Kremmling, CO

The joys of riding in the early morning are several fold: there is less traffic; winds usually have not had a chance to build; you ride in the cooler part of the day; and, if you are sensible, you stop before most other people and therefore get the best selection of campsites, motels, hostel rooms, etc. But even more so, I get to watch the world come alive—the sun bathing the earth in a golden hew before turning white hot, and seeing and hearing wildlife awaken to a new day.

This morning on my ride through the Arapahoe National Wildlife Refuge I saw a badger (at least that’s what I think it was) scuttle across the road, a pheasant sit in the middle of the road until I was 30 yards from it before taking flight, the cry of an unseen coyote, and uncounted pronghorn antelopes and mule deer.

I seem to be going against the current, upstream. Today I encountered, and in some cases stopped and talked to, more than two dozen riders heading west. They started in Yorktown, VA at various times in May because the weather there was good. I started in late May in Oregon and ran into snow and unprecedented rain.

We are wheeled hoboes. At each encounter we trade information about what lies ahead, where to stay or not stay, where to eat, how to fend off the infamous attacking dogs of Kentucky, how to negotiate the short but killer hills of the Ozarks and Appalachians.  

Yesterday I met a young man from Virginia Beach, today a guy from Pittsburgh.  There have been English, Dutch, Tasmanians, Germans, Australians, and Canadians. Ted and Steve, one from Las Vegas, the other from Long Island, stared in Yorktown with two females and a male/female couple. Soon the two females were asked to leave the group because they were too bossy, the guys said. “They treated us like children and we’re in our sixties,” said Ted. They separated from the couple when they realized the couple wanted to do a prescribed amount of miles a day and had booked a motel room for every night of the trip, not wanting to leave anything to chance. “Too uptight for us,” said Steve. Josh, from Tasmania, declared, “I love this country. I want to come back and take other routes to see more of this country.’

I wouldn’t be having these experiences if I was sitting behind a window doing 65 m.p.h.

Walden, CO

On seeing the Welcome to Colorado sign I screamed in joy. The landscape didn’t change immediately, it was my mindset. I know Colorado from having lived here and I knew that soon the vast, boring, unending sage prairie would disappear. I was free of Wyoming’s psychological hold.

Soon the landscape turned green and the mountains, instead of being so distant, began to snuggle around me. Then I glided down into North Park, a vast fertile farming/cattle valley. As in Wyoming, the ranches extended to the horizon but here the vegetation is lush compared to desiccated Wyoming.  And when I looked across the huge valley I could see signs of human habitation—farm buildings, houses, and other man-made structures.

I camped in Walden’s city park for free and showered at the city pool for $5. By the time I returned to my campsite it had become a compound. Two riders from Holland were setting up tents. Two men from Denver, on a loop of Colorado, rolled in soon afterward. Dee, the guy I had met and camped with at the Muddy Gap, WY gas station arrived.  A young gangly man rolled in after Dee and I returned from dinner.

We tried to trade stories about our individual ride experiences but were soon driven to the safety of our respective tents by mosquitoes.

Riverside, WY

June 27, Riverside, WY

A day of serendipity: the phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for. That’s one of the joys of this adventure.

Left Rawlins early after seeing a weather report that winds would be under 10 m.p.h. today. Make miles while the winds are mild!

As I approached Sinclair I saw what looked like minarets on the horizon. Dozens of them. It soon became evident they were part of an oil refinery. In the town of Sinclair? Hmmm. Yep, it was a Sinclair refinery. But the tow had a creepy feeling to it…too well planned and uniform.

In the town square in front of the PARCO Inn I read the history: A man built the town of PARCO (Producers and Refinery Oil Co.) in 1925 next to his refinery. It was a company town. He built an elegant 60-room in the Spanish Colonial style. Live trout swam in the inside fountains. He sold his town and refinery to Harry Sinclair in 1934. Sinclair changed the town’s name to his own in 1942 and then sold the entire town to the residents in 1967.

When I got to the Wolcott gas station I had arrived in Wolcott. And when I walked out of the gas station I had left Wolcott.

It was time for lunch when I arrived in Saratoga so I asked a lady for her recommendation. She made one and then mentioned that I might want to take a dip in the town’s free hot springs. “I think we’re the only city in the United States that has a free hot springs,” she said.

I wheeled a few blocks over to the springs, also known as the Hobo Pool, by the North Fork of the Platte River and soaked for 15 minutes. A nice lunch set me up for the rest of the ride.

Am in a wonderful campground tonight, complete with new showers, lots of trees, a great host and free Internet service, all for $8. Nicked across the road to a bar/café for a beer and some pasta and am feeling great.

So after spending my day making my feet move in small circles and filling my lungs with fresh air I know I’ll sleep soundly tonight. Also, tomorrow I enter Colorado and will be rid of Wyoming! Oh, what joy!

Rawlins, WY

Rogers and Hammerstein said the wind comes whistling down the plain in Oklahoma. In Wyoming, it screams. I don’t know the meaning of the word Wyoming but it must have something to do with “big-assed wind.” This state is nothing but wind. Last night the wind blew so had it knocked over my bike and rattled my tent with such consistency that I got only a few hours of sleep.

I’ve dealt with the wind ever since leaving the Tetons. Wyoming has the Tetons and then hundreds of thousands of square miles of high desert sage prairie. I have not seen more than three cords worth of trees growing in the more than 220 miles since I left the Tetons.

This morning I broke camp early with the hope of getting ahead of the winds that usually build during the day. I failed. Every mile to here was into a headwind, sometimes such a strong one that even my “granny” gear wasn’t good enough and I got off and walked the bike up. Coming into Rawlins there’s a slight downhill. Ah, at last a coast, I said. What a fool .I coasted to a stop on the descent because the wind was blowing so hard. I had to peddle downhill!!

