? The people come and go here - they leer - at the trains, at each other, us - and tomorrow the crank goes on for better or worse. A worthwhile stop in every sense, these two and one-half days. Tomorrow the Continental Divide.
Pat Sewell
Sunday, June 21, 2009
June 21, Sunday, Issac Walton Inn, Essex Mountain
A restful interlude, a soft note more appropriate to the harp than to the accordion. We arrived Saturday, after a long pull up from West Glacier following the middle fork of the Flathead River - Glacier Park to our left, Bob Marshall Wilderness on our right. Busy highway, narrow shoulder, steep climbs, hurried motorists with little time nor patience - most - for cyclists. They hustled by us: 4,000 to 50,000 pounds of vehicle, reluctantly sparing us four to five feet of asphalt. It was a trip of the better-to-miss kind, a frequently repeated rush of sound, not unlike the train through the tent in Whitefish, that would culminate in a blast of wind and noise just feet away. We trusted they would miss us. We hoped we would not wobble wrong and meet their wrong wobble and have a real unpleasant and unscheduled end to our forward progress among other things. They didn’t hit us, and we are here now, all scars internal. We caught glimpses of the beautiful raging river and snow-covered mountains between flinches and deep breaths. Arriving at this inn for a day of recovery must be akin to rolling into the oasis for a night from the bareness of a desert. Cool springs, shade, food, rest. All the good stuff.
This inn was built in 1939 for train crews on the Empire Builder route - Chicago to Seattle. Later it became a guest inn and now serves as such for train aficionados and winter sports buffs. It sits in the old railroad town of Essex - being essentially all that remains - it, plus a few houses of what was 400 people in 1900. It is “frozen in time” as they advertise. The decor is railroad redux. Signal lights, spikes, bedding, train pictures, the china all reflect this theme. The guests come to be near this and the 30 trains that come by 100 feet from the building. They talk of trains, take pictures of the building, the trains and the pictures on the walls of the trains. We all eat on Great Northern china and buy and mail train postcards. It’s immersion in train and better than immersion in the rain we have suffered through in recent days. After a day and a half here, I think I will recognize a train fan when I see one just as I can a smoker - or often a birdwatcher. It’s a curiosity how we organize ourselves around things like this and draw something back from it. Our room cleaner was a young man from L.A. who came to work here because, “It’s the last flag stop there is in the Amtrak system.” Asked to explain his interest, he just shook his head saying, “I dunno, maybe it’s the sound or the way they look.” I was reminded of the study with young toy and doll naïve monkeys who were given a choice of trucks, trains, dolls in which the monkey sexes desegregated in their interest with the boy monkeys clearly preferring the truck and train. The women seemed to be here in support. As the receptionist told me, “Some of these guys will go out back by the tracks at 25 degrees below zero and when it is snowing to take a picture.”
The guests and staff go out - it’s a tradition - morning and evening to wave at the passing Amtrak, which toots back in greeting.
We’ve had good food here, three meals a day. Soup, cold wine, salads, big breakfast, lingering evening meals, the dinner humming with train talk - “will it be late, remember the old helper trains - the 2-10-2’s?” We also had a sauna yesterday, our first of the trip. Gave all our beat up muscles a heat treat. Turned us from limp to flaccid and immobile. Today - later, a massage. Why not, tomorrow the road again, all those car encounters of the close kind and a 17 mile climb over Maria’s Pass which as it turns out is the lowest crossing over the Continental Divide. We will consider it a deed well done to cross into the Atlantic Watershed from that of the Pacific. Our front wheel strains for that far shore.
Both doing a lot of reading. Dave finished “The English Patient” - I, William Trevor’s short stories “After the Rain” - we’ve now swapped and recommend each of these to you with a little time and consciousness to spare.
Only sour note: It is June 21, Father’s Day, and there is no call coverage. I look forward to the voice mail retrievable over the pass.
A soft and restful interlude with much introspection here. Time plenty for such. It’s so easy to be in a stream, steering around obstacles, anticipating currents, fighting haystacks; and lose sight of the river’s bank and beyond and appetites attenuated by these distractions. It is possible to even be blindsided by emergent thoughts and feelings - like a man who gets off the mat after being knocked down whose eyes are dazzled by the lights as he comes to himself again and the screams beyond the ring call him to a larger world.
This place and this bike trip would, to continue the stream metaphor, be an eddy. A calm collecting place of that which floats free and disorganized in the belly of the stream that we are a part of, that we are actually. While there are sweet and sour currents from day to day, the same can be said of the landscape within. It’s a good ride so far within both dimensions.
