We are in the Plaines now - a word adapted from the original. To ride a bicycle is to ride in place. Do that for six to eight hours, and a town of the same description drops into place - not suddenly, though. You get to see the water tower for two of the eight hours as it recedes a pace with your approach. Much of this area is Indian reservation, and it is not hard to understand why the founders selected this land for them: 15 inches of rain; two seasons “winter and July”; no pesky trees to block a man’s view, nor hills; a mosquito population adapted to fly in the wind and attack in packs and a constant wind organized against you regardless of direction being traveled and so dry that all moisture within is sucked without at the same rate you’re losing blood to the mosquitoes.
Since the Indians came to settle in much of this area, things have improved a bit with the addition of casinos and bars. So that no one is inconvenienced as they search for one or more of these places, they have been put everywhere - in all buildings that are not a grain elevator or post office. A lot of these are lucky places because the name says so - “Lucky Lil’s, Lucky Bill’s, Lucky Bob’s or Montano Lucky Phil’s” - They get that “Lucky” in there somewhere because the Indians clearly are lucky to have so much opportunity to gamble and drink within any arms length. I can’t be sure if they are all actually lucky and winning a lot because there are no obvious expressions of wealth in view. There are a lot of cars on blocks in front of their trailers and deteriorating homes, but that could be their way of hiding their success so as not to arouse envy in their neighbors. I’ll keep you posted, literally.
June 30, Wolf Point Mountain, 7 a.m.
The American flag flies high and proudly over the Wolf Point Post Office this morning - pointing clearly to the west. We, in contrast, are heading east, into the sharp unrelenting teeth of this gale-force wind. The weather man has advised of the buildup of a system of thunderheads with hail - “up to one inch” - and gusts approaching from the southeast, advising caution - which for us bicyclists would mean keeping our helmet on as we get pelted and blown about into the traffic lanes. What is the better part of valor; battle it out with the elements or tuck tail and head for a lay-up, allowing the depleted vessel we be a restorative interval? Checking closely within ourselves for a need for further penance and self-flagellation - after two days of non-stop immersion in that type of thing, we have elected the latter, calling it, now that the decision has been made, an expression of wisdom extraordinaire. There are those who, no doubt, will see it as cowardly, -- a larger group approaching the infinite who will be indifferent to it, but we are not letting this interfere with our ability to imbue this decision and this our day with the significance ordinarily extended to a near-death experience - while out here totally anonymous. A talent pervasive among us humans.
Pat Sewell
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
June 30, 6 p.m., Wolf Point Mountain (3rd entry)
Our u-turn this morning - when faced with the wind and storm - has been worthwhile. A morning nap after a full breakfast. An afternoon nap after a massage (and more about that later). Neither of us anticipated the eagerness our bodies had for this extra sleep and rest. Seems time off is a physically agreeable thing. A stop also mitigates against the development of bicycle phobia which can attack you unexpectedly at the sight of your bike when you awaken in the a.m. and is associated with the desire to believe you are in a dream, that this can’t be real, and when that abates and reality sets in, an uncontrollable urge to buy an airline ticket home regardless of cost. So far, this reactivity has been manageable.
We are almost across Montana and around 500 miles from Minnesota. Minnesota, as I recall, is practically to Maine in a very general, non-specific, semi-deluded way. So, we are very encouraged.
We did have a massage. Tacy, an off-duty ER Trauma and OB nurse, provided it. She grew up here and knows the local people, the state of the Indian nations and the quality of health care - and gave us quite a tour of these considerations. She also gave us a massage which was just short of a roffing, a deep tissue screamer. Hard to keep our mouths shut with many tender points. It was an excellent, if at times, uncomfortable and hopefully, helpful massage.
Tacy’s description of the Indian circumstance here was troubling:
1) high unemployment - up to 70 percent
2) high teenage pregnancy rates “babies having babies”
3) high addiction rates -- alcohol, meth, gambling
4) generations of welfare dependency -- “all they know now”
5) lack of economic opportunity -- tax businesses too much and an
unreliable work force
6) high levels of violence -- Indian on Indian with poor law
enforcement and prosecutorial function
7) corruption and cronyism in the tribal councils that impede
needed change
8) meddling and tribal council intervention in medical activities
and treatment in Indian health service - with resultant declining
access and quality of care
9) neglect of the young by addicted parents with poor nutrition and a
lack of any useful developmental attention
10) high incest and child sexual abuse rate - “If you make it to eight,
you’re lucky.”
