Dave returned from a heroic (his characterization) successful search for water. Battling tall grass and ticks (one), he ventured one and a half miles a field trespassing in the spirit of community contribution and returned with a bag of lake water - said to be clean, cool and chemical-free. Proud was he and deservedly so, hence this special late edition entry in the journal done willingly in spite of writer’s cramp. He reported other life forms in addition to the much talked about tick attack - a duck with blue cheeks, a straight-up tail, bouncing and bouncing around a similar duck - presumably in a mating ritual or some less useful male attention calling behavior. That would be a Ruddy Duck. They winter - many, maybe not that one, in Louisiana on Lake Bistineau. He did not band it, so we will never know if that one does, but hey - no harm done on a mission accomplished.
Pumped up by this water-finding success, he edged me out in the Frisbee bocce ball chase game, his first victory in such. He now likes the game. Go figure. My clothing was binding my throws and it went unrecognized until too late.
We know these lands now by their wind
And think well of them and these winds their kin
The hummock, hillocks, crinkled sky, the waving grass
A stretched land, a folded land, nurturingly vast.
Lie low in these hollows, be with the grass and sky
Wind tossed be it all and yet nothing be awry
These lands know this wind, as now do we
Such as it is, devoid of tree and deaf to plea.
Pat Sewell
Friday, July 3, 2009
July 3, 4 p.m., on Hwy 2 West of Tioga (2nd entry)
We will know these lands by their winds -
I am in the shade of a parked combine that is hooked to an antique tractor. Neither are functional and neither are we. “Stopped” we are actually, by a merciless wind, straight out of the east and contrary to the nature of things, according to Hoyle and others. Fourteen miles north of Williston Hwy 2 turns due east and into this wind. We persisted against it with its battering gusts for several hours - making 3.5 to 5 mph. Until on the crest of a hill, the wind at its peak, we caught a glimpse of the limitless and featureless horizon before us and either lost all heart for the struggle or came to our senses, depending on your point of view, and sought refuge - at least until the wind died. “Live to fight another day,” he said, I said. “We have nothing to prove, right?” we both asked. “This can’t last forever.”
We pitched our tents behind a rise that gave slight shelter and have spent the last five hours reading and napping - until now. Dave’s gone for water at a nearby pond - which we will purify - as we have little, and we will make a night of it here. We’re sailors becalmed, explorers waiting out a blizzard, a sandstorm! In this land of endless waving green grass and pounding wind, it is easy to use these metaphors and feel a little better than just a bicyclist stalled 50 yards from a well-traveled four-lane highway. Our feed stores are minimal - a plum, few cherries, some crackers, a little cheese - unless the water is useable - then we’ll have a treat of beans and rice.
I’ve finished the book “The English Patient” - the movie was good but doesn’t do it justice. Read it if you haven’t. Re-read it if you have. Haunting themes and wondrous accounts of the struggles of attachment. It’s been a great companion, and I have that sense of sorrow one can get when a good book is finished.
We should have a night sky as memorable as the book tonight, if not overcast.
Pat Sewell
I am in the shade of a parked combine that is hooked to an antique tractor. Neither are functional and neither are we. “Stopped” we are actually, by a merciless wind, straight out of the east and contrary to the nature of things, according to Hoyle and others. Fourteen miles north of Williston Hwy 2 turns due east and into this wind. We persisted against it with its battering gusts for several hours - making 3.5 to 5 mph. Until on the crest of a hill, the wind at its peak, we caught a glimpse of the limitless and featureless horizon before us and either lost all heart for the struggle or came to our senses, depending on your point of view, and sought refuge - at least until the wind died. “Live to fight another day,” he said, I said. “We have nothing to prove, right?” we both asked. “This can’t last forever.”
We pitched our tents behind a rise that gave slight shelter and have spent the last five hours reading and napping - until now. Dave’s gone for water at a nearby pond - which we will purify - as we have little, and we will make a night of it here. We’re sailors becalmed, explorers waiting out a blizzard, a sandstorm! In this land of endless waving green grass and pounding wind, it is easy to use these metaphors and feel a little better than just a bicyclist stalled 50 yards from a well-traveled four-lane highway. Our feed stores are minimal - a plum, few cherries, some crackers, a little cheese - unless the water is useable - then we’ll have a treat of beans and rice.
I’ve finished the book “The English Patient” - the movie was good but doesn’t do it justice. Read it if you haven’t. Re-read it if you have. Haunting themes and wondrous accounts of the struggles of attachment. It’s been a great companion, and I have that sense of sorrow one can get when a good book is finished.
We should have a night sky as memorable as the book tonight, if not overcast.
Pat Sewell
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
July 1, Wednesday, Culbertson Mountain, City Park
The fireworks pop already, and the flags are on display for the coming Independence Day here in Culbertson where we camp in the city park, the town green and neat. The Missouri River flows nearby, and there is a broad valley of well-irrigated crops. It all seems a world apart from Wolf Point and its bleak economics and reservation problems.
The ride today was brutal with a disabling headwind that reduced our best speeds to four mph at times. Seven hours, 60 miles. It was pretty, though, along the Missouri - the route traveled by Lewis and Clark who wrote of flourishing here with the plentiful game. We rode, at times, in the lee of the escarpment on the north side of the river where the land was tortured by erosion and had many bizarre shapes - some capped by stones - that would be called Hoodoos in Utah. These had many swallow nests, as mentioned in the Lewis and Clark journals. We felt we were riding with history, knowing these things - took some of the sting from the effort required.
Pat Sewell
The ride today was brutal with a disabling headwind that reduced our best speeds to four mph at times. Seven hours, 60 miles. It was pretty, though, along the Missouri - the route traveled by Lewis and Clark who wrote of flourishing here with the plentiful game. We rode, at times, in the lee of the escarpment on the north side of the river where the land was tortured by erosion and had many bizarre shapes - some capped by stones - that would be called Hoodoos in Utah. These had many swallow nests, as mentioned in the Lewis and Clark journals. We felt we were riding with history, knowing these things - took some of the sting from the effort required.
Pat Sewell
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
June 30, Wolf Point Mountain, 6 a.m.
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
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)