Pat Sewell
This inn was built in 1939 for train crews on the Empire Builder route - Chicago to Seattle. Later it became a guest inn and now serves as such for train aficionados and winter sports buffs. It sits in the old railroad town of Essex - being essentially all that remains - it, plus a few houses of what was 400 people in 1900. It is “frozen in time” as they advertise. The decor is railroad redux. Signal lights, spikes, bedding, train pictures, the china all reflect this theme. The guests come to be near this and the 30 trains that come by 100 feet from the building. They talk of trains, take pictures of the building, the trains and the pictures on the walls of the trains. We all eat on Great Northern china and buy and mail train postcards. It’s immersion in train and better than immersion in the rain we have suffered through in recent days. After a day and a half here, I think I will recognize a train fan when I see one just as I can a smoker - or often a birdwatcher. It’s a curiosity how we organize ourselves around things like this and draw something back from it. Our room cleaner was a young man from L.A. who came to work here because, “It’s the last flag stop there is in the Amtrak system.” Asked to explain his interest, he just shook his head saying, “I dunno, maybe it’s the sound or the way they look.” I was reminded of the study with young toy and doll naïve monkeys who were given a choice of trucks, trains, dolls in which the monkey sexes desegregated in their interest with the boy monkeys clearly preferring the truck and train. The women seemed to be here in support. As the receptionist told me, “Some of these guys will go out back by the tracks at 25 degrees below zero and when it is snowing to take a picture.”
The guests and staff go out - it’s a tradition - morning and evening to wave at the passing Amtrak, which toots back in greeting.
We’ve had good food here, three meals a day. Soup, cold wine, salads, big breakfast, lingering evening meals, the dinner humming with train talk - “will it be late, remember the old helper trains - the 2-10-2’s?” We also had a sauna yesterday, our first of the trip. Gave all our beat up muscles a heat treat. Turned us from limp to flaccid and immobile. Today - later, a massage. Why not, tomorrow the road again, all those car encounters of the close kind and a 17 mile climb over Maria’s Pass which as it turns out is the lowest crossing over the Continental Divide. We will consider it a deed well done to cross into the Atlantic Watershed from that of the Pacific. Our front wheel strains for that far shore.
Both doing a lot of reading. Dave finished “The English Patient” - I, William Trevor’s short stories “After the Rain” - we’ve now swapped and recommend each of these to you with a little time and consciousness to spare.
Only sour note: It is June 21, Father’s Day, and there is no call coverage. I look forward to the voice mail retrievable over the pass.
A soft and restful interlude with much introspection here. Time plenty for such. It’s so easy to be in a stream, steering around obstacles, anticipating currents, fighting haystacks; and lose sight of the river’s bank and beyond and appetites attenuated by these distractions. It is possible to even be blindsided by emergent thoughts and feelings - like a man who gets off the mat after being knocked down whose eyes are dazzled by the lights as he comes to himself again and the screams beyond the ring call him to a larger world.
This place and this bike trip would, to continue the stream metaphor, be an eddy. A calm collecting place of that which floats free and disorganized in the belly of the stream that we are a part of, that we are actually. While there are sweet and sour currents from day to day, the same can be said of the landscape within. It’s a good ride so far within both dimensions.
Pat Sewell
Friday, June 19, 2009
June 19 , Whitefish State Park, Hwy. 93
Only 35 miles today. Hwy. 93 to Whitefish. Heavy traffic unconcerned with us. Narrow shoulders. Threatening clouds. Punitive climbs. Gorgeous scenery. Burley Trailer with bent axle from bear attack. “We fought the bear, and the bear won.” Depleted upon arrival, called down to the engine room on one of the last steep climbs, “power guys, I need power.” Nothing! Called again! This time a tired voice, “You got it all cap, nothing left down here,” a sad and honest report leaving me alone on the slope - two strings devoid of muscle hooked to my pedals. I lifted them one at a time using arm and will, puppets both, and somehow limped into camp, all my people in the engine room incapacitated by the toxic fumes today’s efforts had generated. Maybe this is what is meant by the term “slamified” that plays such a big motivational role in all the energy bars. “Don’t get slamified, buy me” or something similar. This is a man as machine model. Perhaps I should have looked into this question. Can we replace as we go on, is there a need for a restorative period and nutrients. Doesn’t seem optional - the restorative period tonight.
The air today was cool and damp - like a cold wet wash rag on our faces. Hard to recall the heat of eastern Washington now with this completely different climate. Many Canadians here, but no one wants to take Canadian money, but they want Canadian business. This is not congruent.
Pat Sewell
The air today was cool and damp - like a cold wet wash rag on our faces. Hard to recall the heat of eastern Washington now with this completely different climate. Many Canadians here, but no one wants to take Canadian money, but they want Canadian business. This is not congruent.