Not a pretty picture if even partially correct. She added that the town is dying. The young non-Indians are discouraged by all of the above and because they do not see a future here for themselves, are leaving.
Her description of medical care here for non-Indians was not much rosier - aging, worn-out, over-worked doctors - though the facilities are good. Physician assistants and nurse practitioners “middle level providers” do help. She remains committed to the community and to helping the Indians. “They are this way because that’s all they know. I’d be that way, too, if I had been born into it. I think, ‘There but by the grace of God go I.’ ” Would we all be able and willing to understand complex social problems with compassion - and with the understanding that however negative things are, they make sense in light of all the contributing variables - and that demonizing and blaming do not a contribution to needed change make. This situation clearly is maximally difficult and not unlike the problems of the Mississippi Delta in some ways. Both situations have countered the best intentions of many up to now. They can burn out well-meaning people. An amazing human drama, though, is to be seen from the seat of our bicycles not visible when you roll through with the windows rolled up, the AC on and stop only at the historical point signs. One of the benefits, this closer look.
Pat Sewell
We are almost across Montana and around 500 miles from Minnesota. Minnesota, as I recall, is practically to Maine in a very general, non-specific, semi-deluded way. So, we are very encouraged.
We did have a massage. Tacy, an off-duty ER Trauma and OB nurse, provided it. She grew up here and knows the local people, the state of the Indian nations and the quality of health care - and gave us quite a tour of these considerations. She also gave us a massage which was just short of a roffing, a deep tissue screamer. Hard to keep our mouths shut with many tender points. It was an excellent, if at times, uncomfortable and hopefully, helpful massage.
Tacy’s description of the Indian circumstance here was troubling:
1) high unemployment - up to 70 percent
2) high teenage pregnancy rates “babies having babies”
3) high addiction rates -- alcohol, meth, gambling
4) generations of welfare dependency -- “all they know now”
5) lack of economic opportunity -- tax businesses too much and an
unreliable work force
6) high levels of violence -- Indian on Indian with poor law
enforcement and prosecutorial function
7) corruption and cronyism in the tribal councils that impede
needed change
8) meddling and tribal council intervention in medical activities
and treatment in Indian health service - with resultant declining
access and quality of care
9) neglect of the young by addicted parents with poor nutrition and a
lack of any useful developmental attention
10) high incest and child sexual abuse rate - “If you make it to eight,
you’re lucky.”
Not a pretty picture if even partially correct. She added that the town is dying. The young non-Indians are discouraged by all of the above and because they do not see a future here for themselves, are leaving.
Her description of medical care here for non-Indians was not much rosier - aging, worn-out, over-worked doctors - though the facilities are good. Physician assistants and nurse practitioners “middle level providers” do help. She remains committed to the community and to helping the Indians. “They are this way because that’s all they know. I’d be that way, too, if I had been born into it. I think, ‘There but by the grace of God go I.’ ” Would we all be able and willing to understand complex social problems with compassion - and with the understanding that however negative things are, they make sense in light of all the contributing variables - and that demonizing and blaming do not a contribution to needed change make. This situation clearly is maximally difficult and not unlike the problems of the Mississippi Delta in some ways. Both situations have countered the best intentions of many up to now. They can burn out well-meaning people. An amazing human drama, though, is to be seen from the seat of our bicycles not visible when you roll through with the windows rolled up, the AC on and stop only at the historical point signs. One of the benefits, this closer look.
