June 15, Ross Creek Cedars

The sun paces overhead, recklessly casting off energy in all directions, arriving here as shafts and pools of light; search lights that probe, wherever permitted, this valley’s floor. The valley creek flows full probing as well and each; the sun, this creek have arranged and rearranged the form of this land and the life here. They have worked in symphony with time and weather, with lightning and even in this remote, less trampled place, the hand of man, to do so.

First growth cedar giants, as large as 16 feet in diameter, reach as high as the eye to compel the sun’s continued sustenance having gained the ascendancy here. Alive as a grove for 500+ years, many lay bloodied and burned; as criss-crossing barriers to passage, as stark and blackened snags and as creek blocking piles. Those fallen play a part with the rocks in stream song and direction, sometimes as partner; with force of water in the bringing down of a brother cedar through a channel changed; a fall after a fall after a fall. The creek sings a song, strident and insistent, running hard with snow melt, away from it though in the deep shadows of the big cedars, among the fern beds it is just faint choir to the songs of the birds, and the winds rustling of the seedling and bough. The varied thrush, the warbling vireo, the pink-sided junco, the hermit thrush, and others sing for food and family. The creek tears at roots, rolls and crushes rocks, making sand of the eons and forces its way down virgin path to have its say there. The burned snags, lightning lit and now flamed out, serve as a second cavern and nest site and as fodder for bug and forest floor.

For those of us passing through, time stands still in these old cedars and yet looking around the business of life and death and the relentless interminable passage of time scream with signs. Nothing is still in this valley. It pulses with impatient change, all ultimately sun bidden. This beat goes on to the drum of the pileated woodpecker making its square holes; and to us picking our way through this story of everything. A filled cup in a willed walk on the wild side.

Pat Sewell

Day 16, June 11, Clark Fork

An eight-mile run for breakfast at Mom’s Café, on Hwy. 200 again. Called 200, no doubt, because 200 bicyclists are killed weekly on it. Most of the deaths, I’m sure, are unintentional and sort of like deer kills only with less damage done to the car. Locked into our pedals, we rarely go through the windshield when struck like the deer causing the driver to careen off to great consequence. I remember in Methow County, Washington, there were signs cautioning drivers about deer hazards detailing 400+ killed annually at $374,000 damage. So far, I’ve seen no signs cautioning drivers about bicyclists. We are being failed by signage, if not society. Perhaps PETA can help.

“Mom” fixes a mean breakfast: two eggs over-easy, home fries, sausage, biscuit, tomato juice and slice of lemon and coffee - $5.95. You learn to appreciate a good cheap breakfast when you are hungry most of the time.

Here’s a new feature in the journal: The Definition Puzzle - I give the definition, you submit what you think the answer is. Fax to 318-868-7705. I will be the decider just like George Bush was but with good judgment. My decision will be final. There will be no appeals. The winner will receive an undisclosed prize in an undisclosed place. There may be considerable cost involved for the winner. Only one definition may be submitted No shot gunning allowed. The more ludicrous answers and their submitter will be disclosed if I choose to do so and have gone uncompensated to not do so. Y’all come.

First definition: “A blood flood contained to restive hinterlands”

David is stumped. What is it?


Pat Sewell

Day 15, June 10 - On the peninsula in Pend Oreille Lake at Island View RV Park

On the peninsula in Pend Oreille Lake at Island View RV Park- but I couldn’t prove it.

Interview with clerk at bike shop, Sandpoint, Idaho - “You guys doing the Northern Tier, huh!? We see y’all all the time. Everybody’s going east this time of year, still happy they survived the Cascades. Later in August those from the east get here. Look pretty beat up. Just hang their head and shake it saying, ‘I just want to get home,’ and they’ve got the Cascades ahead, the poor guys.” “Me,” he continued, “I just ride around here, don’t break a sweat. Don’t understand why you do it, really.”

Why, indeed, do they persist at this point 450 miles to Anacortes and 3,850 behind them? To avoid the asterick! They don’t want to be Roger Maris and die with it. They’ve got to finish on their own power what they begin; a sick situation but human enough. Many is the human folly perpetuated for less reasons.