Pat Sewell
June 19, 7 p.m. - 3rd entry - West Glacier
Just arrived at the KOA Campground out of West Glacier; a city of RV’s - a few campsites and a few little two-bedroom cabins with porch and swing, one of which we took. Our tents are wet from last night, and we are wet from the day. We came up from Columbia Falls on back roads in a heavy, cold rain. Took a 12-mile detour, six of which was washboard gravel. Beat us to death. Road wasn’t fit for the name. We were cursing the little tricksters back in the map room and then already across a mountain on this goat trail, we realized our mistake and retraced. A sour note on that accordion, for sure. It was my mistake, and I’m in the penalty box. The recovery route was almost as bad, so we arrived exhausted - looking for any safe harbor. I’m convinced after our detour that one mile of gravel is equal to four miles of asphalt experientially. I’m also convinced that if there had only been gravel roads in the west, it would never have been explored. The washboard made it hard to climb and harder to go downhill. My mule tried to throw me, and David’s buggy did throw a wheel. The quick release, released and the wheel went careening away. The dragging buggy brought him to a halt without a crash. Had he lost a wheel doing 30 mph, perhaps a more serious result. My Chinese-made American flag - attached to my bear-broken fiberglass pole was shaken loose and lost by the pounding, as well.
This was a tough day equivalent to being staked down on an ant bed in full sun at the equator. We do this for fun, of course.
It’s good, they say, to read the map
Don’t miss a turn and be a sap.
The male brain, though, likes to dead reckon
Head for those hills there that beckon.
Women, they say, will take direction
And men will say they should, upon reflection.
I said we’re alright. This way looks just fine
What the hell anyway, we’re the exploring kind.
Turns out, though, riding on gravel will kill a man
Better to read that map and stick with the plan.
I didn’t do it, and we spent 12 miles riding on rocks
Now I’ve lost face as guide and am in the penalty box.
An additional note on the Whitefish Lake State Park in Whitefish in case you ever want to stay there. Nice place, friendly people - helpful, welcoming. Designed well. Has small courtyard-type places enclosed by vegetation. Hot showers $1 for three minutes. More time extra. Whitefish Lake borders it with the mountains beyond. To the west a wall of trees, green and lush, appealing to the eye with its variety of soft greens and leaf shapes, but behind that wall 60 feet up is a train track, a very busy train track, a train every 45 minutes. This has the effect of a train coming through your living room every 45 minutes - or more accurately, your tent. Must be about the same level of sound as that within a jet engine at take-off. And the same effect as a continuously screaming baby in a movie theater. Hard to pay attention to anything else. The sound would build as the train approached, reaching a crescendo that caused every molecule within you to resonate - then de-crescendo. After four or five of these, your molecules were pretty well retrained so that they continued this activity without provocation late into the morning. Sleep, of course, was not an option except for Dave who slept through the bear attack.
Pat Sewell
This was a tough day equivalent to being staked down on an ant bed in full sun at the equator. We do this for fun, of course.
It’s good, they say, to read the map
Don’t miss a turn and be a sap.
The male brain, though, likes to dead reckon
Head for those hills there that beckon.
Women, they say, will take direction
And men will say they should, upon reflection.
I said we’re alright. This way looks just fine
What the hell anyway, we’re the exploring kind.
Turns out, though, riding on gravel will kill a man
Better to read that map and stick with the plan.
I didn’t do it, and we spent 12 miles riding on rocks
Now I’ve lost face as guide and am in the penalty box.
An additional note on the Whitefish Lake State Park in Whitefish in case you ever want to stay there. Nice place, friendly people - helpful, welcoming. Designed well. Has small courtyard-type places enclosed by vegetation. Hot showers $1 for three minutes. More time extra. Whitefish Lake borders it with the mountains beyond. To the west a wall of trees, green and lush, appealing to the eye with its variety of soft greens and leaf shapes, but behind that wall 60 feet up is a train track, a very busy train track, a train every 45 minutes. This has the effect of a train coming through your living room every 45 minutes - or more accurately, your tent. Must be about the same level of sound as that within a jet engine at take-off. And the same effect as a continuously screaming baby in a movie theater. Hard to pay attention to anything else. The sound would build as the train approached, reaching a crescendo that caused every molecule within you to resonate - then de-crescendo. After four or five of these, your molecules were pretty well retrained so that they continued this activity without provocation late into the morning. Sleep, of course, was not an option except for Dave who slept through the bear attack.
Pat Sewell
June 19 - second entry - Columbia Falls
We have sought shelter under the overhang at the Western Building Center. You take your comfort where you can find it. Curtains of rain fall in all directions. The sky over the pass to the east through the mountains, gathered there like a fortress, is opaque; there is no color lighter than midnight black. Storms were predicted, and this time Mr. Weather looks to be right. Should we dress out and head into it or hang as the brothers do. Will not hurt to give it a little time. Maybe the five minute thing will kick in and we’ll have change.
In yesterday’s notes, I talked of the use of strings, or cords, going to each foot, used to lift my dead legs at the last climb into Whitefish. I decided to continue this on the ride through town today, and a strange thing happened - to lift my feet, I have to lift my head. This, when repeated, causes a continuous nodding of my head - which to an observer, looks like a nod hello. So, as I went through town nodding, the people along our path started nodding back. Other people - who didn’t, perhaps, see me - perhaps, instead, saw them - even people in cars started nodding, too. There was a wave of nodding - like the waves at a football game, that commenced and spread, ultimately affecting everybody. It was an eye opener. Turns out, by me being inadvertently friendly, a resonance was set loose on the town and a wave of friendliness and responsiveness took over Whitefish. I could have passed through looking out a slot in a black plastic bubble to find out where the friendlies were and just passed by the non-nodders and been done with it. May never have known what a friendly bunch of people lives here if I hadn’t done my part. This seems like a good thing to know; a positive inadvertent consequence of being friendly. You change things. Everybody should learn this at age two. It’s not a question of finding it. It’s a question of helping make it happen. Things are not static or already formed, after all.