Pat Sewell
June 30, 8 a.m., Wolf Point Mountain , Breakfast Place (2nd entry)
The Old Grill, Hwy 2 and Main. Looks like an old drive-in restaurant, the ordering post still standing for the cars. Inside, morning light lies on the dark tables and booths, each with a red phone for ordering, if you can wait. Full of patrons - most, other than us, repeats. The waitress knows them. They exchange greetings, questions: “How’d it go?” “The appointment’s tomorrow.” “Oh, you nervous?” “Not really just hate the wait.” This with a thin guy who recently lost weight. It looks like we’re all thinking cancer, I think. She brings us coffee before the ordering, A friendly smile, short, graying hair, her own teeth, looks trim, exercised. “How many old men have left you money in their will,” I ask, adding that I’m doing research on this subject. “Ha!” she laughs, and then, “That hasn’t happened but funny you should ask. A woman came in the other day, handed me a small package. I opened it, and it had the most beautiful sapphire ring I’ve ever seen in it,” nodding her head in amazement, “couldn’t believe it. She said I’d always been nice to her. All I did was send her some flowers recently when she was in the hospital. Imagine that, prettiest sapphire ring I’ve ever seen.” Told me she had worked at the Old Grill for 27 years. “Wouldn’t do anything else. I’ve had offers to work, but I always said ‘no’ - I love doing this.” “Is that your grand-daughter?” I asked, indicating a four year old on a stool behind the sink behind the counter, playing as if washing dishes. “No, just a little girl, needs some help,” her reply.
It isn’t happening to us, we’re doing it. A warming morning light in a breakfast place in Wolf Point, Montana.
Pat Sewell
It isn’t happening to us, we’re doing it. A warming morning light in a breakfast place in Wolf Point, Montana.
Pat Sewell
Monday, June 29, 2009
June 29, Wolf Point
The names of the towns are running together in my mind - you would think they would stand out - stick - the high cost in effort to get to them. And some do.
Passed through Nashua. How did that get in Montana? Inverness,
Glasgow, Malta. Rumor has it that the railroad people charged with the duty of naming these towns simply spun the globe and pointed. Seems too loaded with Scottish names for this to be true.
We’re in Wolf Point. If it has a coyote, a raven, a buffalo, a wolf as part of its name, it’s Indian. It is 50 or so impossibly difficult miles from Glasgow. You could put down in a helicopter anywhere between the two and swear you’re in the same place, only thing changed was the intensity of the wind and the rising temperature. 101 degrees at 4:48 p.m. - a matter of record now. This temperature and wind will desiccate and preserve a run-over ground squirrel in less than one hour and does worse things to a bicyclist, but we are denied the final solution they are afforded - though we certainly contemplated it. We had thought, of course, that once cleared of the mountains it would all be music and roses. Turns out we have bicycle dumb ass syndrome. Riding in the plains is just another form of torture. I’m surprised Dick Cheney didn’t think of this. Today I would have told anything about me or anybody else, even violated HIPPA to get off that bicycle before the distance law allowed. The natives say they have two seasons here, “winter and July” and July has come early.
We did have some interesting stops enroute. I took the time to have a cup of coffee with four locals at a bar in Nashua. We had an extremely intense and non-fruitful exchange of ideas that left nobody changed nor more enlightened - about all the important subjects: global warming, global trade, corporate greed, failed regulation, lack of regulation, religion, the need or lack of for a third political party, the self-absorption and blindness of the scientists in the world who only want to perpetuate their careers: all this in 20 minutes and at mega decibel levels. This is getting to know the locals in surround sound. I left them with a strong sense that a guy on a bicycle may have different opinions than they and with the overt label, “You guys are blind idealogues, but it was fun talking to you all.” We parted friends, and they bought the coffee. Turns out, I found out later, the guys of the Bellingham 7 had stopped before me and prepped these guys to give me maximal hell when I showed up, and they were ready for me. It’s good to have friends who think ahead for you. This group is staying in Wolf Point, as are we, tonight. Everybody’s toasted! We will continue to leap frog with them another 100 miles to Williston, then they will turn south to Iowa. They’ve added a lot to our trip since the Issac Walton,
Wolf Point is on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation and near the Missouri River which we now parallel. The Milk River, which we have followed for days, occupies the historical Missouri River watershed, the Missouri having been diverted by an ice dam thousands of years ago. I do not expect our quality of life to be improved by this eventually. There are many Indians here, all dressed as civilians, having lost their culture at Wounded Knee and to carbonated drinks.