Each day in microcosm we face the same decision. Get to our goal or give. Today the state park, for which we aimed and carefully measured out our strength, was closed. This led to a search for a night’s refuge. We were first in the town of Hope, then East Hope and finally literally and figuratively beyond Hope. We climbed steep roads so up that the front of our bikes lifted with the effort to climb. Exhausted we arrived at Island View RV and secured a nice tent spot - shady with deep soft grass and a hot shower for 25 bucks. We would of paid $1000 at that point.

Our ride today was on heavily trafficked roads with us squeezed to the side between road and railing. Only route through this area to the east so little choice to the map makers at Adventure Cycle. We were warned several times that “Ignorance prevails around here” and “Rednecks don’t believe bicyclists should be on highway” - our experience would affirm this.

We did see a moose and bald eagle as did fifty thousand motorists.

We continue to meet many friendly, helpful and curious people - many with military ties to Louisiana. Most complain retrospectively of the heat. A B52 pilot from Barksdale. A Special Forces trainee from Fort Polk, Vietnam era, sculpting now with his own gallery, “hated the mosquitoes”, too. We also hear references to our governor, “Boy did he flame out - trying to follow up Obama.”

Still no news magazines to be had anywhere. I feel a need, for completeness sake, to report an overlooked, journal wise, crisis incident involving David’s dental situation. My reticence has been overcome by my sense of responsibility to faithfully record our journey. While in Sedro Woolley, the first night camping, David lost a porcelain crown - front top, third to the left facing him. This caused, at least appearance wise, a 30 point IQ drop and would have seriously handicapped our ability to fruitfully engage those we met. I looked at him, and I was ashamed. Not even his mother would have gone anywhere with him. So we got some super glue and stuck it back on - a little crooked, maybe, but back on. And - so far, so good. I thought of it tonight when I spotted him checking it for looseness.

A tooth from his mouth freely fell
Afterwards, he wasn’t smart, you could tell
We got some glue and stuck it back
His IQ came up 30 points - that’s a fact.

Stopped at Used Bookstore - bought The English Patient, William Trevor short stores, and Gabriel Marques’ Chronicle of a Death Foretold. Don’t need the extra weight, but these called loudly to us.

Read in USA Today that Americans produce 4.6 pounds of trash a day per person. That gives Dave and I a 9.2 allotment to produce our fair share. I think we’re close just with banana peels, candy wrappers, rice wrapping, bean cans and chocolate milk cartons. We’re doing better on the carbon footprint thing except for exhalations. On steep slopes, there is a breath per turn of the crank. That’s a lot of CO2. Figure 3000 cc’s minimum. Then, there is the methane and sulfur dioxide produced by Chef Dave’s diet. We may be an environmental hazard - particularly for those following close behind. We did have a couple, parked here in their football length RV, marvel at how we can carry our world in our buggy. “That’s amazing,” she said. “Look at that,” said he - both reacting to a visit to the zoo.

Pat Sewell

Day 14, Tuesday, June 9,

Breakfast in Usk after a fog-delayed start. Oatmeal and raisins for me - Dave, an omelet with a pound of hash browns - always a pound or more. “Why”? we ask. “This is potato country - and logging country and men need a lot to eat, but they are not working now. The mills are closing. People are getting laid off. There’s no work. Homes are getting foreclosed on.” Everybody chiming in now - a couple at the next table - the waitress. “It’s the system. Inflation will be worse than Germany when it took a wheelbarrow of money to buy a meal. We need to go back to the Gold Standard. Prices have got to come down. The cattle are not worth anything, yet steaks are still high - don’t make sense.“ Social unrest in this river city for breakfast. Nice, friendly highly pessimistic people who see the fabric of this area fraying rapidly.

Everybody has their opinion as to the cause. I have noticed to this point the impossibility of finding a major news source in print as we have passed though these small towns. Today in Newport and Old Town - two days ago in Kettle Falls - no New York Times, Wall Street Journal or major news magazine. “We tried to carry them - nobody buys them,” the clerk at Safeway said today. Found a USA Today finally but not a full meal. Saw Tiger won “The Memorial” tournament. Mother would have been disappointed for Phil Michelson.

Rode 40 - 45 miles through North Pend Oreille Valley. Beautiful. Looks like the Rhine with low mountains crowding shore - without the castles. We’ve been told that the “Californians are buying up the place” and that “they’ve about run off the Ku Klux and Survivalists.”