Pat Sewell
In yesterday’s notes, I talked of the use of strings, or cords, going to each foot, used to lift my dead legs at the last climb into Whitefish. I decided to continue this on the ride through town today, and a strange thing happened - to lift my feet, I have to lift my head. This, when repeated, causes a continuous nodding of my head - which to an observer, looks like a nod hello. So, as I went through town nodding, the people along our path started nodding back. Other people - who didn’t, perhaps, see me - perhaps, instead, saw them - even people in cars started nodding, too. There was a wave of nodding - like the waves at a football game, that commenced and spread, ultimately affecting everybody. It was an eye opener. Turns out, by me being inadvertently friendly, a resonance was set loose on the town and a wave of friendliness and responsiveness took over Whitefish. I could have passed through looking out a slot in a black plastic bubble to find out where the friendlies were and just passed by the non-nodders and been done with it. May never have known what a friendly bunch of people lives here if I hadn’t done my part. This seems like a good thing to know; a positive inadvertent consequence of being friendly. You change things. Everybody should learn this at age two. It’s not a question of finding it. It’s a question of helping make it happen. Things are not static or already formed, after all.
Pat Sewell
Thursday, June 18, 2009
June 18, Thursday, NFS Campground, North Dickey Lake
From Lake Koocanusa we made our way to Eureka and the Riverside Park for the night. $5 plus $5 deposit for the key to the communal bathroom which was worth the price of admission. It was ankle deep in water from a vigorously dripping shower nozzle. The water on the floor was warm, though, from the heavy foot traffic. The toilet worked when available and gave off an “I’d rather stand than sit” vibe. We stopped here after too big a meal at Café Jax. Our first French fries - pounds of them - and me, another reuben for my survey which is not going well for lack of subject. 5 on a 10 max at the Jax. You don’t need to travel to Eureka for a reuben if you are a fan. Maybe for the bathroom experience, yes.
Riverside Park was a gathering place for cyclists. We met Tedesco - a slight, dark, thick-haired young man fresh from destroying himself and his right knee on the Banff to BaHa Great Divide Mountain Bike Race. He had ridden 125 miles the day before - on trails over 16 hours and was bailing because of injury. Surveying the park for campsite he, proving that despite having entered this race had some good sense, headed to the hotel. And, we met Andrew Yapp. Follow him on his blog.
He was retracing our path to the Pacific - had left Minot, North Dakota, two weeks back and swung casually through southern Canada. We had supper with him and breakfast. Many travels behind him - all over the west, down through BaHa, the Southern Tier across the US, then up to DC along the Blue Ridge. He thought maybe at 27 it was getting time, after this trip, to think career. Very social, he found the pleasure of bike touring to be the unexpected and the people he met. Slept on the top of a picnic table in his sleeping bag. Had only a tarp - unused this night - for a tent. Cooked some great eggs and bacon for us and entertained us with stories of his travels.
We met, also, seven cyclists - friends from Pendleton, Oregon - on the Northern Tier route to Bar Harbor. Hoped to get there mid August. They traveled without gear, with three vehicles in support. 70 - 80 miles a day. Being in their own group seemed to insulate them from others a bit, though they were friendly. They did keep the little bathroom humming and insulated a bit, as well. Science teacher, Mark Peterson, writes their blog = C2C.wardpress.
Leaving Eureka under a bright and clear sky, loaded with new supplies, we headed uphill toward Whitefish and that’s when the sleet treat struck. They say here, “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes, and it will change,” and it did. A large dark cloud moved in from the mountain ridge to the north and boom, suddenly presto - we were under siege. Quickly, but belatedly, we put on our rain gear and were soon wet anyway. The sleet pounded us while clouds of water from above - and the road, thrown by the trucks - enveloped us. It was an unusual experience, wouldn’t happen like this in Louisiana - a gap in our education. The result was an early camp at North Dickey Lake NFS Campground where we spent the afternoon recovering body heat. I started getting reports of my frozen toes coming on line with great protestations about when a got in my bedroll at 10 p.m.