We ate at a Chinese restaurant tonight - the only diners at the time. The proprietors were Chinese, whose ancestors pushed out of Africa 40,000 years ago, deviated north around the Hindu Kush, then south along the Pacific coast into China separating as they did from some fellow travelers, cousins actually, who ultimately crossed the Bearing Strait land bridge and ended up in, among other places, in the Americas - Wolf Point Mountain - having survived in the process a few pandemics, starvation and US government duplicity. The Chinese who fed us had ancestors who somehow survived their own trails and sent their progeny here against all odds to introduce tofu to their sugar-obsessed cousins. Such is the peculiar way the world sometimes tries to heal itself against all odds. David had some of the tofu and gave it a ten on a ten scale. I had the Mongolian beef and recommend it should you ever have no choice but to spend the night in Wolf Point, Montana. Hurry, though, because I’m not sure they’re going to make it.
Pat Sewell
Passed through Nashua. How did that get in Montana? Inverness,
Glasgow, Malta. Rumor has it that the railroad people charged with the duty of naming these towns simply spun the globe and pointed. Seems too loaded with Scottish names for this to be true.
We’re in Wolf Point. If it has a coyote, a raven, a buffalo, a wolf as part of its name, it’s Indian. It is 50 or so impossibly difficult miles from Glasgow. You could put down in a helicopter anywhere between the two and swear you’re in the same place, only thing changed was the intensity of the wind and the rising temperature. 101 degrees at 4:48 p.m. - a matter of record now. This temperature and wind will desiccate and preserve a run-over ground squirrel in less than one hour and does worse things to a bicyclist, but we are denied the final solution they are afforded - though we certainly contemplated it. We had thought, of course, that once cleared of the mountains it would all be music and roses. Turns out we have bicycle dumb ass syndrome. Riding in the plains is just another form of torture. I’m surprised Dick Cheney didn’t think of this. Today I would have told anything about me or anybody else, even violated HIPPA to get off that bicycle before the distance law allowed. The natives say they have two seasons here, “winter and July” and July has come early.
We did have some interesting stops enroute. I took the time to have a cup of coffee with four locals at a bar in Nashua. We had an extremely intense and non-fruitful exchange of ideas that left nobody changed nor more enlightened - about all the important subjects: global warming, global trade, corporate greed, failed regulation, lack of regulation, religion, the need or lack of for a third political party, the self-absorption and blindness of the scientists in the world who only want to perpetuate their careers: all this in 20 minutes and at mega decibel levels. This is getting to know the locals in surround sound. I left them with a strong sense that a guy on a bicycle may have different opinions than they and with the overt label, “You guys are blind idealogues, but it was fun talking to you all.” We parted friends, and they bought the coffee. Turns out, I found out later, the guys of the Bellingham 7 had stopped before me and prepped these guys to give me maximal hell when I showed up, and they were ready for me. It’s good to have friends who think ahead for you. This group is staying in Wolf Point, as are we, tonight. Everybody’s toasted! We will continue to leap frog with them another 100 miles to Williston, then they will turn south to Iowa. They’ve added a lot to our trip since the Issac Walton,
Wolf Point is on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation and near the Missouri River which we now parallel. The Milk River, which we have followed for days, occupies the historical Missouri River watershed, the Missouri having been diverted by an ice dam thousands of years ago. I do not expect our quality of life to be improved by this eventually. There are many Indians here, all dressed as civilians, having lost their culture at Wounded Knee and to carbonated drinks.
We ate at a Chinese restaurant tonight - the only diners at the time. The proprietors were Chinese, whose ancestors pushed out of Africa 40,000 years ago, deviated north around the Hindu Kush, then south along the Pacific coast into China separating as they did from some fellow travelers, cousins actually, who ultimately crossed the Bearing Strait land bridge and ended up in, among other places, in the Americas - Wolf Point Mountain - having survived in the process a few pandemics, starvation and US government duplicity. The Chinese who fed us had ancestors who somehow survived their own trails and sent their progeny here against all odds to introduce tofu to their sugar-obsessed cousins. Such is the peculiar way the world sometimes tries to heal itself against all odds. David had some of the tofu and gave it a ten on a ten scale. I had the Mongolian beef and recommend it should you ever have no choice but to spend the night in Wolf Point, Montana. Hurry, though, because I’m not sure they’re going to make it.
