Bike Log

It's a bird, it's a plane

Sunday, June 13 No, it's a Montana mosquito. In Saco, they say that when in warms up, swarms of mosquitoes would pick me up and have me later. All of a sudden, I realize that the continuing rain and gray skies is actually a blessing. Mosquitoes are especially thick on this stretch of road, the locals explain with some masochistic pride. About ten miles outside of town, I thought - 'wouldn't it be horrible to have a flat here'. I believe in the power of thought, but this was just a PASSING thought. Nonetheless, seconds later, I looked at my rear tire, wobbling on either side of the rim. I quickly donned long pants, but before it was fixed, I ran up and down the highway at lest three times, swatting and screaming that I am the mosquito anti-christ. Somehow I think they liked the idea of turning into demons. It's a small step, after all. I returned to the road, desperately pedalling hard uphill, against the wind. The now demons swarmed for the next half mile, until I strained faster than 15 mph. Even then they bit several times per mile.

A short time later, the sun came out for a moment, and I saw the shadow of another bike. It was Dave, a biology professor at a community college outside Detroit. This was not Dave's first geographic choice, but they offered him a job, and he now rides and does other adventures every summer. I was reminded of a well-published and well-respected professor of business at UW, who told me there are three reasons why he chose to become a professor: June, July and August. I kept up with Dave as we chatted for the next 10 miles. Dave had a big, warm smile and smooth, tan, tree-trunk thighs, toned from 25 years of summer cycling. Riding with another biker, especially one with such a great attitude and big energy, gave me a bouyant afternoon.

The waitress at Eugene's pizza went to high school in Nashua (pop. 375), my stop for the night. They had a contest of who had the worst water in the state. Nashua won. It's not just bad taste; the locals talk of a Montana version of Montezuma's revenge.

Travel notes:

Saco: OB's Cafe, right on Hwy 2, makes a mean breakfast. Sundays a 11am they have quite a buffet.

Glascow: Hwy 2 on east side of town, Eugene's Pizza (and spaghetti and chicken etc), in the big G plaza - you can't miss the huge letter "G". The spaghetti is good and ample, and the pizza is great. Yup, I had two dinners, plus dessert. Pizzas are $9-11 for a 12 inch.

Buffalo Hot Springs

Saturday, June 12 I couldn't leave Malta without seeing the dinosaur museum. Or the district high school rodeo finals. Or get a haircut. My hair and nails have grown really fast in the last three weeks. Eeek! I'm turning into a freak! OK, a different kind of freak.

The museum had a completely intact Albertosaurus, a 2.5 ton cousin of the 7 ton T-Rex. As a child I saw dinosaurs at the Chicago museum of of history. But this one in Malta was found right in the countryside where I was biking. I stared for a long time, imagining this beast running, making the earth shake like the passing Burlington Northern trains. This beast towered above trees, and would eat 115 lbs of meat in one bite. I would have been a light snack. Though the bike would make it a crunchy snack.

The rodeo was a hoot. I don't think I've ever had a double cheeseburger before, but it seemed just right here in the dusty dome on the more-or-less white bleachers. I stayed for two events, team calf roping and barrels. Apparently, only boys lasso calves and only girls race around the barrels. Only two of the teams downed the calf before the whistle, while the girls got a 5 second penalty for knocking over the barrel. The audience was just as entertaining for me, with cowboy hats, and the cowboy version of tennis moms. I even enjoyed the Zambonie break, with two old John Deere tractors smoothing out the dirt.

The alternate bike route was not gravel as marked on the map. It was mud. Deep, sticky, rutted mud that the locals call Montana gumbo. In the last two miles of the 17 mile alternate route, me and the bike, including chain, brakes, panniers, gritted teeth, were covered in gumbo. But the route went through a game preserve, and I saw many white tailed deer, pronghorn antelopes, pheasants, thousands of red-winged black birds, ducks and other critters for miles.

Buffalo hot springs beckoned after only 20 miles. Like the cartoon pie, with wisps of fragrance drawing all passers by, I went, upwind. After an hour in the mineral springs, my gumby legs refused to pedal. I pitched the tent early, feasted at the supper club, and soaked again. The crowd was thin, with a majority of couples in their early 30's with boisterous kids on inflatables around age 10. Then there were retirees. Then there was me. The only peron there who was not local, wasn't retired and didn't have kids. It seemed so odd to have to wear swim trunks in a hot pool.