It was cozy in the tent, warm and dry. The night went well until about 2 a.m. at which time an awful racket commenced a few yards from my tent. My bicycle with the Burley Trailer was parked against a pine tree five feet from my tent. Something or someone was knocking both around. They or it were also breathing loudly, sniffing and later batting pots and pans about. This went on for some time. Dave snored through it - having earplugs in place. I assumed it was a bear and that I was safe in the tent with no food therein. This may have been a foolish assumption but proved correct. The bear came and went over one and one-half hours, each time visiting the trailer and giving it a good thrashing - ultimately leaving it upside down with its
axle bent a bit, though still usable, and its fiberglass pole broken - and thoroughly muddied. The bike was unharmed. The bear was after our cheese, trying to move our cheese - using his best effort and failing, but he left his mark on my buggy and my consciousness. It was a second lesson learned in one day. The bear was discerning in terms of food preference. He ate our Braeburn apple, declined to consume a nice bag of peeled organic baby carrots, attacked and consumed a jar of Natrella but left unmolested a jar of peanut butter. He did not mess with the camp stove.
We learned this morning from the campground host that there had been bear problems, but they were thought remedied by a death of the suspect by gun. They had taken down warning signs which are back up, and a trap is on the way for our bear. We asked that they spare the bear a bullet - their preference, too.
Pat Sewell
Riverside Park was a gathering place for cyclists. We met Tedesco - a slight, dark, thick-haired young man fresh from destroying himself and his right knee on the Banff to BaHa Great Divide Mountain Bike Race. He had ridden 125 miles the day before - on trails over 16 hours and was bailing because of injury. Surveying the park for campsite he, proving that despite having entered this race had some good sense, headed to the hotel. And, we met Andrew Yapp. Follow him on his blog.
He was retracing our path to the Pacific - had left Minot, North Dakota, two weeks back and swung casually through southern Canada. We had supper with him and breakfast. Many travels behind him - all over the west, down through BaHa, the Southern Tier across the US, then up to DC along the Blue Ridge. He thought maybe at 27 it was getting time, after this trip, to think career. Very social, he found the pleasure of bike touring to be the unexpected and the people he met. Slept on the top of a picnic table in his sleeping bag. Had only a tarp - unused this night - for a tent. Cooked some great eggs and bacon for us and entertained us with stories of his travels.
We met, also, seven cyclists - friends from Pendleton, Oregon - on the Northern Tier route to Bar Harbor. Hoped to get there mid August. They traveled without gear, with three vehicles in support. 70 - 80 miles a day. Being in their own group seemed to insulate them from others a bit, though they were friendly. They did keep the little bathroom humming and insulated a bit, as well. Science teacher, Mark Peterson, writes their blog = C2C.wardpress.
Leaving Eureka under a bright and clear sky, loaded with new supplies, we headed uphill toward Whitefish and that’s when the sleet treat struck. They say here, “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes, and it will change,” and it did. A large dark cloud moved in from the mountain ridge to the north and boom, suddenly presto - we were under siege. Quickly, but belatedly, we put on our rain gear and were soon wet anyway. The sleet pounded us while clouds of water from above - and the road, thrown by the trucks - enveloped us. It was an unusual experience, wouldn’t happen like this in Louisiana - a gap in our education. The result was an early camp at North Dickey Lake NFS Campground where we spent the afternoon recovering body heat. I started getting reports of my frozen toes coming on line with great protestations about when a got in my bedroll at 10 p.m.
It was cozy in the tent, warm and dry. The night went well until about 2 a.m. at which time an awful racket commenced a few yards from my tent. My bicycle with the Burley Trailer was parked against a pine tree five feet from my tent. Something or someone was knocking both around. They or it were also breathing loudly, sniffing and later batting pots and pans about. This went on for some time. Dave snored through it - having earplugs in place. I assumed it was a bear and that I was safe in the tent with no food therein. This may have been a foolish assumption but proved correct. The bear came and went over one and one-half hours, each time visiting the trailer and giving it a good thrashing - ultimately leaving it upside down with its
axle bent a bit, though still usable, and its fiberglass pole broken - and thoroughly muddied. The bike was unharmed. The bear was after our cheese, trying to move our cheese - using his best effort and failing, but he left his mark on my buggy and my consciousness. It was a second lesson learned in one day. The bear was discerning in terms of food preference. He ate our Braeburn apple, declined to consume a nice bag of peeled organic baby carrots, attacked and consumed a jar of Natrella but left unmolested a jar of peanut butter. He did not mess with the camp stove.
We learned this morning from the campground host that there had been bear problems, but they were thought remedied by a death of the suspect by gun. They had taken down warning signs which are back up, and a trap is on the way for our bear. We asked that they spare the bear a bullet - their preference, too.
Pat Sewell
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
June 16, Lake Koocanusa
Early up today. Still chilly, my down jacket as comforting as someone bringing coffee in bed - which doesn’t happen here, of course. I do get coffee ultimately, but it is more like a bowel treatment than what you usually associate with the term. David boils the coffee, so as to concentrate the toxins, then pours off the supernatant which has the appearance of tannin-saturated swamp water - and the taste. There is no cream, usually, and only rarely sugar. This isn’t oversight but intentional. He doesn’t want his creation adulterated. Very proud of it. I think he came to his opinion while a tooth was out.