Pat Sewell
Sunday, June 28, 2009
June 28, Glasgow, Montana, Trails West Campground
A touch of The 3rd World in Glasgow. Closest RV park in town, and we were limping. Would have accepted a gentle drawing and quartering to get off the bike. 72 miles, much with a headwind, under a hot sun and through mosquito hoards. Pain and struggle enough to question the whole endeavor - a feeling I presume will clear with a good night’s sleep.
June 28, 11 a.m. Saco Mountain
OB’s Café for breakfast. Left Malta early anticipating a tailwind, but had to fight a headwind the last 27 miles and clouds of mosquitoes. We had been warned by a drunk Indian in Shelby to beware of the Saco mosquitoes, laughed a lot when he said it. Laughed all the way across the parking lot to his car as he looked back at us. Soothsayer, shaman, trickster? They come in hoards or packs like wolves and will take you down and drain you quick. Our deet only partially helped, so we’ve taken refuge in OB’s Café hoping for a climate change that’ll kill them. The desperate are desperate. That change is rumored, though widely dismissed by the ideologically impaired. Will not happen at any rate within our time in Saco. Spent last night in Malta camped in City Park. Mosquito sprayer came by at 3 a.m. fogging. Passed closer than that bear did to my tent, filling it with emulsified diesel fog replacing all the air and filling it with sound as loud as that train in Whitefish that came through my tent. Perhaps this is the Chinese year of the mosquito - or at least week. Built a sail yesterday for the tailwind that isn’t. Perhaps we are not the main event. These wide open, straight roads are a challenge. Endless horizon. Like pedaling in place. You have to trust and be patient, as in most things worth doing.
Met our first pair coming from the east - Ryan and Nathan - Tatteredalbumblogspot.com. (atlasblogspot.com.) They expect to be in Anacortes in two weeks, with the winds and Cascades and Rockies ahead. Best laid plans?
Pat Sewell
June 28, 11 a.m. Saco Mountain
OB’s Café for breakfast. Left Malta early anticipating a tailwind, but had to fight a headwind the last 27 miles and clouds of mosquitoes. We had been warned by a drunk Indian in Shelby to beware of the Saco mosquitoes, laughed a lot when he said it. Laughed all the way across the parking lot to his car as he looked back at us. Soothsayer, shaman, trickster? They come in hoards or packs like wolves and will take you down and drain you quick. Our deet only partially helped, so we’ve taken refuge in OB’s Café hoping for a climate change that’ll kill them. The desperate are desperate. That change is rumored, though widely dismissed by the ideologically impaired. Will not happen at any rate within our time in Saco. Spent last night in Malta camped in City Park. Mosquito sprayer came by at 3 a.m. fogging. Passed closer than that bear did to my tent, filling it with emulsified diesel fog replacing all the air and filling it with sound as loud as that train in Whitefish that came through my tent. Perhaps this is the Chinese year of the mosquito - or at least week. Built a sail yesterday for the tailwind that isn’t. Perhaps we are not the main event. These wide open, straight roads are a challenge. Endless horizon. Like pedaling in place. You have to trust and be patient, as in most things worth doing.
Met our first pair coming from the east - Ryan and Nathan - Tatteredalbumblogspot.com. (atlasblogspot.com.) They expect to be in Anacortes in two weeks, with the winds and Cascades and Rockies ahead. Best laid plans?
Pat Sewell
Saturday, June 27, 2009
June 27, 6 a.m.
The wind early in the willows.
The water over the weir
This morning dawning clear.
