We are in low spirits, dear readers, as we reach you tonight from Unity, Oregon. Calamity befell us 20 miles east of here when Bonesy broke a spoke on the drive side of her rear wheel. We each carry spares, and they're easy enough to replace... when they're not on the drive side. For that (this) you need to remove the cassette, which requires a special wrench. Judging by the tone of this post, intuitive readers, do you think we have such a wrench? Of course not, which is stupid. So anyway, thanks be that this happened in one of the two towns we rode through during today's 65 desert miles: we just happened to be in front of the Nicest Lady in the World's house. TNLitW gave us cookies and drove Bonesy and her bike to this campround. She also invited us to church tomorrow morning, which we declined.
Then the people here were really nice and offered to take us to the nearest real town on their grocery run tomorrow, but one of the two shops in that town just closed down and the other's owner's out of town. So tomorrow they're going to take us to Mount Vernon, where we have tentative Warm Showers hosts who might, we hope wildly, have the tools we need. Otherwise I might hitch it into Bend with Bonesy's wheel -- we're just not sure. It's frustrating that even with so many people being so willing to help we're still kind of screwed.
Also, I'm bummed out that at least tomorrow's leg is going to be by car -- it grinds my gears that we'll now have ridden Almost the whole way from Burlington to Crescent City. It felt, too, like we were building some good momentum after my convalescence: today we broke into Pacific time, passed the 500 miles-to-go mark, and did some fun climbing out of the hot, flat, and boring "Treasure Valley." At least tomorrow is a vacation day, kind of.
Ride on.
Saturday, July 30
Friday, July 29
Day 67: Oregon, Baby, Gone
The promised land looks a lot like Idaho did, but being the promised land it is infinitely more bearable. We are in Vale, OR, and when we stand on Main Street, we stand on the actual historical Oregon Trail. There are also some trees, which is nice because it's very hot (and will be even hotter tomorrow). We hear that in addition to trees there are 28 murals celebrating the town's history, but so far have only seen one of these. Last night in Caldwell we went to the Canyon County fair and saw some goats and ate ice cream and listened to a man covering Hank Williams, Jr. songs.[insert wry observations tempered by sincere appreciation for the earnestness and tradition and community experience, etc.]
When we got to this campground and asked for a tent site, the woman was like "ahhh, tent sites-- not my favorite..." which was curious, because she was otherwise very friendly. I felt bad, but it would've been silly for us to take a pull through site with a 50-amp hook-up.
Ride on.
Monday, July 25
Day 62: In which I am Laid Low by Heat Exhaustion (PHOTOS)
Boy oh Boise, readers, do we have a blog post for you! This because we are laid up in a motel and I am too weak to go downstairs, let alone outside, and so basically what little energy I have can be devoted to this report.
First off, Bonesy has uploaded many fine photographs. See them by clicking the link above!
Now to a description of the last 43 miles of yesterday's ride: grueling. We took off from Mountain Home feeling pretty fine, and were just zipping along the freeway for the first ten miles - actually, I should say that I, personally, zipped for 10 miles before stopping under the first overpass and looking back down the road to find no Bonesy in sight. Bonesy, it turned out, had only zipped for eight miles before getting a flat, and I was too busy playing drinking games to notice (we don't carry camelbacks because of the long days in the saddle, so I have to remind myself to drink water on hot days. Say every time a yellow car passes, or every mile marker. It can get pretty engrossing when we're in the desert). So I rode back with our only pump and patch kit to find an understandably distraught Bonesy just sizzling on the shoulder, two miles from shade and able only to wait for me. Evidently she had tried to flag people down so they could tell me what had happened, and no one stopped. 100 degrees, middle of nowhere, and no one stops for a cute young woman in distress? Outrageous. What threat could she pose? So obviously this situation had her a little rattled, and then by the time I fixed the flat the wind was figuratively out of our sails and physically in our faces.
We stopped at the one rest area on the way to Boise, and sat under an awning and the hills across the interstate reminded us of that Hemingway story:
"It's hot," she said.
The man brought iced tea. She shook the bottle. She drank. The iced tea was cold.
He looked at the hills. There were no trees. The wind blew up dust from the pavement.
"This reminds me of Hemingway," he said.
It was very hot.
Actually, literate readers, old Ernest shot himself in a cabin not 100 miles from that spot, now that I think of it. And yes, I know that neither he nor his characters ever had an iced tea without at least two fingers of rum in it, but there you are.
Asides aside, Bonesy seemed to really turn it around from there on, picking up her cadence and her head for the push into town. I, it should be noted for eventual dramatic effect, felt great. A little hazy, sure, but limber and energetic and certainly not "exhausted." All that given that we were riding a century in high heat, of course, which sort of throws off one's ability to assess these things objectively.
Alright, so we get to this motel (the campground we'd aimed for had zero tent sites - praise be to the creator on that one, as it will soon turn out - and the next one was another 10 miles) and Bonesy's feeling kind of nauseous and we're both a little loopy, but boy am I proud of her tenacity and ability to play through the pain. So we order Chinese, which doesn't sound all that good to me, not that anything really does at this point, and we shower (during which fatigue starts to set in for me and I pretty much just lie in the tub). The food shows up, and I can only force down a single spring roll - ten times fast! - before lying down and drifting in and out of sleep while Bonesy watches Fight Club.
Now, some hours later (it's all a blur, did I sleep? What time is it? Who am I?), I awake suddenly and make my way to the bathroom, where I kneel before the toilet for the first in a long series of violent convulsions that would entirely empty my system of food and water. For hours this went on, and in between I felt like I was going crazy: I kid you not, readers, at one point I was concerned that John Boehner and his thugs were going to interrogate me inquisition-style (I mean, I literally saw him looming over me in bed) and all I managed to say to an attendant Bonesy was "they're going to crucify me." During brief periods of fluorescent-aided clarity as I heaved myself dry, I ruminated intently on the subject of intravenous nutrient replenishment. I had trouble standing.