The owner of this motel said two cyclists holed up here for two days last week hoping to get a break in the 66 m.p.h. winds. Our route map warns riders that winds “often range from 40-60 miles per hour,” so plan accordingly. My advice is peddle through the Tetons and then get a lift from there to the Colorado border.

Muddy Gap, WY

I’m camped in front of the gas station/convenience store in Muddy Gap. The establishment constitutes all there is to Muddy Gap. Traffic rolls by northward or turns westward toward Fort Washakie, about 90 miles away. It cost me $15.90, tax included, to find “anyplace out there” to camp. I’ve been joined by another east-bounder, Dee Wallis, a prison chaplin from Pasco, WA. Although this is his first cross-country ride, he rode extensively through China 8 years ago with one of his sons. Dee speaks Chinese.

The Chinese didn’t know what to make of two white men; some of the Chinese had never seen a Caucasian. However, they were very hospitable, to the point of allowing the strangers to use their bathrooms facilities but only of the homeowners could watch while they used them. He said the Chinese thought the Americans were very strange for using bicycles to travel around, a bicycle in the Chinese mind equates to work, not enjoyment. 

We each had a beer as we sat in the grass talking about our life histories and bicycles adventures thus far. A lovely way to end a long slog of miles.

Fort Washakie, WY

I pulled into Fort Washakie looking for a place to eat lunch. A local lady said the only place was the gas station but then offered, “Maybe they’ve set up at the Pow-Wow.” She directed me to the grounds. Indeed, food vendors were just opening their doors. I’ve stumbled upon the 51^stAnnual Eastern Shoshone Tribal Days, Wyoming’s largest Pow-Wow, that starts this evening.

The Eastern Shoshone Tribe and the Northern Arapahoe Tribe, historical enemies, were forced by the government 150 years ago to live on the Wind River Reservation. They each now occupy about half the reservation land, the Shoshone to the west, the Arapahoe in the east. They each have their own governing bodies but the overall reservation policies are run by a bi-tribal business council.

After being unable to finish an Indian taco, I made camp under a cottonwood tree along with the early arrivals and vendors. I watched Curtis Bennie, a Shoshone, direct a group of young men in how to erect a teepee.”I am trying to pass along my knowledge to our younger generation,” he said. He was teaching the Shoshone method of building a teepee, which initially uses four poles to start the structure. The Arapahoe, who were set up on the other side of the dance circle, use three poles. Bennie said both use a total of 21 poles, including the “ears” which control the rise of smoke out of the top and also act a window. While his ancestors used 19 to 21 buffalo hides to cover the teepee, Bennie uses a single piece of canvas.

Native American contestants and performers from throughout the country will attend the four-day event. Dancers will compete in the women’s jingle, women’s traditional, men’s grass, men’s fancy feather, men’s fancy prairie chicken dance divisions, among others. Drummers will also compete. Prizes go as high as $10,000.

He explained that pow-wows are family social gatherings This where grandpa met grandma. Very controlled environment for kids, community, unity, family. Sign: No alcohol, guns, gangs, violence.

Dubois, WY

“Are you satisfied?”

She broke my revelry. I looked up to see my young server staring at me. Satisfied? About what? Life? My situation? Where I am?  My 401K? They rushed through my mind in a split second. And why is she asking?

Seeing my confusion she moved her hand toward my empty plate.

“Oh, yes, I’m finished,” I said.

“I am sorry for using the wrong word,” she said. Dina is from Macedonia and is spending her summer as a waitress in the main restaurant of Colter Bay Village in Teton National Park. The service staff from maintenance workers to restaurant hosts is an international goulash. Like all the workers, Dina paid her own airfare to Wyoming and pays her own room and board in the employees’ dormitory.

“I do not do it to make money,” she said, “I do it to visit America and to get better with my English. And I like meeting people.”

With a delightful early-morning interlude like that my day was bound to be good. The weather was great and the skies bright.

To my left the rising sun cast a spotlight on the majestic Tetons. The French trappers certainly got it right in naming these perky protuberances on North America’s chest Le Grand Teton. No mere Appalachain humps or Rocky Mountain masses, these are young, proud and angular. 

As the day wore on and my 18-mile climb up Togwotee (TOGA-tee) Pass ground on, I did a roadside strip. The morning had been chilly so off came my gloves and arm warmers at one stop.  Then jacket and outer shirt a couple of miles further on. The leggings were the last to go.

Two miles from the top I overtook a young man on a mountain bike who was eating a PowerBar. He was competing in the Continental Divide race from Canada to Mexico. He was in last place but enjoying the experience. “I did it on a lark,” he said. Riders follow the Continental Divide using mountain trails 95 percent of the time. They can ride for as long as they want but must carry a SPOT GPS locator and cannot have any support. The last person has to finish within double the amount of time it takes the winner. For example, if the winner completes the course in 17 days, the last person has to finish in 34 days or he/she is pulled off the course.

As I neared the summit sand traps of snow were scattered across clearings and meadows. They closed in on each other until both roadsides were covered with snow. I was at the summit (9,685’) but I didn’t know for sure. There was no ego kick, no sign announcing the accomplishment. I asked a guy in a pick-up, “Is there any more mountain?”

“Nope, buddy, it’s all downhill for you.”

It was, all the way into Dubois. No sign but a great downhill slide.