June 27, Malta
How do you talk about a rodeo in Small Town America on a Friday night? We did attend, and it was a cultural spectacle - really an extravaganza. The stadium was full; the arena, an acre of black dirt. There were chutes to release the animals, cowboys, cowgirls, people cheering, American flags flying, a clown and a glib announcer with non-stop action! Calf roping, teams and individual; saddled broncos, bucking bulls, barrel racing, cheering crowds, rodeo queens, tractors and Dodge pickups on display. I could accept it as all this and just a community coming together for what they like to do, a celebration of their heritage and identify - and did. Much was made of “our shared history” - of the “American” quarter horse and his importance - of preserving “our values and traditions.” The rodeo queen shared in the written program her motivation to be queen to be a spokesperson for just such. And on the fences and out of the mouth of the announcer, a continuous flow and presence of hard sell. The fence panels called for the use of non-smoke tobacco products - that solid old family value dip and every chute that released a bucking bull or horse was from this or that bank or construction company. The costumes of the participant - and most of their gear worn had long lost any utility for the bulk of the observers and even participants - and yet the lingering identification. Understandable and harmless - but in another way, jingoistic foolery, consensual fakery, a masquerade ball. We have to do something with ourselves while stuck on the planet and this is one of the solutions these people have settled on. I did learn, too, from the announcer that Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, is a great place for a vacation in the summer if I love golf and now you have. This was the long reach of marketing seamlessly woven into his barter.
The adult male competitors on the bulls and horses often bit the dust which mixed with that already in their mouths, both of which they spit out publicly after their fall while waiting for the girl earned in this traditional way locally. The children of these unions were sent from the “Bank One” chute atop a sheep; lying prone on the sheeps back initially and then often happily trampled underfoot - protected by a bicycle helmet, to great applause. So, the beat goes on. Actually, I loved it. With my sociologist cap on, I may be the grinch that stole the rodeo. You can ignore that.
The ride from Chinook to Malta was a magical mystery tour without a drug assist. 70 miles with a tailwind that should have a proper name like those in the Sahara Desert that bury and desiccate people. We were here by 1 p.m. and still could walk and talk, an uncommon condition for us when we get somewhere. The terrain was flat - along the Milk River valley - with some excursions into the rolling hills - the traffic was light - unlike mosquitoes. These are a specially-adapted breed or strain that can intercept a moving object at the speed of sound and hold on. Imagine blowing across America, head down, grinding, the landscape and your life flashing by, dead ground squirrels filling your gaze, and you are suddenly completely covered by mosquitoes that have materialized from clear air and are busy sucking more blood than can be replaced from you. Well, that’s what happened. They are air eddy experts and come up drafts intent on the filling. We survived but are now semi-bloodless and in acute deet intoxication, which is not all bad.
We’ve camped in the city park in Malta. No shower, no hot water. More big cottonwoods and more mosquitoes. The locals came for afternoon barbeques and horse shoes; those that weren’t at the 25th Anniversary Appreciation dinner and dance downtown for the Valley Pharmacy. A simple place, friendly people, mosquitoes.
I went to the dinosaur museum. This area very productive of fossils, saw Leonardo, a complete 77 million year old complete specimen of a mummified dinosaur and a list of the plants identified in his stomach. Discovery Channel has done a special on him. Later I met the ranch owner at the street dance who found him on their property. Got her - the ranch owner’s wife’s picture = two degrees of separation from Leonardo, the mummified dinosaur.
Since we have had such a wonderful tailwind, I have devised a sail out
of RVC pipe and plastic sheeting to capture the anticipated wind tomorrow. It is untested and may be a hindrance when going downhill or in a truck blast. We’ll see. Could give me a 5 mph edge on Dave if it works.
Glasgow tomorrow.
Dave lost the second Frisbee bocce ball. Chase game 8 to 1. This was the Blaine County Championship. I relate this result not to crow but for the sake of completeness. He seems discouraged in this area and beginning to question if he can compete in this league. I am encouraging.
Met Gary Harbaugh in Water Works campground in Chinook. From near Santa Cruz. Riding a gull wing motorcycle, pulling a trailer. A retired navy veteran and police officer. A man, too, of strong opinions and a patch to match on his vest for every one. Enjoyed “taking it to them” - them being these different than he, which included most Californians, all politicians and the “liberal media.” Had the ability to project sympathetic views on us as long as we lay low which we did. He roared off on his six cylinder machine in complete agreement with us, who remained completely invisible to him, to do battle with legions of straw men who litter his landscapes. One man, one vote and one of us just got neutralized. A nice guy, really. Had a lot of flag patches, each a flag for his sunrise.
Pat Sewell
The water over the weir
This morning dawning clear.