Speaking of bowel treatments brings to mind the nature of the facilities in these national forest campgrounds for some of our necessary functions. Do you remember when you were young and you had an inability to accurately assess what size space you could potentially fall through; like on a board bridge with cracks between the boards; and you only hesitantly, with great trepidation, perhaps
holding someone’s hand, could cross such a perilous passage? Well, this is the way it is in these campground facilities. They have these pits with tops on them. Once the top is raised, there is nothing to keep you from falling through. You’re supposed to sit down on this and relax. This is hard enough to do if you had that childhood assessment problem but impossible if you saw the movie, Slum Dog Millionaire. The best solution is to not go in these little buildings and, instead, stay dehydrated, and when you get to a town large enough to have a German Madame, get a colon evacuation. If she has a whip, she can do double duty since this is a trip for masochists. Spares you, too, the saturation of your clothing by the smell of mountain pine scent that emits from all those little hanging paper pine trees the forest service puts in these facilities to spare attendees a full experience of our humanity.
And while I’m on the camping experience, I would like to talk of that wonderful thing - the sleeping pad. This is a one-inch thick device that inflates with the help of breath. When you have some, you blow whatever air and bacteria you can muster into a little crevice that screws tight, then lay it in your tent. It is a lot like the yogi’s nail bed and serves the same function - to sever you from your preoccupation with you and to advance your efforts to accept round-the-clock discomfort so you can finally give up on this plane of existence, your personal significance in the scheme of things and find bliss while stuck on this planet.
Those who sell these things don’t alert you to this truth because there is no truth in advertising, and it might cut into sales if there were. The good news is that since you can’t sleep because of the developing bed sores, you have more time to contemplate the exquisite and equally educational pain of the next morning’s hill climbs. All’s well that end well.
News Bulletin: David lost his tooth - third time now. Is he becoming immune to Super Glue? Is his body rejecting his tooth? Are there larger forces at work here? Was it something in that beer that dissolved the glue? So many unknowns, so little time, so little interest in the truth among the people, so much certainty unwarranted, so much constricting sameness, so much bullshit here and elsewhere.
Lake Koocanusa, the banks of which we camp, is the damed Kootenai River that begins in Canada, comes to the US, then back to Canada - hence, the name. It’s full of landlocked salmon - the coho, highly priced by those near and far. The limit is 50 fish a day, possession 100. People smoke and can them. “Sweet red meat - best you ever had” - told to us by a man in our campground without an accompanying invite to dinner. Salmon interrupticus. When you’re eating Dave’s nutrition-free cuisine, a mischance like that is as painful as the prospect of a long climb. The guy was not from the south, apparently. This lake is 90 miles long. We’ve seen a lot more -osprey than boats on it.
Pat Sewell
Speaking of bowel treatments brings to mind the nature of the facilities in these national forest campgrounds for some of our necessary functions. Do you remember when you were young and you had an inability to accurately assess what size space you could potentially fall through; like on a board bridge with cracks between the boards; and you only hesitantly, with great trepidation, perhaps
holding someone’s hand, could cross such a perilous passage? Well, this is the way it is in these campground facilities. They have these pits with tops on them. Once the top is raised, there is nothing to keep you from falling through. You’re supposed to sit down on this and relax. This is hard enough to do if you had that childhood assessment problem but impossible if you saw the movie, Slum Dog Millionaire. The best solution is to not go in these little buildings and, instead, stay dehydrated, and when you get to a town large enough to have a German Madame, get a colon evacuation. If she has a whip, she can do double duty since this is a trip for masochists. Spares you, too, the saturation of your clothing by the smell of mountain pine scent that emits from all those little hanging paper pine trees the forest service puts in these facilities to spare attendees a full experience of our humanity.
And while I’m on the camping experience, I would like to talk of that wonderful thing - the sleeping pad. This is a one-inch thick device that inflates with the help of breath. When you have some, you blow whatever air and bacteria you can muster into a little crevice that screws tight, then lay it in your tent. It is a lot like the yogi’s nail bed and serves the same function - to sever you from your preoccupation with you and to advance your efforts to accept round-the-clock discomfort so you can finally give up on this plane of existence, your personal significance in the scheme of things and find bliss while stuck on this planet.
Those who sell these things don’t alert you to this truth because there is no truth in advertising, and it might cut into sales if there were. The good news is that since you can’t sleep because of the developing bed sores, you have more time to contemplate the exquisite and equally educational pain of the next morning’s hill climbs. All’s well that end well.
News Bulletin: David lost his tooth - third time now. Is he becoming immune to Super Glue? Is his body rejecting his tooth? Are there larger forces at work here? Was it something in that beer that dissolved the glue? So many unknowns, so little time, so little interest in the truth among the people, so much certainty unwarranted, so much constricting sameness, so much bullshit here and elsewhere.