Mom and Dad and godfather Gary (he of Ironman accomplishment) are pretty convinced it was heat exhaustion. I can see why, though I wasn't aware the symptoms could be so delayed. Anyway, now regardless of what it was my body is pretty much devoid of energy and sitting up in bed is an effort. Worst part is that we're going to have to take a couple of days off. Parents were adamant about this; thing is, I couldn't bike if I wanted to (I don't want to). I wish instead of heat exhaustion (which makes me sound like Daisy Buchanan) it was called something more awesome, like "Heat Overdrive Throes" or "Compromised Hydration and Muscle Permormance," but I'm too tired to be embarassed. Except that Bonesy, after all that, is just a little sore today: her status gets updated from "trooper" to "warrior," I think. A warrior taking very good care of me, I'd like to end by saying. She is out buying chicken noodle soup right now.
Ride on.
Sunday, July 24
Day 62: 101, Being Both the Forecasted Temperature and Projected Mileage for the Day
First of all, let me say that it is currently 93 degrees in Mountain Home, ID, where I am sitting outside a Jack in the Box restaurant listening to a small dog cry out for help as it slowly asphyxiates in someone's car. Whence the city's name, you ask? No idea. Oddly, it's not really in the mountains, nor even at their feet. From the interstate we saw a lone peak about 20 miles to the west, but even that was nothing to write home about (and yet, observant reader, here I am writing home about it! Perhaps the sheer lack of other distinguishing features offers, in that vein, some clue to the mystery of the naming). We woke up before dawn this morning and were ready to go by 6, only to discover that Bonesy had a flat tire. Still, we knocked down 60 miles by noon and earned this two hour shady respite. The dog is still barking.
When we wake up in Boise tomorrow, we will be only 60 or so miles from Oregon! Idaho-rribe week of riding not withstanding, that puts us about eleven days from the coast, and we are starting to get excited. I think my Ocean Mist-scented Car Freshener (R) is growing more potent as it feels itself nearing its home. Bonesy just came back with one of those fast food chain "large" sodas more aptly described as "benthic," and it is full of cold, sparkling lemonade and only cost a dollar six.
Speaking of lemonade -- still barking -- we were just talking yesterday about how our moms alays used to make lemonade from concentrate, which seems in retrospect to have been a little out of character, and how now we have developed associations along an axis between motherhood, refrigeration, and Minute Maid that probably in themselves provide enough material for a French novel. Then this morning when we stopped in a diner for eggs I asked the server if their OJ was from concentrate and she didn't know what I meant, and obviously it was, and I felt like a prat for being so particular and besides it was strangely comforting...
It turns out that the dog (we investigated) is sitting comfortably in a well-shaded and equally-well-ventillated vintage Winnebago, and is just freaking out, apparently, because his master is out of sight. That's good, because I don't know what we were going to do otherwise. 40 miles to Boise on a beautiful July-daho afternoon.
Ride on.
When we wake up in Boise tomorrow, we will be only 60 or so miles from Oregon! Idaho-rribe week of riding not withstanding, that puts us about eleven days from the coast, and we are starting to get excited. I think my Ocean Mist-scented Car Freshener (R) is growing more potent as it feels itself nearing its home. Bonesy just came back with one of those fast food chain "large" sodas more aptly described as "benthic," and it is full of cold, sparkling lemonade and only cost a dollar six.
Speaking of lemonade -- still barking -- we were just talking yesterday about how our moms alays used to make lemonade from concentrate, which seems in retrospect to have been a little out of character, and how now we have developed associations along an axis between motherhood, refrigeration, and Minute Maid that probably in themselves provide enough material for a French novel. Then this morning when we stopped in a diner for eggs I asked the server if their OJ was from concentrate and she didn't know what I meant, and obviously it was, and I felt like a prat for being so particular and besides it was strangely comforting...
It turns out that the dog (we investigated) is sitting comfortably in a well-shaded and equally-well-ventillated vintage Winnebago, and is just freaking out, apparently, because his master is out of sight. That's good, because I don't know what we were going to do otherwise. 40 miles to Boise on a beautiful July-daho afternoon.
Ride on.
Saturday, July 23
Day 61: On Which Day We Celebrate 2 Months of Riding Bicycles
Today, an estimated two weeks away from the coast, we would like to thank our sponsors. Many people ask us how we're affording a trip like this, and frankly we really aren't. Our parents are helping significantly, and for that we are enormously thankful. Also, though, we have (through my mother's efforts) received the support of several other donors. This is ridiculous. People who have heard about our trip and just wanted to help us make it to California. Thank you Auntie Lisa, Janice, Connie and Kay -- I hope you find your goodwill and generosity alive and reciprocated in the wider world.
Maybe I spoke too harshly about Idaho in our last post -- but probably not. Winds yesterday were the stiffest yet, and our minds were just melted by the end of a meager 44 miles. It's hard to put my finger on exactly what it is about this leg of the trip: busy roads and lots of interstate riding? Ceaseless wind? Unremittant sunshine? I know it sounds silly to whinge about too much sun (although maybe not so much to you, eastern and midwestern readers, with this heat wave you're sweating out), but we're basically in the desert here, so heat really takes it out of us over a day of riding. Anyway, my mind has just been spinning. I catch bits about the debt negotiations, think about the upcoming semester, and all I can do is sit on the saddle all day and fight the wind. So the point, I guess, is that with nothing to fix my attention on, the old brainbox kind of idles.
Yesterday I bought one of those tree-shaped air fresheners for my bike because it seemed kind of funny. But now I get these occasional whiffs of "Ocean Mist," which I thought would spur me onward of the final stretch but somehow just reminds me of linoleum.
Ride on.