We had rain off and on and continuous cold. Froze last night in this area. Currently 40 degrees, sun setting with light streaming through the thick stand of pines we’ve camped in. Hot showers - free with the four dollar camp fee.

Came here from Old Town on Old Priest Road. Saw no old priests or young boys. Did see one POW MIA flag flying with an American flag beside it, pit bull in the yard, an old camper on blocks and a “wood for sale” sign at the drive entrance - maybe the last survivalist.
Noticed a possible training effect. On big long hills my doubt is gone
that I can make it, the burn as well. It’s becoming just a time issue. Finished today thinking I could have gone further.

Repairs tomorrow for Dave’s bike shimmy, we hope, in Sandpoint. Our first state is behind us now. Idaho only 60 miles wide.



Pat Sewell

Day 13, June 8, Monday Cusick, Washington, County Fairgrounds

Camped among the pines within smell of neighing horses gathered at the county fair barn here by all the little adolescent girl horse people for a workshop. The parking lot full of dualies and horse trailers and the camping area, likewise, with tents and pop-up campers. The men - fathers, I presume - are pooled up, many nearby listening to continuous music, drinking and telling tall tales audible clearly in our camp over the music. I guess I’m going to have to whip some ass for quiet, but my plan is to first lay low and then send Dave. The mamas help with the horses, erect the tents and inflate the mattresses in a clear differentiation of roles in these western families.

We’re refugees from the cold and rain of Tiger Pass and Beaver Lodge. Left early - too early, in cold - too cold and rode down the mountain screaming around hairpin curves on wet roads while wet - too wet. My hands and feet out in front of a motionless me down mountain, just blocks of ice - no sensation. So cold couldn’t operate brakes. Had to use my mouth to squeeze the brakes. (Don’t try it). Dave’s bike shimmied again, so the mystery thickens.

Had breakfast in the town of Ione on the North Pend Oreille River. A beautiful valley and a big breakfast that I ate with my elbows since my hands useless (Don’t try it). Had seen on the map the name “Ione” and have continued to enjoy memories evoked of the old friend of my mother who introduced her to Dad in 1924?

The ride up valley beautiful to Cusick and this campground, lush green fields, a long full river, cattle ranches, mountains half-sheathed in clouds. Met only two more bicyclists - a couple riding in tandem - the Northern Tier like us - blowing and going. Man in front, possibly Baptist.

We be tortoises so far. Did have a bigger day out of the mountains. Sand Point, Idaho tomorrow.


Pat Sewell

Day 13 June 8 (2nd entry) Cusick, Washington

Two competing imageries vie for an overall conceptualization of the trip thus far - on the first day of the third week; grab bag and the accordion. Go to a garage sale on a Saturday in a small town and find the grab bag section. $1 maybe, a grab. Pay up - reach in and who knows what you will get of the good, bad, useful, useless. May come away with a tool forgotten or a key that’ll open a chest somewhere with untold riches within that have been passed over by the rushing horde you and they are. May cut a finger on a rusty blade, or may draw a blank - just pick up more weight to pull up the next hill while asking yourself, “Why did I do that? Didn’t need anything.” Or buy an accordion at that garage sale, though you would probably have to be in south Louisiana - Mamou or Eunice, maybe - to have that choice. Take it out of the case - where it’s all squashed up - stretch it, sucking in some air, then compress it, then back and forth while hitting on keys randomly. High notes, low notes, sweet, sour, short and long. You’ll get all the sounds, many unanticipated, many pleasant and not so. A cacophony, if this done fast - an uncoordinated one, full of musical pain and surprises. Imagine the compressed instrument as the ride conceptualized and the notes as the elements released.

Combining grab bag and accordion may get the picture done.


Pat Sewell

Day 12, June 7, Beaver Lodge, west of Tiger Pass

We left Flodelle early - a cold hole in the lodge pole - along the creek, came seven miles on flat terrain to Beaver Lodge where we’ve taken a cabin for a respite. We have a room with a view - of lake and mountains - and a restaurant nearby where we had a second breakfast - my first chicken-fried steak with white gravy and hash browns, both huge helpings; Dave, a three-egg omelet with cheddar and potatoes. We sat for three or more hours as successive bicycle tourists stopped in and visited with us.