Colter Bay Village, Grand Teton Nat’l Park, WY

Broke camp under rainy looking skies and 37 degrees. But the forecast called for only a 40 percent chance of showers, partly sky skies with a high close to 60. I stuffed myself on a breakfast buffet hoping that my delay might bring better weather. It didn’t. By the time I got into the saddle a steady very cold rain was falling. I put on virtually every piece of clothing and was still cold, especially my hands. By the time I had done 22 miles I was in need of warmth. I stopped at Flagg Ranch Information Station and asked if they had a room for the night. Fully booked. As I huddled in a chair trying to get warm, Daren, the desk clerk, called ahead to Colter Bay and found they had a single cabin available. I booked it but waited for two hours of warming before pedaling the 20 miles to get here. By the time I arrived the sun was out. Since I cut my day short I did laundry, visited the excellent Indian art museum here and ate a good meal. My cabin was built in the 1930's on a ranch near here but moved here in the '90's.

Grant Village Campground, Yellowstone Nat’l Park, WY

Right away I knew this was going to be a great day. Being the holder of the National Parks Federal Recreational Lands Pass, I slid by the poor jamokes who were sitting in their vehicles in long lines to pay entrance to Yellowstone and went to the special Pass Holders booth.

Sidebar: Anyone out there 62 or older should buy the Pass. For a one-time fee of $12 the bearer gets lifetime free entrance to all parks, recreational areas, etc. owned by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Forest Service, National Park Service, Bureau of Land Management, and Bureau of Reclamation. For you youngsters out there, hook up with a card holder before visiting any of the above facilities—the Pass allows the bearer to bring in a carload of people free.

The second good sign was that just after passing through the West entrance, I found a bungee cord lying on the roadside. Since my biking pants had popped their waist clasp this morning, I stretched it around my waist and peddled on with no fear of dropping drawers.

About 10 miles in the traffic stopped. I slid alongside on the shoulder to see what was holding things up. A bison. It was on the opposite side of the road but right there at the base of the road cut. Just eating. I stopped and took a picture and then looked to my right across a meadow. An even bigger bison was walking straight at me. I squatted down and took a couple of pictures. He crossed a stream, and continued through the meadow until he was less than 20 yards from me. Slowly I took down the flapping flag attached to my trailer, not knowing what might agitate a bison. He clambered up the embankment about 10 yards ahead of me and appeared to be about to joint his mate when he changed his mind. He went back down the embankment and grazed parallel to the road.

I can’t think of many other animals whose physical presence can only be interpreted as power. The low-hanging head, massive shoulders and virtually no neck with a bull-like rear for speed do not sends a message of friendliness. Yet, bison are very docile, I’m told. While they can run three times faster than a human they seldom do, at least in Yellowstone. They have a good life.

The massive fire of 1988 did its biggest damage in West Yellowstone, destroying hundreds of thousands of acres of forest. It is evident in the dead trunks of millions of lodge pole pines that stand as ash-gray toothpicks or lie on the forest floor like some giant’s game of Pick-Up-Sticks. New pines have taken root but at 15 feet they are but infants to their soaring parents and grandparents elsewhere in the park.

Further on white smoke poured from low cone structures in a large treeless area. I had come upon the Lower Geyser Basin. The Middle and Upper were to come. A path led to geysers, mud pots, hot springs and fumaroles. The smell of sulfur filled the air. Fumaroles hissed carbon dioxide and sulfur dioxide. Mud pots bubbled, blurped and belched like a thick pudding. The clear deep azure of a hot spring invited one to dive in but at 400 degrees that wouldn’t be wise.

Yellowstone is home to 60 percent of the world’s geysers. That’s the primary reason it was established as the world’s first national park in 1872. It has more than 10,000 thermal features because it sits upon a huge underground volcano. The biggest eruption I saw today was Old Faithful, which isn’t. No one can predict the old guy anymore; eruption intervals vary daily and yearly. Case in point: Hundreds of people gathered to watch the predicted eruption at 4:51 p.m. today. When 5:08 and still no eruption, people did several passes of the wave for entertainment. Old Faithful must have gotten the message, he blew his watery top at 5:10 and settle down by 5:13 p.m.

West Yellowstone, Montana

The day started with a 20+-mile long ride on a griddle-flat, yardstick-straight road up the Madison River Valley under a hanging somber sky. I could see at least three miles ahead. On my left knife-edged mountains rose with their cirques and arêtes dusted in snow. Across the valley on the right lay a blanket-crumple of green mountains. In between, the valley offered little but pasture. Nary a tree broke the skyline. Yet here and there a house squatted in the middle of the nothingness with nothing around it, not a tree or shrub. What is it like to live in such an exposed house when the winter storms howl up the valley?

Wal-Mart, McDonalds and Alberston’s trucks wooshed by, foretelling what perhaps lay ahead in West Yellowstone. The impact of their airwash rocked me. I’d much prefer to be bathed in the sweet piney airwash of an Oregon logging truck.

I stopped to watch a trio of fly fishermen in the Madison. They cast upstream and quickly one of them had a hit. He worked the fish for several minutes before hoisting a nice sized rainbow for his pals to see. They reminded me of two fishing friends, Jim and Matt, although I've never seen either of them land a fish.

The day ended with me once again racing to beat another downpour. Today I succeeded.

Ennis, Montana

Today was watering day. Everywhere I looked massive showers of water rained down on hay fields. This hay and cattle country. A crew of yellow-slickered ranch hands walked through one field adjusting sprinkler heads. Across the road the mantis-like arms of a pivoting irrigation system moved at a slug’s pace. When the wheels 10 lengths out moved that section 10 feet, all of the succeeding lengths down to the pivot point would move a foot less. The wheels closest to the pivot moved only inches.