Maybe I spoke too harshly about Idaho in our last post -- but probably not. Winds yesterday were the stiffest yet, and our minds were just melted by the end of a meager 44 miles. It's hard to put my finger on exactly what it is about this leg of the trip: busy roads and lots of interstate riding? Ceaseless wind? Unremittant sunshine? I know it sounds silly to whinge about too much sun (although maybe not so much to you, eastern and midwestern readers, with this heat wave you're sweating out), but we're basically in the desert here, so heat really takes it out of us over a day of riding. Anyway, my mind has just been spinning. I catch bits about the debt negotiations, think about the upcoming semester, and all I can do is sit on the saddle all day and fight the wind. So the point, I guess, is that with nothing to fix my attention on, the old brainbox kind of idles.
Yesterday I bought one of those tree-shaped air fresheners for my bike because it seemed kind of funny. But now I get these occasional whiffs of "Ocean Mist," which I thought would spur me onward of the final stretch but somehow just reminds me of linoleum.
Ride on.
Thursday, July 21
Day 59: Idahoped We'd Be in Oregon by Now
We've been riding across southern Idaho for four days now. Their license plates read "Scenic Idaho / Famous Potatoes." To be sure, readers, I have heard of Idaho potatoes; the "scenic," however, must refer to another part of the state. The land here has gone from dry to arid as we've moved westward, following the Snake river in a sweeping end run around the impressive Sawtooth mountains and moving to strike Boise from the south. So far we've stayed in Swan Valley, Idaho Falls, Pocatello, and now tonight in Declo, at what must be the finest RV park of the trip so far (Tree Village). I want to rant about the crummy KOA last night, but I'm too sleepy.
The going has been rough. Aside from the mind-numbing landscape, we have faced stiff headwinds all four days and frankly I'm not sure which is worse: it's especially hard to get motivated in the morning when you know you have nothing to look forward to except getting back off the bike. Maybe that's a little harsh sounding, but it's certainly true in terms of touring-type milestones: the next thing we're really eager for is getting out of Idaho. After that there's the Cascades and Crater Lake (the latter of which I've been real excited about since about March), and then California. It's not that we want to be done, exactly, but I think that since the incredible vacation in Jackson we've had our minds trained on the end goal. This is a blessing and a curse, and here in the Gem State it seems to manifest as talking a lot about the beach and even more about Vermont. I miss reading the paper.
Ride on.
The going has been rough. Aside from the mind-numbing landscape, we have faced stiff headwinds all four days and frankly I'm not sure which is worse: it's especially hard to get motivated in the morning when you know you have nothing to look forward to except getting back off the bike. Maybe that's a little harsh sounding, but it's certainly true in terms of touring-type milestones: the next thing we're really eager for is getting out of Idaho. After that there's the Cascades and Crater Lake (the latter of which I've been real excited about since about March), and then California. It's not that we want to be done, exactly, but I think that since the incredible vacation in Jackson we've had our minds trained on the end goal. This is a blessing and a curse, and here in the Gem State it seems to manifest as talking a lot about the beach and even more about Vermont. I miss reading the paper.
Ride on.
Friday, July 15
Day 53: All the Way to Jackson
Thank you, Tetons. Thank you, sky. Thank you; Wyoming, Indian Paintbrush, Queen Anne's Lace, Lupine, Aspen, Sagebrush, and asphalt. Thank you fog and geysers and bacon and eggs. Thank you Bonesy.
Wednesday was my birthday and the most glorious day of riding so far. I sort of lost track of how long it'd been since the last update (which itself was woefully short on detail), so now I feel like I have enormous catching up to do, and of course even if I kept up in the first place I could never capture all of this. So I think we'll just focus on the birthday ride and fill you in on the rest by way of providing some background information.
OK. So we were wicked tired after that climb a week ago, and it took us two days to make it the hundred miles to Cody (we wanted to actually push on another 18 miles up the Shoshone river on the second day, but we were just whipped, and Bonesy's parents treated us to a motel and we watched Harry Potters 4 & 5 on TV and slept a lot). Cody -- "A small town with a big city attitude!" -- is at the mouth of a canyon that stretches fifty miles and climbs about 2000ft to the East entrance to Yellowstone, and somehow it took us another day to get up there. Again, we'd wanted to make it another 27 miles into the park, but by now were feeling so tired that I think we both started getting a little nervous. It should also be noted that there was some gnawing concern regarding Grizzly bears: during our week-long approach to Yellowstone we were alerted via text messages -- by no fewer than five people -- to the recent fatal mauling of a hiker who had evidently "done everything right." Bonesy had been concerned about bear activity from the outset, and my bravado regarding the ursine threat had worn awfully thin by this point in the trip. Point being, we were carrying minimal food and planning on eating exclusively at restaurants and gas stations, which added stress to the whole situation because it meant that we were going to be limited on our ride-routing by the admirably sparse development of services in the park. Then there was the whole "Yellowstone in July" thing which, take it from me, vacationing readers, just do not go to Yellowstone in July. Lodging is booked like, a year in advance, including campgrounds. Including campgrounds!
So when we arrived at Fishing Bridge (the first "village" -- or concentration of parkgoer services -- to be reached below the 8600ft Sylvan Pass that constitutes the park's natural east entrance) under skies the color of the lupine lining the fire-scoured hillsides above us, the ranger we asked about camping was like "geez, yeah, it's just such high season right now," and directed us 45 miles south to a campground without potable water. It's now about 3:30, and in the mid fifties and certainly not getting any warmer, and it's been raining on and off since noon, and this alarming weariness has not left us. The wind began to howl.
"I can suggest some nice places to stay just outside the park," she offered the two of us, clad as we were in spandex, cycling gloves, and dripping raingear.
"No," I was surprised at having to clarify; "we're on bicycles."
She said, "oh, gosh, OK. Yeah, I would head south [to the aforementioned campsite, dry and distant]."