June 27, Malta
How do you talk about a rodeo in Small Town America on a Friday night? We did attend, and it was a cultural spectacle - really an extravaganza. The stadium was full; the arena, an acre of black dirt. There were chutes to release the animals, cowboys, cowgirls, people cheering, American flags flying, a clown and a glib announcer with non-stop action! Calf roping, teams and individual; saddled broncos, bucking bulls, barrel racing, cheering crowds, rodeo queens, tractors and Dodge pickups on display. I could accept it as all this and just a community coming together for what they like to do, a celebration of their heritage and identify - and did. Much was made of “our shared history” - of the “American” quarter horse and his importance - of preserving “our values and traditions.” The rodeo queen shared in the written program her motivation to be queen to be a spokesperson for just such. And on the fences and out of the mouth of the announcer, a continuous flow and presence of hard sell. The fence panels called for the use of non-smoke tobacco products - that solid old family value dip and every chute that released a bucking bull or horse was from this or that bank or construction company. The costumes of the participant - and most of their gear worn had long lost any utility for the bulk of the observers and even participants - and yet the lingering identification. Understandable and harmless - but in another way, jingoistic foolery, consensual fakery, a masquerade ball. We have to do something with ourselves while stuck on the planet and this is one of the solutions these people have settled on. I did learn, too, from the announcer that Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, is a great place for a vacation in the summer if I love golf and now you have. This was the long reach of marketing seamlessly woven into his barter.
The adult male competitors on the bulls and horses often bit the dust which mixed with that already in their mouths, both of which they spit out publicly after their fall while waiting for the girl earned in this traditional way locally. The children of these unions were sent from the “Bank One” chute atop a sheep; lying prone on the sheeps back initially and then often happily trampled underfoot - protected by a bicycle helmet, to great applause. So, the beat goes on. Actually, I loved it. With my sociologist cap on, I may be the grinch that stole the rodeo. You can ignore that.
The ride from Chinook to Malta was a magical mystery tour without a drug assist. 70 miles with a tailwind that should have a proper name like those in the Sahara Desert that bury and desiccate people. We were here by 1 p.m. and still could walk and talk, an uncommon condition for us when we get somewhere. The terrain was flat - along the Milk River valley - with some excursions into the rolling hills - the traffic was light - unlike mosquitoes. These are a specially-adapted breed or strain that can intercept a moving object at the speed of sound and hold on. Imagine blowing across America, head down, grinding, the landscape and your life flashing by, dead ground squirrels filling your gaze, and you are suddenly completely covered by mosquitoes that have materialized from clear air and are busy sucking more blood than can be replaced from you. Well, that’s what happened. They are air eddy experts and come up drafts intent on the filling. We survived but are now semi-bloodless and in acute deet intoxication, which is not all bad.
We’ve camped in the city park in Malta. No shower, no hot water. More big cottonwoods and more mosquitoes. The locals came for afternoon barbeques and horse shoes; those that weren’t at the 25th Anniversary Appreciation dinner and dance downtown for the Valley Pharmacy. A simple place, friendly people, mosquitoes.
I went to the dinosaur museum. This area very productive of fossils, saw Leonardo, a complete 77 million year old complete specimen of a mummified dinosaur and a list of the plants identified in his stomach. Discovery Channel has done a special on him. Later I met the ranch owner at the street dance who found him on their property. Got her - the ranch owner’s wife’s picture = two degrees of separation from Leonardo, the mummified dinosaur.
Since we have had such a wonderful tailwind, I have devised a sail out
of RVC pipe and plastic sheeting to capture the anticipated wind tomorrow. It is untested and may be a hindrance when going downhill or in a truck blast. We’ll see. Could give me a 5 mph edge on Dave if it works.
Glasgow tomorrow.
Dave lost the second Frisbee bocce ball. Chase game 8 to 1. This was the Blaine County Championship. I relate this result not to crow but for the sake of completeness. He seems discouraged in this area and beginning to question if he can compete in this league. I am encouraging.
Met Gary Harbaugh in Water Works campground in Chinook. From near Santa Cruz. Riding a gull wing motorcycle, pulling a trailer. A retired navy veteran and police officer. A man, too, of strong opinions and a patch to match on his vest for every one. Enjoyed “taking it to them” - them being these different than he, which included most Californians, all politicians and the “liberal media.” Had the ability to project sympathetic views on us as long as we lay low which we did. He roared off on his six cylinder machine in complete agreement with us, who remained completely invisible to him, to do battle with legions of straw men who litter his landscapes. One man, one vote and one of us just got neutralized. A nice guy, really. Had a lot of flag patches, each a flag for his sunrise.