I am confused. I’ve heard ranchers complain about the abnormal rains that have fallen this spring and how they’re having trouble getting into some areas because the ground is so wet. I’ve seen an uncountable number of fields flooded. Yet, I can’t count the number of times I’ve ridden in the rain by a field where the irrigation system is going full blast. The explanation I’ve been told: We water intensely now because we don’t know if it’s going to rain in July and August. Meanwhile, the newspapers report that the underground aquifer is drying up due to over usage.

Rolled into Twin Bridges and was given the basics on how to make a cowboy hat by Shelia Kirkpatrick, owner of Montana Mad Hatters www.mountainhats.com. She’s been making hats for more than 35 years. And she’s so good at it that she was elected to the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. She has customers all over the country. Just before I walked in she received orders from Pennsylvania and Virginia. Her store is also a mini museum of old cowboy hats--sweat-stained, gnawed-through, crumpled-up, stomped-on work chapeaus that span close to 100 years.

As we were ending our conversation, a herd of black steel horses roared into town. More than 40 bikers from Butte parked their rides perpendicular to the sidewalk and dismounted. Dressed head-to-toe in bad-ass black Harley gear they waddled into the bar for a 10:15 a.m. beer. To a person they could all benefit from a two-year regimen of Jenny Craig. What a TV commercial that would make—Valerie Bertinelli introducing her new slim biker friends. I enjoyed their performances as I sat in a rocking chair eating my snack.

Stopped to watch a lady from Holland pan for garnets. She was finding quite a few, all be it small ones. The garnets were in the tailings of the gold placer mines that operated along the eight-mile long Alder Gulch until the 1930’s. At one time the Gulch contained 10,000 people. Less than 100 live there now. The Gulch, which at one time must have been pretty, is now just miles of piles of mechanically deposited rocks. Depressing.

Nevada City and Virginia City are to the Old West what Williamsburg is to Colonial America. Nevada City was created by a couple who in the 1930’s saw the need to preserve some of the original frontier buildings. Their efforts have since been taken over by the State of Montana which operates the site a living museum. It has been used as the set for “Little Big Man,” “Missouri Breaks,” Return to Lonesome Dove,” and several other movies. The entire town of Virginia City was also preserved by a philanthropic couple but it has a more commercial edge.

I finished the day grinding up an unnamed pass beyond Virginia City. The higher I went the more ominous the clouds became. Out here, where to can see forever, you can see weather approaching from 10’s of miles away, and I saw some viciously dark clouds. As I started my descent thunder rolled and a strap of lightening went earthward to my left. Riding a steel bicycle made me peddle like a mad man. A cold pelting rain hit me as the terrain flattened out about 4 miles out from here. Luckily, I didn’t hear any more thunder or see lightening, but still pedaled as if my life depended on it. I pulled into the first motel I saw and was greeted with a “No vacancy” sign. Fishing season in high gear, a wedding, some big dance in Virginia City and a car cruise-in filled the town’s motels, the manager said. As he picked up the phone to call other motels to see if they had a room, the rain turned to marble-sized hail. It came down with such fury that it stopped semis. Within minutes the ground was white. Then it let up but only to return with equal fury a few minutes later. “We’re used to getting hail in some of our afternoon storms but this is the most intense I’ve seen in a long time,” the manager said. He found me a room and during a period of relent I scooted here just ahead of a third dumping.

Dillon, Montana

A chorus of birds sang me out of Wisdom as I headed up the Big Hole Valley. On either side of me stretched vast pastures running to mountains draped in snow. It was a crystalline morning. One of the joys of being out early anywhere is hearing and seeing wildlife starting the day. A sandhill crane croaked. A killdeer ran screaming from my approach. An osprey cried out from its nest as it flapped its wings but remained put. There were chirps, chutters, whistles, coos, caws and sing-songs from birds I couldn’t identify, some in brilliant plumage of orange, yellow, red or blue, others in more mundane dress of brown or black. Although normally highly skittish, two pronghorn antelopes remained sitting facing the rising morning sun and let me pass less than 50 yards away. And as far as I could see black and red Angus cattle dotted the landscape. Overhead I heard a hawk screech. It escorted me down the road about a mile.

Prairie dogs dashed to the middle of highway for several miles of my ride up the valley. They sat and looked at my approach. As I got closer they would scurry into their roadside burrows. “How can you be so bold or foolish to expose yourselves that way with hawks all around?” I asked myself. At one point five of them lined up one after another for about 150 yards .They all appeared to be looking my way. As I pedaled closer to the first one, he dashed to his burrow. Out of nowhere a hawk swooped down and plucked the last prairie dog off the pavement. At the moment of impact the victim screeched and his brethren zipped to their holes. I stopped in amazement and followed the hawk as it flew to a far fence post where it tore into its road food.

Jackson, 18 miles up the valley, offered a brief respite. Despite having a population of only 38, it draws people to its hot springs. Lewis and Clark soaked in them and even cooked meat in the hottest one. I rode on.

At the top of Big Hole Pass (7,360) I stopped to rest and look back on what I had accomplished. An information marker stated that I could see more than 400 square miles of the Big Hole Valley. Save for the single ranch that I could see the Valley was little changed from when the Corps of Discovery first saw it.

Wisdom, Montana

As I said goodbye to Cassie and Tim I looked at the Bitterroots. The top one third of them where dusted with snow that wasn’t there yesterday. It was as if someone had taken a ruler and drawn a line along the entire range and said: Snow falls above this, no snow below it. It was a cold ride to Darby where I tucked in for breakfast.

I asked the waitress what Darby’s claim to fame was: “Dumb Larry, the town cop.” Seems several years ago David Letterman was driving through Darby at 27 miles an hour. Larry ticketed him for going 2 miles per hour over the limit. “Letterman let Larry and Darby have it on his TV show for the next week,” she said. “Larry catches you doing 25.5 miles per hour he’ll ticket you.”