Anyway, patient readers, we went to the nearest campsite, about two miles away, and sure enough it had a sign saying "full." I pointed this out to the woman working at the registration window, and she said perhaps the most welcome words we'd heard all trip (bear in mind, readers, the grisly prospect of being dismembered in our tent all because I left a powerbar wrapper in my sweater pocket or something): "Well, we are full, but never too full for hikers and bikers." May the creator bestow blessings upon Xanterra -- the park's principal concessionaires and operators of the Bridge Bay campground -- and its employees in measure commensurate with their treatment of us and all cyclists foolhardy enough to visit Yellowstone National Park.
Alright, still with me? We had planned on getting up early, leaving our gear at the campsite, and riding light up to the falls at Inspiration point, then coming back for the stuff and riding south to the edge of the park, there to stage the following day's 67 mile trek to Jackson. Well, after eating some pretty weak sandwiches at the Lake Lodge, we were spinning back to our tent contemplating another whole day of riding with rabid tourists in rented RV's careening past, paying more attention to the admittedly impressive scenery than the winding, shoulderless roads. Bonesy bravely broached the subject of bailing on Yellowstone, which had become more something to survive, or at least endure, before our impending vacation in Jackson. To be fair, she actually couched it in terms of the century ride it would entail -- something that, near the very beginning of the trip, I had idly suggested as a potential birthday celebration. So we went to bed early.
The next morning, we woke up at 5:30 and hit the road in less than an hour -- I wearing every long-sleeve article of clothing I had, as well as a wool hat. Our fingers were cold, and the morning fog still hung over Yellowstone Lake (which, by the way, looked an awful lot like Lake Champlain when we arrived the day before but now looked like the largest alpine lake on the continent, which it is) as we rode the narrow piney road along its shore. Stopped for breakfast, at which to celebrate my birthday I had both orange juice and coffee, and ran into two sets of touring cyclists while there. It turns out that all touring cyclists in the United States manage to converge on Yellowstone (Riding Bar Harbor to Key West? A quick detour will allow you to see, and potentially be charged by, free-grazing bison!). I think a later post will deal exclusively with the variety of tourists we've met: with the variety itself, mind you, and not necessarily with any of the cyclists themselves. This is getting long winded, isn't it?
So then we rode over the continental divide, and I peed on both sides of it. Woah! Then we crossed and followed the Snake River, and while our road continued to climb gradually back to 8300 ft, the river plunged ever deeper into a canyon to our immediate left. Like, immediate, readers. Pretty spectacular. Then -- and this might be the best part of the whole unbelievable day, buried inconspicuously right here in what, like the sixth paragraph? -- we descended. It had been overcast all morning, and then I swear less than ten minutes before we hit the pass it just cleared off and the sun shone brightly on an unbroken four mile descent through the sweetest-smelling air I have ever had the pleasure of breathing. Wildflowers on the roadside dissolved into a fragrant blur as species blended in different proportions, creating mats colored everywhere from dark purple to magenta to creamy white. In front of us, the Tetons loomed, craggy and perfect, slicing cumulus clouds so sharply that they might have burst and drifted tattered into Jackson Lake.
We spent the afternoon riding past those mountains -- like someone's idea of what a mountain range should look like -- first through forested hills along the lake and then across wind-blasted flats. The last thirty miles into Jackson were, like, real windy, and right in our faces. There was no shade. It was exhausting and somehow invigorating at the same time. Spiritually, I guess. From town it was another ten miles to Bonesy's cousin's house. Most of that was on a rolling bike path while the sun settled out of a cloudless sky, dipping behind the mountains just as a near-full moon rose in front of us. Then we had to climb this ridiculous grade to get here, but at that point it was all just icing on the best birthday cake ever. You know, we were either going to make it up here or fall off the bikes, and we didn't fall off, so we made it. Showers. A cold beer each. Sleep like the dead. There could be no better way to spend my birthday than with 112 miles and a whole day spent outside, cradled by lakes and mountains and sun and clouds, starting swaddled head to toe and ending up in nothing but my shorts. Getting rained on and getting a little bit of a burn on my nose. Finishing with a climb to a gorgeous view and a beautiful quiet home to rest in. So thank you.
Regarding the home, we have to thank cousin Becca and her husband John in a big way. This is the most beautiful place we could hope to rest before the push to the coast. We're sorry to have missed you and your son, but please understand how grateful we are for your generosity and for the mental and physical rest it affords us. I think we're going to take a full 3 days off, and I'm sure it will be hard to leave even after that.
Ride on, just not quite yet.
HARRY POTTER FEELINGS AND EMOTIONS: AHhhhh!!! We waited in line for two hours last night for the midnight showing, and we didn't get in!!!! There was a woman in the crowd after they closed the doors wearing a t-shirt that said "relax, it's only a movie," and she was telling everyone outside how sorry she was that we didn't get in. I was almost as disappointed as when I turned 12 and didn't get my letter of admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!!!! But now I realize that it's only going to be THAT MUCH BETTER when I finally get to see the movie!!! I have begun to see how Harry and I are very much the same person -- in the trailer it says that every moment he has lived has led up to THIS, and that's exactly how I FEEL! I think I am being tested to see if I am courageous enough to persevere!! I wish I had a time-turner like Hermione has in the PRISONER OF AZKABAN so that I could GO FORWARD IN TIME to TONIGHT when I have seen HP7:t DHp.2!!!!
Wednesday was my birthday and the most glorious day of riding so far. I sort of lost track of how long it'd been since the last update (which itself was woefully short on detail), so now I feel like I have enormous catching up to do, and of course even if I kept up in the first place I could never capture all of this. So I think we'll just focus on the birthday ride and fill you in on the rest by way of providing some background information.
