We wound up staying at Bruces' in Missoula for almost three days. The last night we cooked a big meal of pasta and took it easy. Monday morning we visited the headquarters for the Adventure Cycling Association. The ACA is the organization that put together the routes we are following across the country. It started in the 1970's and the headquarters is something of a Mecca for bicycle tourists. We got our picture taken and hung up in the ACA office, as is custom, and headed out of Missoula with Idaho in our sights.
The Trans America route out of Montana follows a series of rivers and streams and is flanked by endless boreal forest through the Bitterroot Mountains. Moose-xing warnings are painted on the road in multiple places. We never expected to actually see a moose, especially where the xing signs were placed, but apparently Montana transportation was not kidding when they painted the warnings. At the second moose-xing warning I noticed Brady and Ryan had stopped. Ahead of them seemed to be one of those black cut-outs shaped like the profile of a bull moose. After three to four seconds the profile moved. I didn't think it was real because it was too dark--light disappeared into its jet-black hide. As we approached the moose took off through a wetland and then up a steep, sandy hillside into the piney hills. It was startled but it moved with the agility of an all-pro lineman.
Since Missoula we have a new travel buddy. Jess caught up with us at Bruce's place and she has been with us the past week. We're all headed the same direction. She's from Texas, lives in San Francisco, and quit her job to pedal across the country. Besides her good company she teaches us Spanish and laughs at our jokes. We are happy to have her!
Monday night we stayed in a quaint campground on the Lochsa River called Whitehorse. We set up among the cedars and fished and bathed in the river. I was able to catch a small rainbow trout which we smoked over the fire--it turned out to be delicious.
We have been hearing from bicyclists since Minnesota that the border between Montana and Idaho at Lolo Pass is hotspring territory. We hit up a couple--Jerry Johnson and Weir hotsprings. So relaxing. We went back and forth between the ice cold river and the hot little pools. The surrounding area was northern Idaho national forest. Ponderosa pine, Cedar and Hemlock for miles. The scenery was beautiful but repetitive--like being stuck in the same pretty postcard. As we biked, each turn in the road yielded more forest-covered mountains, rivers and streams. That night we camped at Wild Goose campground on the Clearwater river. Oddly enough it had a white sand beach--an unsuspected oasis in the middle of this endless boreal forest we found ourselves in.
The next day held the toughest climb we've done this trip. After the town of Kooskia our route headed up Lamb Grade road--an obvious misnomer because the road climbs a few thousand feet in less than ten miles. We walked a good part of it. It was that or bonk-out on the steep hillside. Thankfully, there was a farm about half way up with a water spigot and barn that offered some shade. It was one of those situations where you just stumble into the yard without caring about property or permission and just start drinking water from the tap. Ryan eventually talked to the lady who owned the place. He told her our situation as she watered her plants. All she really said was: "You haven't even made it to the steep part, yet." Cool. Before the end of the climb I was driven to sing the blues--not for fun but because of the blues original purpose--to relieve suffering. It helped.
Brady had left for the climb a little earlier than the rest of us. On his way some farmer in a truck rolled up next to him and said: "You took a bad way." "Well no shit!" Brady said back to him. He made it up the hill a good hour before we would. Brady said at one point he closed his eyes and entered a different state of mind and was able to pedal up the rest of the hill.
If the top of that mountain was not as beautiful as it turned out to be I would have called adventure cycling and yelled at them. It was covered in golden fields of wheat whose dry stems tinkled against one another like tiny wind-chimes on the gusty summit. The outline of mountains and pine forest drew the horizon line behind us and ahead of us the winds brought rain clouds, cumulous clouds and blueskies. We stayed in Grangeville that night after a 45 mile ride--it felt like 100.
Brady had left for the climb a little earlier than the rest of us. On his way some farmer in a truck rolled up next to him and said: "You took a bad way." "Well no shit!" Brady said back to him. He made it up the hill a good hour before we would. Brady said at one point he closed his eyes and entered a different state of mind and was able to pedal up the rest of the hill.
If the top of that mountain was not as beautiful as it turned out to be I would have called adventure cycling and yelled at them. It was covered in golden fields of wheat whose dry stems tinkled against one another like tiny wind-chimes on the gusty summit. The outline of mountains and pine forest drew the horizon line behind us and ahead of us the winds brought rain clouds, cumulous clouds and blueskies. We stayed in Grangeville that night after a 45 mile ride--it felt like 100.