As I mounted my bike and started to ride Larry cruised by.

Darby has two other claims to some fame. Country singer and composer Hoyt Axton lived in Darby. His most famous composition was “Joy To the World” sung by Three Dog Night. Side note: His mother co-wrote Elvis’s “Heartbreak Hotel.”

The other claim is Jimmy “The Hatman” Harrison. He makes mostly cowboy hats but even Guatemalan fine palm leaf hats. He sells them to the like of Garth Brooks, Emmylou Harris, Willy Nelson and anyone else willing to pay between $425 and $2,500 for his creation. Sells between 300 and 400 a year and has even shipped at the Antarctic.

The ride up Lost Trail and Chief Joseph Passes (6,990 and 7,241, respectively) was not fun because the higher I went the deeper into the snow I went. (They had plowed the passes in the early morning.) But at least the effort kept me warm. I stopped at the visitor’s hut at the top for a free cup of coffee and ate some Powerbars. It was the decent that nearly got me—rushing down wet, not-sure-if-there-might-be-black-ice-spots, my fingers going numb from the cold, trying to navigate through the snow and small icicles forming on my helmet brim. After about five miles I got below the snow line and came into a lovely narrow valley. My spirits lifted when I spotted four elks grazing alongside a stream. I stopped. Three of them looked at me, one dashed into the trees. We enjoyed each other’s company until a bus came roaring past. They took to the woods. My animal count on my way into Wisdom included two more elk, two mule deer, 15 Sandhill cranes, a fox, and two Pronghorn antelope.

I chided myself for all my negative thoughts going up and down the passes. If I hadn’t done that work I would not have been so rewarded. Those are one of the joys I get from moving at a human-powered pace.

I’m in a warm motel tonight looking at snow-dusted mountains.

Hamilton, Montana

Easy ride down the Bitterroot Valley to Hamilton, except for the rain. I travelled on a wonderful 16-mile bike path that parallels the busy SR93. On either side of me rose mountain ranges—the Bitterroots on the left, the Sapphires on the right. Across the entire valley hung a white sheet of clouds.

As the going was easy and mechanical, my mind took flight and soon I was a 10-year-old under the sheets of my bed at night with a flashlight playing with my toy soldiers. One side of my bed valley was controlled by the goodies, the opposite side by the enemy. At least until one of my parents peaked their head in the door to see if I was sleeping.

My reality check this day came as I passed a sign on a property fence that read: Big Sky Beetle Works. I stopped and thought that it must be a VW repair shop. But way out here? And the sign had a picture of a beetle, not a VW Bug. I rode down the dirt lane and yelled: “Hullo!?” I was greeted by Tracy Hass and he son Sawyer. Tracy explained that they raised dermestid beetles, which are carrion eaters. The bugs are used to clean the skulls of deer, elk, buffalo, wolves, anything. “We remove the eyes and brains first because they are poisonous to beetles,” she said. Each skull is placed in a stainless steel pan. The beetles do their thing in humidity- and temperature- controlled room which has a horrendous smell when the door is opened. “We’re just speeding up what takes place naturally in the wild,” she said. A deer skull will be cleaned in 3 days. The skull is then placed in a special solution of hydrogen peroxide for three days. The result is a brilliant white skull that can be used in taxidermy or put on display by itself.

They have customers in 42 states. Three very big alligator skulls sat on the floor awaiting shipment back to their respective owners.

Haas also specializes in analyzing bear and wolf scat (poop).

In Hamilton I stopped at the Ravalli County Museum. What caught my eye were models of two ticks 32 times natural size. When you turned the handle to see the dorsal and ventral sides an eerie sound was created. Is that the sound of a tick?

Why ticks? Because it was scientists at the Rocky Mountain Institute, now part of the National Institutes of Health, in Hamilton who discovered the vaccine to combat Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. At one point, 77% of people afflicted with Spotted Fever died.

The spent the night at the home of Cassie and Tim Buhl. We connected through www.warmshowers.org, an international online community of bike riders who offer fellow travelers a free place to stay for the night. Cassie develops vaccines at RMI, Tim is a nurse at the Hamilton hospital. That’s what they do so they can “live,” as they say. With backgrounds as rafting guides, ski and kayak instructors, managing. rafting companies, finish carpentry, cooking at a lodge in Alaska, and a zillion other things, they spend all their free time outdoors.

Tim was planning two trips: A climb of Mt. Rainer this July, and a backcountry ski adventure in February to a Canadian lodge and ski area that can only be reached by helicopter.

They took me to meet a friend who operates a bike shop, Red Barn Bike Shop, in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere. Somehow he pulls it off. His specialty is building custom mountain bikes.

We went to the local brewery Bitter Root Brewing. I paid for a round of beers for all of us and bought Cassie and Tim a growler full of their favorite beer. We trashed our beer cards as we left. At home, Cassie made a wonderful meal with vegetables from their weekly allotment from a nearby organic cooperative.

Missoula, Montana

My layover day was enjoyable and needed. Missoula’s wide streets, low buildings, river -side location, and well-preserved turn-of-the-century structures give it a relaxing, comfortable, walking atmosphere. Being the home of the University of Montana there’s a vitality created by the college students. My first stop of the day was at the Adventure Cycling Association, the group that creates the maps I’m using on my ride. They serve many other purposes but the primary one is to support and encourage bicycle touring.

The moment I stepped in the door I was greeted by that day’s “official greeter.” After taking my picture and posting it on the wall of the riders who have stopped by, he took me on a tour of the facility which ended in the room “only for touring riders.” There I could drink as many sodas and eat as much ice cream as I wanted while using a computer. Perhaps seeing a glutinous glint in my eye, Kevin said that the previous Friday a rider had eaten six ice creams. I demurely took one and departed.