Lake Koocanusa, the banks of which we camp, is the damed Kootenai River that begins in Canada, comes to the US, then back to Canada - hence, the name. It’s full of landlocked salmon - the coho, highly priced by those near and far. The limit is 50 fish a day, possession 100. People smoke and can them. “Sweet red meat - best you ever had” - told to us by a man in our campground without an accompanying invite to dinner. Salmon interrupticus. When you’re eating Dave’s nutrition-free cuisine, a mischance like that is as painful as the prospect of a long climb. The guy was not from the south, apparently. This lake is 90 miles long. We’ve seen a lot more -osprey than boats on it.
Pat Sewell
Monday, June 15, 2009
June 15, Rocky Gorge Campground, Lake Koocanusa, 3rd entry
5 p.m. - a sunny day since 2 p.m., a surprise, too! We slept and then awakened in rain, packed in a drizzle and betting against the odds set out to find the dry. The day before, we had come up the Bull River Valley - then up the Kootenai River Valley to Libby, Montana, home to the asbestos mine that was the source of much pain and suffering for its miners. That mine is closed now as are the timber mills, having little for many to do here. Upon arrival in Libby - to do our part for the faltering economy - we made a trip to the supermarket, as we knew supplies would be hard to come by over the next few days. We felt like Leonid Brezhnev when he came to America and went in his first supermarket. Whole system shock and judgment failure with the choices available. Had to fight grabbing at things before they could get away. Wondered how people could be so calm and walk around shopping so deliberately. Our hunger was talking in a loud way to us, and impulse control was not available. Must be what a meth addict experiences when without. Recognizing our disabled state, we restored some patience by an immersion experience in fried chicken from the deli, after which we picked up a few items for the next few days. Judgment restored.
Our stay in Libby was brief and wet. We did meet a young couple who had a trailer next to our tent site. He works on railroad tracks with a crew that contracts with BNSF to repair its rails and replace the stone ballast under the rails. This requires he move around the country at two to three week intervals. Had a big colorful tatoo on his arm, a lisp, smoked long dark cigarillos and a girlfriend named Brandi, who deserved the name. She took care of their dappled dachshund and sold Avon. Said it didn’t bother her to move around because she had grown up in the army. Described herself as shy - “trying to get over it.” They looked to me like a piece of driftwood floating down one of these raging western rivers but what’s the choice.
The whole town of Libby is somewhat adrift as are many of the towns in this region with the falling timber prices and closing mines. Reminders everywhere we go testify loudly to the interdependency of us all economically. Many don’t see the larger system as having failed them. They have their favorite parts to pound on as causative. “Canada is the problem - dumping timber on the US market.” “It’s the politicians.” “It’s us printing money.” From their perspective, they have suffered an economic ambush, and somebody is to blame.
There is a new type of roadside marker for traffic deaths, a six-foot high round red pole with a one-foot cross on top (or, in one instance, two white crosses). Many have plastic flowers around their base or wrapping the cross at top. There is no distinguishing dead motorists from dead bicyclists nor Christian from non-Christian. This may be a situation like the Mormon Church tradition of proselytizing the dead - reading them onto the rolls - even if long dead. Whatever the consequence for the dead, it does serve as a reminder of a clear and present danger on these roads. When you hit a cluster of these, you start flinching at the log trucks’ approaching roar.
Had a tailwind yesterday and today. Small favors from the Gods are appreciated, but we don’t take them personal. Would prefer their attention be on keeping the ferries afloat in Bangladesh to blowing us along if they are going to exert a choice.
One-half mile from campground we pulled over briefly to coordinate, and there on a post was an unopened Budweiser - big as life. Would you drink it? Guess what happened to it. See poem later for answer.
Sitting on a post, right next to the highway,
A bottle of Budweiser; no way you say!
There it was, though, the cap still on tight,
After 40 miles, to Dave, it was a welcome sight.
But was it beer, to me this wasn’t clear.
Could it be poison, something we ought to fear.
No problem for Dave, though, he just took a sip,
Liked it a lot, then swallowed another nip.
It wasn’t long, that bottle was completely dry.
Why was it there, he never even asked why.
He’s a man, knows right off, a really good thing
Something after a long biking day, that’ll stop the sting.
June 15 ------- 2nd Definition Puzzle
A continuous concatenation of contrived confabulations that offer their perspectives as reality to bring greater fragmentation and polarization of the populace in the hope of gaining the political ascendancy with no regard or concern for the ultimate deleterious effect this result will have on the public good and the ability of the populace to adapt to and address fruitfully, man’s serious contingencies, central to the future welfare of all - when and if they succeed in their efforts.
What is it?
Pat Sewell
Our stay in Libby was brief and wet. We did meet a young couple who had a trailer next to our tent site. He works on railroad tracks with a crew that contracts with BNSF to repair its rails and replace the stone ballast under the rails. This requires he move around the country at two to three week intervals. Had a big colorful tatoo on his arm, a lisp, smoked long dark cigarillos and a girlfriend named Brandi, who deserved the name. She took care of their dappled dachshund and sold Avon. Said it didn’t bother her to move around because she had grown up in the army. Described herself as shy - “trying to get over it.” They looked to me like a piece of driftwood floating down one of these raging western rivers but what’s the choice.