OK. So we were wicked tired after that climb a week ago, and it took us two days to make it the hundred miles to Cody (we wanted to actually push on another 18 miles up the Shoshone river on the second day, but we were just whipped, and Bonesy's parents treated us to a motel and we watched Harry Potters 4 & 5 on TV and slept a lot). Cody -- "A small town with a big city attitude!" -- is at the mouth of a canyon that stretches fifty miles and climbs about 2000ft to the East entrance to Yellowstone, and somehow it took us another day to get up there. Again, we'd wanted to make it another 27 miles into the park, but by now were feeling so tired that I think we both started getting a little nervous. It should also be noted that there was some gnawing concern regarding Grizzly bears: during our week-long approach to Yellowstone we were alerted via text messages -- by no fewer than five people -- to the recent fatal mauling of a hiker who had evidently "done everything right." Bonesy had been concerned about bear activity from the outset, and my bravado regarding the ursine threat had worn awfully thin by this point in the trip. Point being, we were carrying minimal food and planning on eating exclusively at restaurants and gas stations, which added stress to the whole situation because it meant that we were going to be limited on our ride-routing by the admirably sparse development of services in the park. Then there was the whole "Yellowstone in July" thing which, take it from me, vacationing readers, just do not go to Yellowstone in July. Lodging is booked like, a year in advance, including campgrounds. Including campgrounds!
So when we arrived at Fishing Bridge (the first "village" -- or concentration of parkgoer services -- to be reached below the 8600ft Sylvan Pass that constitutes the park's natural east entrance) under skies the color of the lupine lining the fire-scoured hillsides above us, the ranger we asked about camping was like "geez, yeah, it's just such high season right now," and directed us 45 miles south to a campground without potable water. It's now about 3:30, and in the mid fifties and certainly not getting any warmer, and it's been raining on and off since noon, and this alarming weariness has not left us. The wind began to howl.
"I can suggest some nice places to stay just outside the park," she offered the two of us, clad as we were in spandex, cycling gloves, and dripping raingear.
"No," I was surprised at having to clarify; "we're on bicycles."
She said, "oh, gosh, OK. Yeah, I would head south [to the aforementioned campsite, dry and distant]."
Anyway, patient readers, we went to the nearest campsite, about two miles away, and sure enough it had a sign saying "full." I pointed this out to the woman working at the registration window, and she said perhaps the most welcome words we'd heard all trip (bear in mind, readers, the grisly prospect of being dismembered in our tent all because I left a powerbar wrapper in my sweater pocket or something): "Well, we are full, but never too full for hikers and bikers." May the creator bestow blessings upon Xanterra -- the park's principal concessionaires and operators of the Bridge Bay campground -- and its employees in measure commensurate with their treatment of us and all cyclists foolhardy enough to visit Yellowstone National Park.
Alright, still with me? We had planned on getting up early, leaving our gear at the campsite, and riding light up to the falls at Inspiration point, then coming back for the stuff and riding south to the edge of the park, there to stage the following day's 67 mile trek to Jackson. Well, after eating some pretty weak sandwiches at the Lake Lodge, we were spinning back to our tent contemplating another whole day of riding with rabid tourists in rented RV's careening past, paying more attention to the admittedly impressive scenery than the winding, shoulderless roads. Bonesy bravely broached the subject of bailing on Yellowstone, which had become more something to survive, or at least endure, before our impending vacation in Jackson. To be fair, she actually couched it in terms of the century ride it would entail -- something that, near the very beginning of the trip, I had idly suggested as a potential birthday celebration. So we went to bed early.
The next morning, we woke up at 5:30 and hit the road in less than an hour -- I wearing every long-sleeve article of clothing I had, as well as a wool hat. Our fingers were cold, and the morning fog still hung over Yellowstone Lake (which, by the way, looked an awful lot like Lake Champlain when we arrived the day before but now looked like the largest alpine lake on the continent, which it is) as we rode the narrow piney road along its shore. Stopped for breakfast, at which to celebrate my birthday I had both orange juice and coffee, and ran into two sets of touring cyclists while there. It turns out that all touring cyclists in the United States manage to converge on Yellowstone (Riding Bar Harbor to Key West? A quick detour will allow you to see, and potentially be charged by, free-grazing bison!). I think a later post will deal exclusively with the variety of tourists we've met: with the variety itself, mind you, and not necessarily with any of the cyclists themselves. This is getting long winded, isn't it?
So then we rode over the continental divide, and I peed on both sides of it. Woah! Then we crossed and followed the Snake River, and while our road continued to climb gradually back to 8300 ft, the river plunged ever deeper into a canyon to our immediate left. Like, immediate, readers. Pretty spectacular. Then -- and this might be the best part of the whole unbelievable day, buried inconspicuously right here in what, like the sixth paragraph? -- we descended. It had been overcast all morning, and then I swear less than ten minutes before we hit the pass it just cleared off and the sun shone brightly on an unbroken four mile descent through the sweetest-smelling air I have ever had the pleasure of breathing. Wildflowers on the roadside dissolved into a fragrant blur as species blended in different proportions, creating mats colored everywhere from dark purple to magenta to creamy white. In front of us, the Tetons loomed, craggy and perfect, slicing cumulus clouds so sharply that they might have burst and drifted tattered into Jackson Lake.
We spent the afternoon riding past those mountains -- like someone's idea of what a mountain range should look like -- first through forested hills along the lake and then across wind-blasted flats. The last thirty miles into Jackson were, like, real windy, and right in our faces. There was no shade. It was exhausting and somehow invigorating at the same time. Spiritually, I guess. From town it was another ten miles to Bonesy's cousin's house. Most of that was on a rolling bike path while the sun settled out of a cloudless sky, dipping behind the mountains just as a near-full moon rose in front of us. Then we had to climb this ridiculous grade to get here, but at that point it was all just icing on the best birthday cake ever. You know, we were either going to make it up here or fall off the bikes, and we didn't fall off, so we made it. Showers. A cold beer each. Sleep like the dead. There could be no better way to spend my birthday than with 112 miles and a whole day spent outside, cradled by lakes and mountains and sun and clouds, starting swaddled head to toe and ending up in nothing but my shorts. Getting rained on and getting a little bit of a burn on my nose. Finishing with a climb to a gorgeous view and a beautiful quiet home to rest in. So thank you.