The rest of the day was spent going to the art and natural history museums, wandering through art galleries, lounging in a book store and eating a day-old (cheap) muffin with my coffee at a java joint.

Having come from Beervana (Oregon) and travelled through the hopless wasteland of central Idaho, I needed a good brew. I walked across the river to the Kettle House Brewing Co. eager for some good beer and food. What I found was the idiocy of Montana liquor laws and the power of the tavern lobby.

When I asked for a pint of Joe Bong Porter I was handed the beer but also a dated beer card stating “Beer 1, Beer 2, Beer.” Beer 1 was circled. Montana law (16-3-213) states that a brewery can serve a maximum of 48 ounces of beer per customer per day and only until 8 p.m. Seems the tavern lobby, having been in place since the West was opened up, got the legislature to declare breweries as tasting rooms. Three beers and you’re out by 8 p.m. If you want to serve your own beer and food, you have to get cabaret license, very expensive, and you must offer gaming machines. Taverns can serve beer, wine and liquor and operate at almost at any time.

As a result, everybody was standing around drinking and talking loudly as if it was a frat party. This old croaker felt out of place, downed his beer quickly and went looking for a restaurant.

Missoula, Montana

My day of stupidity.

Got an early start to summit Lolo Pass. Traced the river upward under postcard skies. Stopped about 10 a.m. for breakfast at Lochsa Lodge in at the Powell Ranger Station. Although I had been climbing since leaving Kooskia, it had been about a continuous 2% elevation. Now it increased to 6%. Finally summitted and decided I’d try for Missoula since my map showed it was basically 47 miles all downhill to here. In short, they were a long 47-miles and not all downhill. I dragged in here about 4:30 p.m. (I gained an hour when I crossed into MT) pretty beaten up. Before getting a room I had a bike shop install a new chain set (all those teethy things on the rear wheel hub) and chain. The old set was worn, resulting in sloppy shifting and the chain had stretched. After collapsing in my room I realized I had done 99 miles. No wonder I felt exhausted, weak and not too steady. Following a shower, I stumbled around and found a brew pub where I drained two Moose Drools in quick order.

I’ll lay over here tomorrow to let my body recover and to let the lesson of pushing too hard sink.

Tra la, tra la.

Wilderness Gateway Campground along SR 12

What a day! I left Grangeville despondent over Dee leaving but before long the wonders of the road changed everything.

Going down into Kooskia I met another cyclist going up. Paul, from New Zealand, was closing in on covering 10,000 miles on his bike! And you thought I was weird! He landed at LAX last November 9^th, assembled his bike and headed south to San Diego, then across to Key West. He went as far north as Richmond before picking up the TransAmerica route. He’ll ride to Astoria, up into Washington then go east to the Cascades where he will ride a newly created route down the mountain range into Mexico. There he’ll turn north to finish in LAX at the end of his one-year visa.

“Gawd, this is a beautiful country,” he said. “And so damn big.” What’s impressed him more has been the hospitality he has received. In Booneville, KY the bank wouldn’t help him get money from his New Zealand bank account because he wasn’t a customer. Not knowing what to do, he went to the sheriff for advice/assistance. The town clerk took over and soon Paul had his money. He said police have been particularly helpful, guiding him to motels when it has been raining, pulling alongside asking if everything’s OK and driving in front of him to show him a confusing route through a community.

The ride on SR 12 up to Lolo Pass along the Middle Fork of the Clearwater River is achingly beautiful. On my left were muffin-shaped mountains with light green frosting. Across the river on my right sharp green arrowheads of towering pines covered the mountains down to the waterline.

Coming out of Syringa I rode through a snowstorm of cottonwood fluff that banked itself in the weeds.

A man and his son called up the bank to me from the Lochsa (LOOK-saw) River, a tributary of the Clearwater. They wanted to know where I was riding from and to. They were out for a day of fishing and just being together. The father, who said he travels extensively in his work, said he loves Idaho and is trying to make sure that his son, about 12, understands how special a place it is. Someday he wants to ride across country with his son.

Further up, the river was taken over by whitewater rafters. Groups of 5 to 7 hooted, hollered and yelled as they splashed through the rapids. They were followed by highly-skilled kayakers who pirouetted, did 360s, flipped end-over-end and rode waves backwards in the froth.

After touring a ranger station from the 1920’s, I decided that I’d pull in here as the next campground is 30 miles up the valley. I’m nestled in a site and will test my hammock for the first time. I walked toward some music that I heard not too far off. Seems I stumbled into a 30-year tradition—anybody who wants to can come and play or just listen and dance at the campground pavilion all week. Tonight is the first night and the musicians and audience build during the week so that by next Saturday there will close to 300. The songs are old Country-Western along the lines of: “I’ve got those smoking cigarette and deadly coughing blues.” The musicians are playing for their enjoyment and the audience appreciates that, even to the point where a woman with an oxygen bottle drags it out onto the dance floor with her partner.

I still miss Dee.

Grangeville, Idaho

Easy day—22 miles. Climbed 12 miles up White Bird Hill. The route was magnificient—dozens of switchbacks with long-reaching views of the canyon leading down to White Bird. A deer and her fawn watched me roll slowly up hill. Overhead a hawk spiraled upwards on the rising thermals. A pair of chukars scuttles across part of the road before taking flight. Coming down the north side into Grangeville I expected a repeat of the southern landscape—large, loaf-like mountains (called hills around here) creased with deep stream-cut canyons. Rolling down into Grangeville we were greeted by a huge, table-flat verdant valley with 10-story silos punctuating the skyline.