The whole town of Libby is somewhat adrift as are many of the towns in this region with the falling timber prices and closing mines. Reminders everywhere we go testify loudly to the interdependency of us all economically. Many don’t see the larger system as having failed them. They have their favorite parts to pound on as causative. “Canada is the problem - dumping timber on the US market.” “It’s the politicians.” “It’s us printing money.” From their perspective, they have suffered an economic ambush, and somebody is to blame.
There is a new type of roadside marker for traffic deaths, a six-foot high round red pole with a one-foot cross on top (or, in one instance, two white crosses). Many have plastic flowers around their base or wrapping the cross at top. There is no distinguishing dead motorists from dead bicyclists nor Christian from non-Christian. This may be a situation like the Mormon Church tradition of proselytizing the dead - reading them onto the rolls - even if long dead. Whatever the consequence for the dead, it does serve as a reminder of a clear and present danger on these roads. When you hit a cluster of these, you start flinching at the log trucks’ approaching roar.
Had a tailwind yesterday and today. Small favors from the Gods are appreciated, but we don’t take them personal. Would prefer their attention be on keeping the ferries afloat in Bangladesh to blowing us along if they are going to exert a choice.
One-half mile from campground we pulled over briefly to coordinate, and there on a post was an unopened Budweiser - big as life. Would you drink it? Guess what happened to it. See poem later for answer.
Sitting on a post, right next to the highway,
A bottle of Budweiser; no way you say!
There it was, though, the cap still on tight,
After 40 miles, to Dave, it was a welcome sight.
But was it beer, to me this wasn’t clear.
Could it be poison, something we ought to fear.
No problem for Dave, though, he just took a sip,
Liked it a lot, then swallowed another nip.
It wasn’t long, that bottle was completely dry.
Why was it there, he never even asked why.
He’s a man, knows right off, a really good thing
Something after a long biking day, that’ll stop the sting.
June 15 ------- 2nd Definition Puzzle
A continuous concatenation of contrived confabulations that offer their perspectives as reality to bring greater fragmentation and polarization of the populace in the hope of gaining the political ascendancy with no regard or concern for the ultimate deleterious effect this result will have on the public good and the ability of the populace to adapt to and address fruitfully, man’s serious contingencies, central to the future welfare of all - when and if they succeed in their efforts.
What is it?
Pat Sewell
June 15 Bad Medicine Campground, Bull Lake, Montana
The mosquitoes swarm in the shadows. Only the bright sun discourages them from feeding on us, and it’s a surprise to me. Hadn’t counted on them, and the deet runs low. Resource depletion and scarcity. We run parallel to the world on this one. Could lead to deet looting, but the sight of unbitten skin would be tell-tale, and the villain identified. That’ll probably keep us both in check.
We came up Hwy. 56 from 200 and the campground on Bull River, a short ride but the prettiest stretch yet. The Cabinet Mountains Wilderness parallels our route up the Bull River Valley. We climbed but at a civilized and breathable rate, constantly fed by the scenery of the river, field, green trees and snow-capped mountains. Perhaps it was the previous days rest but we floated up here, an effortless suspension in the scenery.
Dave McWethy arrived at 8 p.m. last night to stay until Sunday morning. He brought food - fresh fruit, cheese, bratwurst, eggs, bacon, wine - and we feasted. He survived the interrogation about the outside world we submitted him to and today a tour with us and his dog, Ziggs, through the Ross Creek Valley to see the old growth cedars there. He’s the new voice here at Lake Wobegon. Dave and I both are tired of what either of us has to say. I wrote of the trip to the cedars - see below. Tomorrow we’ll make Libby, Montana, and resupply. We’ve had an easy three days, and hopefully our muscles are ready to go. Mosquito blood loss may be a future variable. We’ll see.
Pat Sewell
We came up Hwy. 56 from 200 and the campground on Bull River, a short ride but the prettiest stretch yet. The Cabinet Mountains Wilderness parallels our route up the Bull River Valley. We climbed but at a civilized and breathable rate, constantly fed by the scenery of the river, field, green trees and snow-capped mountains. Perhaps it was the previous days rest but we floated up here, an effortless suspension in the scenery.
Dave McWethy arrived at 8 p.m. last night to stay until Sunday morning. He brought food - fresh fruit, cheese, bratwurst, eggs, bacon, wine - and we feasted. He survived the interrogation about the outside world we submitted him to and today a tour with us and his dog, Ziggs, through the Ross Creek Valley to see the old growth cedars there. He’s the new voice here at Lake Wobegon. Dave and I both are tired of what either of us has to say. I wrote of the trip to the cedars - see below. Tomorrow we’ll make Libby, Montana, and resupply. We’ve had an easy three days, and hopefully our muscles are ready to go. Mosquito blood loss may be a future variable. We’ll see.
Pat Sewell
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