Regarding the home, we have to thank cousin Becca and her husband John in a big way. This is the most beautiful place we could hope to rest before the push to the coast. We're sorry to have missed you and your son, but please understand how grateful we are for your generosity and for the mental and physical rest it affords us. I think we're going to take a full 3 days off, and I'm sure it will be hard to leave even after that.
Ride on, just not quite yet.
HARRY POTTER FEELINGS AND EMOTIONS: AHhhhh!!! We waited in line for two hours last night for the midnight showing, and we didn't get in!!!! There was a woman in the crowd after they closed the doors wearing a t-shirt that said "relax, it's only a movie," and she was telling everyone outside how sorry she was that we didn't get in. I was almost as disappointed as when I turned 12 and didn't get my letter of admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!!!! But now I realize that it's only going to be THAT MUCH BETTER when I finally get to see the movie!!! I have begun to see how Harry and I are very much the same person -- in the trailer it says that every moment he has lived has led up to THIS, and that's exactly how I FEEL! I think I am being tested to see if I am courageous enough to persevere!! I wish I had a time-turner like Hermione has in the PRISONER OF AZKABAN so that I could GO FORWARD IN TIME to TONIGHT when I have seen HP7:t DHp.2!!!!
Friday, July 8
Day 46: Cloud Peak Skyway
Phone dying, readers stop Knees a little achey but otherwise none the worse for wear after big climb stop And really, climbing was ridiculous stop Took approx. 5 hrs to reach pass, el. 9666 stop Scenery was amazing stop Had great breakfast in Buffalo, then like a dozen Power Bars (R) stop Bonesy saw a moose stop V tired now stop Staying in Ten Sleep, WY stop More like Eleven sleep stop Did mention am v. tired? stop.
Ride on full stop.
Ride on full stop.
Thursday, July 7
Day 45: The Buffa-lowdown (and PHOTOS)
We got into Buffalo around 2 PM this afternoon. Great thinking on Bonesy's part suggesting that we leave early, because we ended up beating the heat and having time to relax, grab a bite, and upload some photos. Also I bought a new tire to replace my rear one that is literally worn down to the threads. Unfortunately, the bike shop here didn't have anything wider than a 32c (I've been riding on 37's), so I just bit the bullet and picked up some tubes to fit the new tire. It's a Continental "Touring Plus," by the way, which is a bit of a step up from my Conti "Contact" as I understand it. There was never really anything wrong with the Contact, but it does seem to have worn awfully fast. I guess I'm going to change it out when I get back to the campsite, but the prospect of going through that whole process while being eaten alive by bugs is not a pleasant one.
Speaking of prospects, tomorrow we make what is supposedly the most strenuous climb of the whole tour: from Buffalo to Powder River Pass along the Cloud Peak Skyway (US-16 Scenic Byway) we will gain about 5,000 ft. elevation over 30 miles. People have warned us about this since Sioux Falls -- none more ominously than the guys at Sports Lure (the bike shop) in town here. But I guess there's always that local "our road (or weather or wildlife or bar or whatever) is more dangerous than yours" mentality. I'm wicked looking forward to it, although I will be honest and admit to sharing some of Bonesy's trepidation. My feeling is that the more excited I am, the better I will perform, the easier the climb will be, the more enjoyable it will be. Sort of "power of positive thinking," only with a tangible connection via biometrics. At any rate, you'll be hearing from us at some point about this ride (including, of course, the equally epic 30 mile descent through Ten Sleep Canyon).
We're going to some sort of Bluegrass Jam night at the old Occidental Hotel here, which should be cool. There's also a Big Horn Mountain Music Festival this weekend, but hopefully we'll be hearing disjointed snatches from a mile above town by the time they get that going tomorrow. Also I should note that there were some fellow tenters at our campground who cheered as we rode up. I guess they passed us on the 70 desolate miles between Gillette -- curse its name! -- and here, and felt like we were pretty "hard core." I'll leave that to the hive mind.
HARRY POTTER UPDATE. Today I am so excited for the upcoming release of HP7:tDHp2 that I can't even talk about it on the internet! Instead, wizarding readrs, I will ask you to post who is your favorite HP character and why!!! Mine is Hermione because she's the "brightest wizard of her age" and can solve any magical riddle! Only eight days left!
Ride on.
Speaking of prospects, tomorrow we make what is supposedly the most strenuous climb of the whole tour: from Buffalo to Powder River Pass along the Cloud Peak Skyway (US-16 Scenic Byway) we will gain about 5,000 ft. elevation over 30 miles. People have warned us about this since Sioux Falls -- none more ominously than the guys at Sports Lure (the bike shop) in town here. But I guess there's always that local "our road (or weather or wildlife or bar or whatever) is more dangerous than yours" mentality. I'm wicked looking forward to it, although I will be honest and admit to sharing some of Bonesy's trepidation. My feeling is that the more excited I am, the better I will perform, the easier the climb will be, the more enjoyable it will be. Sort of "power of positive thinking," only with a tangible connection via biometrics. At any rate, you'll be hearing from us at some point about this ride (including, of course, the equally epic 30 mile descent through Ten Sleep Canyon).
We're going to some sort of Bluegrass Jam night at the old Occidental Hotel here, which should be cool. There's also a Big Horn Mountain Music Festival this weekend, but hopefully we'll be hearing disjointed snatches from a mile above town by the time they get that going tomorrow. Also I should note that there were some fellow tenters at our campground who cheered as we rode up. I guess they passed us on the 70 desolate miles between Gillette -- curse its name! -- and here, and felt like we were pretty "hard core." I'll leave that to the hive mind.
HARRY POTTER UPDATE. Today I am so excited for the upcoming release of HP7:tDHp2 that I can't even talk about it on the internet! Instead, wizarding readrs, I will ask you to post who is your favorite HP character and why!!! Mine is Hermione because she's the "brightest wizard of her age" and can solve any magical riddle! Only eight days left!