First was Wade from Madison, Wisconsin, a high school social studies teacher (Edgewood High School “believe-achieve”) - “politics in an election year.” A rocket on a bike, he had left Anacortes last Wednesday and caught us already. Had had three flats, said “Those mountains are tough” but nevertheless, he was headed home to Madison. Todd Erickson overlapped with Wade. 6’ 7” - ponytail blonde - pigment free - friendly, engaging, iconoclastic - and wearing shorts, T-shirt and sandals with clips in the sole, on his 16th trip in 19 years - many epic. “Alaska into Mexico, all over the US.” This trip a one-month loop into Canada over to British Columbia. Thirty-nine years of age - unmarried, no debt, lives to maximize choice and self-expression. “Hasn’t found the right woman” - would have to catch him on a hill which I doubt anybody could. Goes 80-100 miles a day, “700 a week easy”, eats five times a day up to 12,000 calories, “and I still lose weight.” Lives off grid with water from a spring in the mountains east of Seattle. Talked of changing appetites and thought content, of losing “your tether” and getting a new one based on the compelling now his rides provided. We and he had a meeting of the minds on politics, drug policy, cultural programming, the dilemma of consumption as engine of the economy but most of all , the importance of not surrendering one’s freedom automatically and reflexidly. Brooke then overlapped with Todd. On a two and a half month break before getting a masters to teach the blind. She left Bar Harbor on April 11. Riding a trek 520 and pulling a buggy, she’s been 2800 miles. “Iowa sucks,” she said. “The winds will kill you coming from the east,” she said. “35 mph - took me forever to go 50 miles at three and a half miles an hour. I just stopped and cried, then I hitchhiked in a truck with a guy who stopped to shoe a horse.” She had had one fall - tearing clothes - which she was wearing but not body. Traveling alone, she often found accommodations at “Couch Surfing.com.” “Great people, travelers who offer a place for others.”
She was neon in presentation, exuberant, fearless - completely open and spontaneous.

Quite a breakfast - a feast in many ways. Towards the end, five Canadian women cyclists came in - on a three-day circle they do annually. A different world this is.

I’ve been thinking about my new office, the “cockpit” of my bicycle, the small space between seat and handle bar that must be occupied many hours of the day if forward motion is to occur. It’s like my old office. I’m there, and this is it. Make something worthwhile out of it, or I have nothing. Value these who share that space, or have nothing. No squirm room. Can’t wait until 5 p.m. or the weekend. Nothing or something, it’s about how I’m there. Object to the effort, the demands, the discomfort, the confinement, and the experience worsens. Say “Yes” and embrace it. “Look around you.” Celebrate and value the people encountered, and it gets a lot better. A life and world in microcosm between seat and handle bar - two feet or so.

Something more about Brooke, the teacher of the blind. She had a few “party tricks” - compliments to the adaptability - or better flexibility, the accounts of her travels had already demonstrated. She got on her knees, feet to her rear - then with her left hand pulled her left lower leg around to the front until it was facing behind her. She then stood - put both hands on her hips keeping them there while touching her elbows together in front of her. Last she puts her hands together behind her back, then through black magic and contortion brought her clasped hands over her head to her front without letting go of their clasping. All spectators were impressed and aghast at these feats. I do not recommend you try them without an orthopedic surgeon on call or unless you do it at work while seeking disability and worker’s compensation.

Todd left us in T-shirt, shorts and sandals on his world’s largest production frame bicycle as I waved goodbye wearing a down coat and gloves, cold to the core. The schools would be closed in Louisiana on a day this cold.

Pat Sewell

Day 12, June 7, 7 p.m., Beaver Lodge ------------ more reflections

A double-jointed girl on a bike with a buggy fresh in from 2800 miles, a 6’7” photographer on the largest bike made in production knocking off over 100 miles a day on the mountains and living on 10- 12 thousand calories a day. A social studies teacher from Madison, Wisconsin enroute home from Anacortes - a rocket on a bike, harder than stone, loves Obama, says his kids do, too. A female vet pulling a dog that picks up trash as demo when she gives talks to kids about “Leave no trace” - carrying total of 215 pounds, bike and buggy. Five women from Canada biking 60 miles a day on annual tour. And friendly support folks all along the way. This “Northern Tier” has, over time, created an ambience that we are drawing from. Today on our stop, we sat for three hours at Beaver Lodge greeting and meeting cyclists from both directions. A turned on bunch makes me curious about selection process and the consequence of doing this. Who, why, and what’s the outcome? Would be a good study. A population self-selected - then an outcome, might try to do that with help of Adventure Cycling.