We’re here to prepare for our split. Tomorrow Dee will head back to CT via car. I’ll continue heading that way but a dramatically slower pace. She has to return to take care of Annie and Oakley, our two rescue cats. Danny, our house sitter, landed a summer camp counselor job and will move out June 16. The day before our downstairs tenant, Win, will move to take care of her ailing mother. I will miss Dee desperately. It has been wonderful sharing this voyage with her. It’s fun to see how another person views the same experiences. She has been a marvelous psychological support when my spirits began to wane. Now that she has seen me handle a variety of situations and terrains she is more at ease with this crazy dream of mine. Knowing that she was sitting at the summit of a climb with a snack or lunch has been a tremendous motivator. I’ll retain that practice, i.e., stopping, resting and noshing, at the culmination of a hard slog.

White Bird, Idaho

Spent the day riding along the scary Idaho 95 as it followed the Little Salmon River north. Stopped for a cup of coffee at a small general merchandise/café store south of Riggins. Over mugs of coffee I asked the store owner if the café-au-lait-colored river running outside his back door was good for catching salmon. “Yeah, it’s sending a good scent down river to where the salmon are pooling,” he said. Returning salmon pool in huge groups at the mouth of the Salmon River awaiting to receive the correct scent from their mouth water source. “If you don’t get good spring rains like this, you don’t get a good scent down-stream to draw them back to where they were spawned,” he said. The benefit of having his store sitting on the river’s bank is that he can have a salmon on the grill within 10 minutes of catching it. I thanked him for the conversation and asked how much for the coffee. “37 cents,” he said.

Further down the road the shoulder along the river was jammed with pickups. Paul Oatman, a Nez Perce, was camped with some friends and his two children along the Rapid River. The Rapid joined the Little Salmon about 500 yards downstream. Only Native Americans can fish the Rapid. And only they can use nets or gaffs on long poles to catch salmon. The non-Native fishermen on the Little Salmon have to use poles. Oatman sells his catch as fresh and smoked. “I have customers who come over from Oregon.”

South of Lucile I encountered a miner about to enter his mine dug into the road cut. He was working a gold mine that was opened in 1895 but abandoned until the recent rise in the price of gold. “Oh, I pick at it and then sluice it,” he said. He showed me seven small nuggets he had mined. Didn’t want to comment t on their value but he harangued me for 20 minutes about “them liars” in Washington and how you can’t believe any government employee, be they city, county, state, or federal. I left as he launched into a discussion about church steeples being phallic symbols.

Tra la, tra la.

New Meadows, Idaho

Today is a semi-rest day of only 48 miles. Started out chilly and got cold in the mountains. Ran into rain on the climb over Blue Bunch Ridge. I could see my breath and thought, for a moment, that I might encounter sleet.

The route is along ID 95, a main north-south thoroughfare with no shoulder. I have to contend with semis, logging trucks and regular vehicular traffic. This has been complicated with the movement of over-sized objects such as D7Caterpillars needed to repair all of the washouts. Sharing the road with all of them in a cold rain on a narrow road made for a harrowing ride.

When I finally came out of the rain and was on a flat, I saw, as I’ve seen all along, horses, cattle, sheep, llamas, and alpacas lift their heads as I pass. They stare as I pass and I can’t help wonder if they, being ruminants, are ruminating about this creature passing before them. “Hey, look guys, a lime-yellow wheeler. That’s the fourth one we’ve seen in two weeks. It must be their migration season. That means summer will soon be here.”

Cambridge, Idaho

Plunged into Hell today and wound up running from it. Hells Canyon, the deepest schism in the North American crust, created images of sharp-sided canyon walls, darkness and a stark landscape in my mind. Adding to my pre-ride anxiety was the warning from the locals about the “really big climb” out of the canyon on the Idaho side.

The canyon was spectacular but not in my imagined manner of Tim Burton. The canyon sides ranged to the sky, way, way up there. They were soft, almost loaf-like and from the distance of the canyon floor covered with green velveteen.

We crossed into ID at Brownlee Dam, changed our watches to Mountain Time, and I started a 13-mile climb to Brownlee Summit (4,131’).What a sight to see Dee at the top. She had set up two folding chairs by the roadside where we lunched surveying the summit.

The route followed the course of Brownlee Creek as it plunged down into Hell’s Canyon. Like all the other rivers, creeks, rivulets, etc. we’ve encountered in Eastern Oregon and this part of Idaho, the Brownlee was straining it banks. Whole trees, root balls intact, clogged portions of the flow. Large dam-like debris dumps of trees, branches, weeds and rocks slow the waters’ flow. There has been so much once-in-a-life time flooding that the state are applying for federal disaster aid.

As I headed down the mountain, a murderously dark gray cloud rose above me. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A few rain drops splashed my face. I leaned over the handlebars, a la the racing pros, and sped downward. On the flats coming into Cambridge I pedaled like a madman and made it just to a motel just in time. The Brits were not so lucky; they were pummeled by the storm.

We were in the Salubrious Valley, so named by an emigrant in the 1830s who declared the area to be “salubrious.” Up sprang the town of Salubria, ID. Along came a railroad company wanting to serve the valley. It bought track rights through ranches until it ran into one obstinate land owner. He woman refused to sell so the railroad company relocated its track. Within a couple of years Salubrious had died, there is nothing left of it today, not even a rock, and Cambridge was created along the railroad line. This we learned at the impressive little Cambridge museum.

Halfway, Oregon

Dee is across the road pulling up grass and feeding it to the horses and cattle. More accurately, to the horses. The cattle gallomped in retreat as she approached. Now they’re standing about 20 yards away looking at her offering from the other side of the fence, the side they can’t reach. But unlike the horses, they can’t seem to figure out that she is offering them something they’ve stretched their necks for.