Ride on.
Wednesday, July 6
Day 44 Pt. 2: Gillette - the Worst a Man Can Get
So we made it to Gillette. Take my advice, wandering readers, and steer clear of this blasted place. Oh sure, it's a convenient pit stop if you're headed west on I-90, but I urge you to hold it till Buffalo, which surely can be no worse than this, "America's Energy Capital." For it is also America's sprawl capital, the country's foremost example of bad (or no?) zoning, and the national headquarters of debris-piled lawns. There are no side streets, only deafening boulevards and trash bag-barricaded alleyways; no supermarkets, only Kwikstops and liquor stores; no trees, only scrub brush and golden arches. Denizens lie awake nights listening alternately to an endlessly flatulent motorcycle promenade or the squealing of coal cars over steel rails (undergirded by the bowels-loosening churn of the locomotives). We did, however, find very good Mexican food at Los Compadres, and with the blinds closed were able to pretend we were in Oaxaca, or at least not Northeastern Wyoming.
While we were riding on I-90 this morning, some guy with Illinois plates and "Alaska or Bust" written on his rear window honked encouragingly at us. He pulled over at the Parking Area on the next hill and it turns out his name was John and he was driving way up to the Bering Sea as doing so was #4 on his bucket list. He had two spare tires and a gas cannister and an emergency beacon and just a whole lot of contagious enthusiasm. Then he pointed out, way off to the north, that we could actually see Devil's Tower about 30 miles away, which was surreal and somehow kind of creepy. We would totally have missed it had we not stopped to talk, which pretty much sums up the past week.
I forgot to update you all on my feelings and emotions re: the upcoming Harry Potter film. Right now excitement is about at an 11 out of 10, and inability to think about anything else is probably about a 9!!! Only 8 more days when I wake up tomorrow!! By the way that's going to be real early since we're trying to drop 70 miles by early afternoon (no stops between here and Buffalo with T-Storms and 88* heat in the forecast). Ride on.
Day 44: If the Thunder Don't Get You, Then the Lightning Will
Got an early start today, though not as early as the Sundance Kid, who was gone by the time we woke up at 7. He left us a nice note, and we hope he made it to Moorcroft by the time this weather hit. And hit it has, concerned readers. We're sheltered in a gas station here in town and the rain is sideways and the lightning is right overhead. The power just went out, briefly. It's hard to know when to strike out for the next uncovered 30 miles when the forecast is for Iso T-Storms all day ("some storms may be severe") and the sky is gunmetal grey as far west as you can see.
We're surrounded by the ubiquitous Sturgis Rally 2011 gear -- do you know about Sturgis, Eastern readers? Google it. -- and drinking coffee and listening to colorful local banter. There is generic-sounding Nashville country on the radio, and we are stomping our cleated feet like nervous horses.
Ride On (as soon as the storm blows off).
We're surrounded by the ubiquitous Sturgis Rally 2011 gear -- do you know about Sturgis, Eastern readers? Google it. -- and drinking coffee and listening to colorful local banter. There is generic-sounding Nashville country on the radio, and we are stomping our cleated feet like nervous horses.
Ride On (as soon as the storm blows off).
Tuesday, July 5
Day 43: Rook, Bonesy, and the Sundance Kid
You Guys. There is so much to write about. We've been in the Black Hills of South Dakota and it has been breathtaking. Right now we're in the Crook County Public Library in Sundance, Wyoming, and I'm going to try to get some of this down before they close.
First of all, we're in Wyoming! That means we're no longer in Vermont, New York, Ontario, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, or South Dakota. I meant to remark on this earlier, but the MN/SD border was the first one we crossed on dry land, and Wyoming's was the second: I guess that's a prettty good indicator of how the land was settled. The eponymous "Sundance Kid" is actually named Mike, and he's from Ohio. We met him at the Subway (they're like biker bars for touring cyclists) in town here and are hoping to bump into him later on in the campground. He's biking to Gillette, so this was his penultimate day of riding -- something kind of strange to think about for us, as we still have about 1,500 miles to ride. I am of course looking forward to reacing California, but not necessarily as it represents the end of the trip. How strange it will be to go to bed knowing what we're going to do the next day.
So yesterday was Independence Day, and we were tired, so we declared Independence from cycling and hung out at the campsite all day. What a campsite it was, readers! We pitched our tent right beside a winding little stream; ate watermelon and corn on the cob and BLT's; read books in the shade; read books in the sun; went for a short bike ride through town before we decided that, if we weren't going to ride, we might as well really not ride; made a fire and ate s'mores. We made boats out of the watermelon eighths and raced them between the little bridges over the stream. There were no fireworks, but we slept very well anyway and it was a day well spent.
Today we meant to ride to Moorcroft, WY but then we got here and the weather was looking just impressively foreboding, and there's literally no shelter to be had between here and there, so we thought we'd wait a bit in the library and see if it would blow over or what. Then I'm looking at google maps and it turns out that -- and there is some math here, so follow me if you will -- we're 32 mi from Moorcroft, which is 30 mi from Gillette, which is 70 mi from Buffalo, and there's nothing in between these towns. So what would have happened, arithmetic readers, is that we'd've woken up in Moorcroft tomorrow and ridden 30 miles to Gillette only to be confronted with 70 barren miles to Buffalo and a forecast calling for thunderstorms. No thank you, readers: we've not ridden over 80 miles in a day yet, let alone 100 with no services for the last 70 and a very good chance of dying high-voltage (though, to be fair, also near-instantaneous) deaths with no witnesses but the rain and the antelope. Point being, we're just hanging out here tonight. At least it has encouraged me to update this consarned blogograph.