Todd, the 6’7” guy has been on 16 tours in 19 years. Has come from Alaska through Mexico. Says Day 21 is the day when change overtakes you - “like your tether evaporating” and you become “one with the bike and experience” (my translation). We’ll see. I do know
I’m beginning to liken the cockpit of my bicycle to my office - and like my old office, see my job to be fully alive, curious, interested and willing to value what I encounter in that space. The grind is there but is not the sum of the experience. If I let it, it becomes my day. As our training kicks in, this “higher” way should be easier to achieve. The climbs behind us now - have certainly challenged my ability to see beyond the pain at times but getting easier to rise above it.

Relationship with Dave going well. We’re very compatible - no difficulty negotiating decisions nor differentiating differences. Both enjoying the people encountered. Much humor and shared chagrins at demands these bikes and climbs are putting on us. Dave says we are “equal” - I see him as much stronger - but so far I’ve kept up, if a bit slower. Both learning about bike and efficient living - camping. The camping a big addition to the experience. Both prefer to motels though hot water wonderful when our paths collide.
We go down Tiger Pass tomorrow to Ione. Reading this on the map yesterday pulled a huge file - a Google keyword - as it turned out. Dreamed of Buzz, her sister, and had flood of memories of Boyce. Shared with Dave who has encouraged me to write about it. Maybe I will. Seems as if space opening in my consciousness. Drawn to short stories. Maybe writing. Feeling more irregular, less contained, militantly expressive, out of the box. Enjoying the ride - of bike - and of my consciousness that is stripping its bounds. Never was actually fit for polite company.

Few are the counter forces, valued to constantcy, within or without, and sad and pervasive are the myriad consequences if this tendency to constantcy within is never challenged.

Pat Sewell

Day 11, June 6

O’Brien Creek over Sherman Pass to Kettle Falls, Washington. First eight miles, that pesky six percent grade - then the top. Stayed in my low gear - needed a lower one but not available - an 18 “gear inch” meaning each turn of the crank took me that far, that’s 26,160 turns to cover the eight miles. It was turn or roll backward. The temperature came up as fast as the sun and we got a good cooking, along with a humbling by incline. Only a hard won and new knowledge of the universe of the possible (think rat in the toilet bowl) got me to the top where ecstasy was to be had for having just survived.

There followed a rushing roller coaster Flight of the Phoenix down to Kettle Falls, Washington, and a beautiful camp on the banks of the Columbia River. There, under Ponderosa pines we pondered our path till now and played in the cold waters hoping they would restore us. We had neighbors in this camp that brought us fresh fruit and wondered about our judgment. A couple from Minnesota - from near our projected route. “Why would you go there - that’s where we left from to be here,” - a case of grass is greener untreated.

Our daily mileage has been lower than expected as reality has been higher and harder than expected. Mountains do not move except for the eons, not for us peons. They loom, we struggle across this land, we muddle.

Dave had a second serious bike crisis incident yesterday which has served to confirm my better choice of bike. Coming down at 36 MPH his bike went into a shimmy. We have both had this happen on previous bikes and a scary thing it is. Somehow, because of harmonics at his speed, the bike did its best to throw him and became almost uncontrollable - with railings on one side and traffic on the other, it was a threatening situation. He joked, “I saw the face of God.” My “mule” bike is looking better. His thoroughbred has weak ankles.


Pat Sewell

Day 11, June 6, Saturday (2nd entry)

Flodelle Creek Campground just off the Little Pend Oreille River - temperature: cold.

Let me quickly put to rest three rumors you may have heard:

1) That there is such a thing as a training bounce

2) That there is an easy day to be had crossing Washington State on a
bicycle from west to east

3) That the prevailing winds are from the west

Today was a killer. Another continuously up - with a head wind all the way from the banks of the Columbia River. We arrived in extremis - couldn’t of gone another mile. Around every curve an unexpected incline. Thinking it was going to be easier now that we were through the Cascades made it worse.

Our level of exhaustion calls for a day off - so tomorrow, unless we and our unwarranted optimism return after a night’s sleep, we’ll lay up.