Pat Sewell
Friday, June 26, 2009
June 26, Chinook Mountain, 6 p.m.
(As we awakened in Hingham) --- The sun arose to a clean sky and once above the horizon, pushed light through our camp casting long shadows from the ash trees crowding our tents. In these trees, mourning turtle doves sang mournfully, but beautifully, as they do. Mother loved watching and hearing these birds in her last few years sitting on the back porch in Boyce. Hearing them sing seemed a requiem for her and these dying towns. We could see it, and the people said it was so. Rural America dying here, fading away. The barber in Chester told us of closing motels, businesses, car dealerships. “There’s nothing here anymore for the young people. They’ve got to leave.” He had cut hair for 22 years. Charged $10 apiece for a buzz cut of two of our cycling friends. We left our mournful camp, though in a good mood, and rode here to Chinook where we camped at the city water works. It is free and has a shower. And there is a rodeo in town at 7 p.m. which I will report on later. There are also mosquitoes, deet-resistant mosquitoes. But you can never have everything your way. The Milk River runs near enough to see and hear, and we are beneath a grove of old cottonwood trees, worth by themselves, the price of admission.
Today’s ride was downward over rolling plains, sufficiently similar for long periods that the eye began to seek change and variety. A tree along the landscape could capture and hold your gaze. Dead things at roadside became objects of curiosity, if not concern. A snake, a skunk, a porcupine, an antelope and the ground squirrel. Those little guys seem to have been born to die to a blacktop road. They are everywhere in various stages of decomposition. Freshly hit, they puff up and round out, get real cute and look like they should be for sale at the children’s store. With a little age, they become flattened, desiccated skins that remain identifiable. I think if you took one of these and added water like you do with freeze-dried food, they would reconstitute. Ted Williams’ family should have tried this method to preserve him. It would have been cheaper. There are many of these little creatures. They go out on the highway, bouncing, tail held high, like they want to get hit - like little Jihadist; death on the highway, the highest form of existence they aspire to. I saw one snake, too -- a diamond-back something or other. We were gong 18 mph, it was dead, but it still caused diarrhea, vomiting and all the hair on my body to stand up and threaten to fall out. That was at Mile 378 on Hwy. 2. It is recorded in my lizard brain as a deep neuronal rut. I will never forget it, and therapy will not help.
We continue to leap frog with our friends. Stuart of Broquest.com lives after his concussion, and he and his buddies did a century yesterday. The Bellingham 7 also were spotted.
Pat Sewell
Today’s ride was downward over rolling plains, sufficiently similar for long periods that the eye began to seek change and variety. A tree along the landscape could capture and hold your gaze. Dead things at roadside became objects of curiosity, if not concern. A snake, a skunk, a porcupine, an antelope and the ground squirrel. Those little guys seem to have been born to die to a blacktop road. They are everywhere in various stages of decomposition. Freshly hit, they puff up and round out, get real cute and look like they should be for sale at the children’s store. With a little age, they become flattened, desiccated skins that remain identifiable. I think if you took one of these and added water like you do with freeze-dried food, they would reconstitute. Ted Williams’ family should have tried this method to preserve him. It would have been cheaper. There are many of these little creatures. They go out on the highway, bouncing, tail held high, like they want to get hit - like little Jihadist; death on the highway, the highest form of existence they aspire to. I saw one snake, too -- a diamond-back something or other. We were gong 18 mph, it was dead, but it still caused diarrhea, vomiting and all the hair on my body to stand up and threaten to fall out. That was at Mile 378 on Hwy. 2. It is recorded in my lizard brain as a deep neuronal rut. I will never forget it, and therapy will not help.
We continue to leap frog with our friends. Stuart of Broquest.com lives after his concussion, and he and his buddies did a century yesterday. The Bellingham 7 also were spotted.
Pat Sewell
Thursday, June 25, 2009
June 25, 4 p.m., Hingham, Montana
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
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
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
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