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 9th, 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.
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