About a quarter mile away in a large covered arena six teenagers are learning how to rope a cow. The instructor pulls a dummy cow on a sled while a student races after it, rope a ‘twirling over their head. When it’s not their turns, four of the girls dare each other by standing in their saddles and dancing.

Don’t know where Halfway is from or to but it’s an attractive town of about 400 souls in a valley with the Willowa Mountains wearing shawls of snow in the background. They’re a religious sort; a sign at the town’s entrance list four different denomination churches. There must be some fierce preaching each Sunday to maintain each church’s membership. They are so proud of their graduating high school seniors that each senior has his/her own light-pole picture banner.

This is the very dry side of Oregon, at least it usually is. If we had arrived two days ago we would not have been able to continue due to historic flooding. According to the locals, an unusually light winter snow pack turned into a very big one in late March and early April. Then the weather turned warm and started the snow melt. When that was combined with last week’s massive rains, the flood came. One woman I talked to said she was trapped in her ranch, due to road washouts, for a week. Massive dump trucks have rumbled past me for days. Now I know why. I was hoping to visit an acquaintance that lives in Joseph, OR, north of Halfway. The road leading to Joseph has been closed for several days due to numerous washouts.

Rode up on two Brits, brothers, who are doing the same TransAmerica route. They hope to end in Yorktown, VA, the route’s end, by July 31. Very aggressive schedule. They’ve toured all over Europe and decided the next adventure would be across America. One of the brothers, a 51-year-old retired Oxford police detective, makes all the plans. He has made some online police friends over here. The new acquaintances have invited the duo to visit them on their trip. They stopped at an Oregon officer’s house the day before yesterday. He took them out shooting after showing them his arsenal of 31 guns. One of the guns they fired was an AK47. In his 30 years as a British police officer Alan never handled or fired a gun. He remarked on the number of shot-through road signs they’ve seen. “Does everybody in America own a gun?” he asked.

John Day, Oregon

Up and over Keys Creek Pass under threatening skies that hung around all day but offered no rain. Spent most of the day looking agog at the towering bluffs and snow-caped mountains that surrounded me. The route followed the John Day River, which is close to spilling its banks due to the snow melt and unusual rain. After riding through Picture Gorge I stopped to read a sign about it. It’s named for the 8,000-year-old pictographs found there, not the amazing canyon created by the river. At the sign I struck up a conversation with an 82-year-old man on his way to Alaska. His wife died in October from lung cancer and his children convinced him to take his long-desired trip. So, he bought a new Ford F-150 and a used slide-in cabin. “Oh, I’ve been to Alaska before but that was when I was in the Coast Guard on an ice breaker. Never did get ashore so I’m going to now,” he said. Got into John Day and Dee had laid out our evening noshes—cheese, crackers, wine and beer. Wonderful having her along.

Tra la, tra la.

Mitchell, Oregon

Crystalline day for riding. Cool temperatures, light breezes and sunny skies. Had to summit Ochoco Pass at 4,720 feet. The lady at the Prineville Visitor’s Center described it as steep with two false summits. Turned out to be a piece of cake made easier by riding up on a doctor from Clifton Forge, VA. We traded life stories (he did most of the talking) and our reasons for riding aand that took our minds off the climbs, which weren’t very bad anyway. He started in Seattle and will pull off in Denver top head back to work in the small hospital where he’s an internist. Also has a PhD in oceanography and has worked at the Scripps Institute and with Robert Ballard. I basically kept my mouth shut after giving him my basics. At the summit we stopped to snack and two guys from Colorado pulled up. They were heading to a week-long accordian camp. “If you had an RV you could travel to a different accordion camp every week of the year,” the older gentleman said. We screamed down the pass seven miles into Mitchell, which is described as the last authentic cowboy town in Oregon. While Dr. Crandall lunched at the Little Pine Café, Dee and I picnicked across the street in Lion’s Park along Bridge Creek.

We decided to make it a short day and got a room at the Oregon Hotel, which has been here since 1930. We’re in a two-bed room at the end of the hall. Linoleum floor, bare wood walls and ceiling, 1930s furnishings and a small sink. Down the hallway are the restrooms-men’s and ladies’, plus a bathing room with a claw-foot tub. The ladies’ room has a shower but no such luck for the men. After settling in we drove back up the route six miles to visit the Painted Hills. Amazing. Georgia O’Keefe-looking naturally occurring creations. The photos will show you.

(A historic hotel might initially be charming but not when the two guys in the neighboring room talk well into the night and you can hear every word since interior insulation was not thought of in the 1930s.)

Went into General Mercantile store for sodas when we got back and were greeted by the owner dressed in Carhart bib overalls and a gimee hat with his feet up on a chair playing banjo. He only stopped playing when we were ready to check out. He said with his other job with the state he has even more time to practice.

Prineville, Oregon

It’s amazing how the weather and geography changes east of the Cascades. While some rain fell in Sisters it was nothing compared to that endured on the western side. So, the ride to Prineville today was lovely. This is the land of ponderosa pines and sagebrush. After talking to a clerk at the Sisters bike shop I took a back-roads route to Prineville rather than the one recommended by the Adventure Cycling Association. It was fairly flat through valleys cupped by bluffs. Breathed in the lovely aromatic of dew drying on the sage and ponderosa. D and John, passed a ranch raising Andalusian and Lusitano horses. Rode past beef, wheat, organic vegetables and alpaca farms. Lovely. Met Dee for a Subway lunch in Prineville before heading 8 miles east to our resting sight at Lake Ochoco Campground on the shores of Ochoco Reservoir. We had the campground to ourselves save for one RV family. Cold but restful and dry night.