We fixed Dave’s shimmy - and have a new theory of causation: not harmonics but a loose head bearing where the front fork attaches. It is worth noting that my head bearing has not needed tightening. The evidence for best bike accumulates.

Supper tonight, multi-course: cheese and crackers (garlic Triscuit) with olives and wasabe peas, rice flavored with vegetable sausage protein and chicken broth, canned fruit. And if we have room, chicken noodle soup with white chicken meat. Upon arrival, we had one-half Hershey bar and earlier, a Snickers bar each.

Satiation does not occur regardless, at the rate those mountains burn fuel. Have forgotten the conversion of work done to energy and bicycles are efficient - but in terms of foot pounds of work today: 250 pounds for 35 miles horizontal, and with ups and downs at least one mile vertical maintaining average speed of five miles an hour. Slow but with wind and uphills - just proud to be here.

Our traveling companion for the last week left us today. Her friend and ex-husband returned, and we parted at Colville. She will resume riding in four or five days, and we may encounter her again as she intends to end up in Bar Harbor as well. She gives talks to kids about “Leave no trace.” Her dog companion, Mitch, is trained to pick up trash at these presentations. We still feel puny in comparison to her power to pull and climb and intend to continue our piano lessons because of the sand in our eye thing.


Pat Sewell

Day 10, Wauconda to O’Brien Creek

Breakfast of oatmeal in Wauconda. Cowboys and Indians literally. A café that’s closing because, “The landlady has lost her mind but that’s OK, the fella upstairs has got a plan - we just don’t know what it is.” - this from the soon to be displaced current owner as he took our money and his help was loading dishes and cookware in their truck. We may have had the last oatmeal served in Wauconda. If so, let’s hope it’s not the most distinctive event of this trip.

It was near freezing as we climbed over Wauconda Pass but it heated up fast as we made an 18 mile downhill run into Republic, Washington, where we reprovisioned. Compact old gold mining town now the source of Eocene fossils. Tourism their life blood.

Climbed from there to O’Brien Creek where camped beside ice cold mountain stream. Service berry, Ocean Spray shrubs, Wildrose and Penstemon blooming. This was base camp for the rest of Sherman Pass - eight miles of six percent grade, highest pass in Washington - and the fifth we’ve crossed since New Halen. Climbing all these has brought to mind for me the story of the rat in a toilet bowl. It turns out that your average rat can be placed in a toilet bowl and will swim for an hour or so before giving up and going to rat heaven unless he is taken out just before giving up. Do this - then put him back and he’ll swim another hour - and again- and again until you’ve got a rat that’ll swim all day - that will not give up. We’re that rat now, having survived to tell the tale over the last four passes. We know there’s relief ahead if we just persist. No smarter than the rat.

The poem INVICTUS: by Henley

“In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud
under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed”

Difference is, of course, we’ve put ourselves in this toilet bowl, no chance there.

Pat Sewell

Day 9, Tonasket to Wauconda

Labored up Wauconda Pass for seven hours to cover 22 miles. Log trucks, stone trucks - all with trailers on a steep narrow curvy road. A time - pain continuum heretofore unexperienced and thank you for that. Kerry - the dog-pulling vet we met in Sedro Woolley and had reconnected with in Tonasket rode and camped with us. John Mark, as well. We camped at the Old Wauconda School - long abandoned but maintained for the purpose by Joe and Cheryl. Outhouse, running water and an assortment of birds including yellow headed blackbird and mountain bluebird. Joe and Cheryl fight fires and raise cows. She’s best with a chain saw, and he was bowlegged enough to ride one of our bicycles between his legs. Temperature dropped to freezing during the night. Spectacular moon, night sky and dawning in that high mountain meadow. Have developed a pain scale since pain appears regularly as a feature of our experience climbing these passes:

500 feet up equal to 500 units of pain which is the amount of
pain felt with a smashed thumb

1000 feet up - same as a rolled testicle* - this only applies to
some women

1500 - same as a thrombosed hemorrhoid

3000 - same as an amputated digit severed with a rusty saw
blade

From now on when I call attention to height climbed it will send a clear signal of the pain involved. I am noticing a slight “training” bounce that may require I downgrade this scale over time.


Pat Sewell