The next day we descended into canyon lands. The ride down the backside of that steep butte we climbed the day before was just payment for our suffering. We buzzed down the switchbacked road into the wide open west. A startled red-tailed hawk screeched over the golden brown hills flecked with shrubs, bare stone and small farms. I want to call this our most beautiful ride but I know that is not true. By now we've learned that each state and ride can be beautiful in its own way but this ride certainly made a deeper impression than most. At times it felt as if we were in a Louis Lamore novel or, when there was garbage or broken down cars on the side of the road, one of those ironically beautiful dystopian future films. That night we stealth-camped next to creek and a lone ponderosa pine in a vacant lot. We made a good supper on the rocks beside the stream to prevent us from setting the state on fire. Later we slept under the stars picking out satellites and shooting stars before we drifted off.
The next day we made our way to Cambridge, Idaho, in record time, for a 75 mile day. We promptly got a couple pitchers at the only bar in town. Eventually, we mustered up enough courage to push on to Oregon which was on the other side of Hell's Canyon but only 30 miles away. The locals assured us that we wouldn't see any cars. It was cold. Shooting stars streaked overhead and deer rustled in the bushes. We climbed the canyon. Roy and Jess wound up sleeping in the ditch at the top but Brady and I continued on. Descending into the canyon felt like it took forever. The road would descend and then plain-out and then disappear into the black hills. We were literally descending into Hell ('s Canyon). Besides the one, enormous black cow standing in the road we had the pavement to ourselves. We slept in Oregon that night, under the state sign.
After a brief nights sleep we pedaled through the infamous Hell's Canyon. It's a bizarre place. You're lucky if the temperature is under 100 degrees this time of year. The copper colored canyon walls mask your field of view and in the bottom of the canyon sits a deep turquoise colored lake. The road sits on the edge of the canyon wall not far from the lake. There are hundreds of black berry bushes and fruit trees we didn't know the names of them but we ate 'em, anyways. Carp swam lazily in the warm shallows beneath the fruit trees waiting for the ripened treasures to fall. We took a lot of naps that day but made it to Richland, Oregon where we camped at a city park under a pavilion.
The next day we made it to Baker City, Oregon. Baker city is on the old Oregon trail the European settlers and homesteaders took to reach California. We crossed a 60 mile, hot, boring, dirt-dry sagebrush kingdom of long rolling hills to get there. Barely a single hospitable building on the route. It's one of those "can't hide anywhere" stretches of road where shade is as rare as water and vegetation doesn't get much higher than the matchstick fence posts that line the endless fields of sage and dirt. Baker city, in it's green, irrigated little valley beside the Elkhorn mountains was a welcome sight. We felt grateful like the old settlers. Little Roy hadn't caught a whiff of the cholera and nobody got bit by a rattle snake foraging for berries. Happy travelers.
Tonight we're in a little town called Dayville at a Presbyterian church that takes in cyclists. We pulled in as a small lightning storm coalesced over the town. It wasn't long before the lightning lit the hills on fire surrounding the town. We can still hear the helicopters and fire trucks. The fire is pretty much kaput but it was burning for two hours.
Big day tomorrow--two mountain passes and 80 miles to our next goal.
Tonight we're in a little town called Dayville at a Presbyterian church that takes in cyclists. We pulled in as a small lightning storm coalesced over the town. It wasn't long before the lightning lit the hills on fire surrounding the town. We can still hear the helicopters and fire trucks. The fire is pretty much kaput but it was burning for two hours.
Big day tomorrow--two mountain passes and 80 miles to our next goal.
Pretty soon we'll be in Portland visiting our friend Molly!
Thanks, for reading.
Jerry Johnson Hotsprings
Post Lamb Grade Photos
Amber waves of grain
Roy, shootin' "the west" before the beautiful descent.
Stealth camping on the vacant lot.
Damn, dirty banjo-lands or the so-hot-you-don't-flick-the-fly-off-your-big-toe lands
"The world is a book and those who do not travel read one page at a time." Stay safe and have fun.
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