So July 2nd and 3rd were far and away the best riding to date. On the third we rode the norther half of the Mickleson Trail (a 100 and something mile rail trail maintained by the state) from Hill City to Spearfish, SD. Actually, the last portion of that consisted of a 3 miles up and 3 miles down a 7% grade, which was a hoot, and then about 20 miles from the top to the bottom of Spearfish Canyon. Oh, photophillic readers, await these pictures with that special excitement you reserve for the most stunning of artistic achievement, like for example HARRY POTTER 7: THE DEATHLY HALLOWS PART 2, which comes out on July 15th. Neverminde that we'll probably be in Yellowstone National Park -- I can't wait to see that movie.
In fact, from now until the fifteenth, I'm going to stop writing about cycling across the country and start chronicling my feelings and emotions relating to the imminent rapture (the opening of HP7:tDHp2). Once that moment has come and gone, and I have spent several posts describing my experience thereat, then we may return to the humdrum events of days on the road. Oh, including the time we stayed with John of the Prairie Dog Cycling Club. That's a good story, but not at good as HP7:tDHp2.
Ride on.
First of all, we're in Wyoming! That means we're no longer in Vermont, New York, Ontario, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, or South Dakota. I meant to remark on this earlier, but the MN/SD border was the first one we crossed on dry land, and Wyoming's was the second: I guess that's a prettty good indicator of how the land was settled. The eponymous "Sundance Kid" is actually named Mike, and he's from Ohio. We met him at the Subway (they're like biker bars for touring cyclists) in town here and are hoping to bump into him later on in the campground. He's biking to Gillette, so this was his penultimate day of riding -- something kind of strange to think about for us, as we still have about 1,500 miles to ride. I am of course looking forward to reacing California, but not necessarily as it represents the end of the trip. How strange it will be to go to bed knowing what we're going to do the next day.
So yesterday was Independence Day, and we were tired, so we declared Independence from cycling and hung out at the campsite all day. What a campsite it was, readers! We pitched our tent right beside a winding little stream; ate watermelon and corn on the cob and BLT's; read books in the shade; read books in the sun; went for a short bike ride through town before we decided that, if we weren't going to ride, we might as well really not ride; made a fire and ate s'mores. We made boats out of the watermelon eighths and raced them between the little bridges over the stream. There were no fireworks, but we slept very well anyway and it was a day well spent.
Today we meant to ride to Moorcroft, WY but then we got here and the weather was looking just impressively foreboding, and there's literally no shelter to be had between here and there, so we thought we'd wait a bit in the library and see if it would blow over or what. Then I'm looking at google maps and it turns out that -- and there is some math here, so follow me if you will -- we're 32 mi from Moorcroft, which is 30 mi from Gillette, which is 70 mi from Buffalo, and there's nothing in between these towns. So what would have happened, arithmetic readers, is that we'd've woken up in Moorcroft tomorrow and ridden 30 miles to Gillette only to be confronted with 70 barren miles to Buffalo and a forecast calling for thunderstorms. No thank you, readers: we've not ridden over 80 miles in a day yet, let alone 100 with no services for the last 70 and a very good chance of dying high-voltage (though, to be fair, also near-instantaneous) deaths with no witnesses but the rain and the antelope. Point being, we're just hanging out here tonight. At least it has encouraged me to update this consarned blogograph.
So July 2nd and 3rd were far and away the best riding to date. On the third we rode the norther half of the Mickleson Trail (a 100 and something mile rail trail maintained by the state) from Hill City to Spearfish, SD. Actually, the last portion of that consisted of a 3 miles up and 3 miles down a 7% grade, which was a hoot, and then about 20 miles from the top to the bottom of Spearfish Canyon. Oh, photophillic readers, await these pictures with that special excitement you reserve for the most stunning of artistic achievement, like for example HARRY POTTER 7: THE DEATHLY HALLOWS PART 2, which comes out on July 15th. Neverminde that we'll probably be in Yellowstone National Park -- I can't wait to see that movie.
In fact, from now until the fifteenth, I'm going to stop writing about cycling across the country and start chronicling my feelings and emotions relating to the imminent rapture (the opening of HP7:tDHp2). Once that moment has come and gone, and I have spent several posts describing my experience thereat, then we may return to the humdrum events of days on the road. Oh, including the time we stayed with John of the Prairie Dog Cycling Club. That's a good story, but not at good as HP7:tDHp2.
Ride on.
Friday, July 1
Day 39: Rapid City
Yesterday we woke up in a motel in Wall, SD. But we hadn't paid for a motel room! How could this be, skeptical readers? Bonesy's brother Tim and his girlfriend Jess just happened to be driving through on their way to a new life in Los Angeles, and they were gracious enough to billet us after a 104* day in the Badlands. That was an amazing ride, by the way, and I don't feel like I can do it justice from the handheld. We met two guys riding from Seattle to Rhode Island, and we met a boy scout troop from Longmeadow, MA (hi, troop 90!). We also met three shirtless, aging bikers who rode back and gave us a bottle of water because it was "hotter'n hell." Anyway, just wait for the pictures.
So there's this tourist trap in Wall that started as a drug store in 1931 ("Free Ice Water!") and now basically comprises its own western-themed mall and has an animatronic T-Rex. We've been seeing billboards since Minnesota. It was funny, then, that I had to actually get an antibiotic prescription filled there. Ha ha!
Yesterday we rode 52 miles on the interstate to get here to Rapid City. At least it was graded nicely. Today we're doing a short ride because of my drug-induced weariness, and we'll ride past Mt. Rushmore, which I guess is neat. The Black Hills are supposed to be pretty. Ride on.
So there's this tourist trap in Wall that started as a drug store in 1931 ("Free Ice Water!") and now basically comprises its own western-themed mall and has an animatronic T-Rex. We've been seeing billboards since Minnesota. It was funny, then, that I had to actually get an antibiotic prescription filled there. Ha ha!
Yesterday we rode 52 miles on the interstate to get here to Rapid City. At least it was graded nicely. Today we're doing a short ride because of my drug-induced weariness, and we'll ride past Mt. Rushmore, which I guess is neat. The Black Hills are supposed to be pretty. Ride on.
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