A surprise findng: any place with a table is my study. There is no having to get anywhere to do a certain thing. My stuff is always with me, and I can call anyplace home. Though on this Sunday morning, I miss JS, the cats, and a big helping of German pancakes with our neighbors.

P.S. from my Havre experience: A special message to the two dirt truck drivers who couldn't move over an inch where the shoulder was only six inches: may mosquitoes bite you in all the right places every time you stop to pee. For two years. To the driver of the big diesel pickup whose mirror almost gave me a shave: may the only effect of your much-needed Viagara be a side-effect, a pounding heachache. For as long as you drive that truck. I think of this less as revenge and more as a karmic serving suggestion.

Travel notes: the hot springs are $5 for the day, and $5 for a tent site - to be pitched anywhere. There were plenty of nice spots. Dinner at the supper club next door was $9.50 for a large steak, two huge shrimp, potato and salad bar.

Havre, armpit of Montana

Thursday, June 10 My impression of Havre was colored by the third day of strong headwinds and rain. Hwy 2 is busy coming into town, with a narrow shoulder littered with broken glass, mud and stones. A broken beer bottle punctured my heavy duty (expensive) touring tires, slashing the sidewalls and rendering the tire disposable.

Havre is the dirtiest town in memory.It reminds me of the old steel towns where I grew up, that went downhill when the mills closed. Havre is worse. Unlike Kettle Falls, Havre does have redeeming amenities. It has a facinating underground tour and an historic buffalo jump. The town parks are well done, though they are lit up like a stadium at night. And there's a good pizza place called Palivka's on the east end of town. But that's it. My breakfast options, after stopping three people to ask, was PJ's, a bar and casino. If you like smoky bars and casinos with no sign of waiters and the sounds of slot machines while your'e eating, Havre is the place for you. A town of 10,000, it dows have other businesses. But the general impression is of grimy streets and sidewalks, gas stations selling huge cans of animal beer, casinos and troubled youth. The pay phones I used were sticky and reeked of booze and cigarettes. I had to wait until the bike shop opened before I could leave. With new rubber on the back, I headed out of that hell hole as fast as I could pedal.

So that's what a tailwind feels like

Friday, June 11 Today I flew from Havre to Malta, MT, 93 miles, in 5 1/2 hours. A truly joyous biking day. I could actually hear the crickets, birds, and approaching trucks as I rode. The bicycle as a machine was in sync with my body. It was a thrill to power up to 30 mph on level road. And the thighs are noticeably bigger, and rock hard. 25 cents a feel. Every time I waved to a Burlington Northern train, the pilot blew the whistle.

A 12 mile detour off Hwy 2 was a special treat. Only one car passed. State road 9 cut through wetlands around Milk River. I was surrounded by birdsong, toads, crickets; ducks taking flight, terns and all manner of water fowl. There were trees and hills; heavy rainstorms in the distance; a landscape more varied than the last three days of headwind schlog. As I approach a herd of cows munching on particularly green and succulent fields, they all looked, and in my loudest tenor, sang "Hello ma honey, hello, ma baby, hello ma ragtime gal'. Their favorite line was 'baby my heart's on fire'. When I finished, several in the audience moo'ed. I don't think it was a disapproving moo, for when I rounded the bend the moos sounded like 'encore, encore'. I won't quit my day job though. With one car per hour, I don't think my bovine friends get serenaded very often.

I had a delightful lunch stop in Chinook, having missed breakfast to get out of that hell-hole Havre. Jean's Bakey and cafe was a real treat. Best coffee! They have a photo wall of men from town in active military service, inactive, and deceased. Marge's husband died in March, and she pointed out her husband and brother on the third wall. Jean was making dough. I prepared the bike to leave, and a young gentleman asked about my trip. the conversation turned to religion, and I shared my views on spiritualityand after some prostheletizing on his part, I noticed the sweatshirt "Chinook Ministeries". Though at the moment I read "Miniseries". Same difference. He engaged me in conversation, and I pulled out a quote from Don in Kalispel: "Admire those seeking the thruth; be wary of those who claim to have found it." It ceased to be a conversation; being converted to the only truth was not on my list this day. The encounter reminds me of MLMs - people pretending to care, when all they want is to sell you something. Or a young panhandler in Havre, only interested in getting a dollar. I came back into the cafe, and a table of four ladies laughed, saying that I'll never get to Malta at this pace. We chatted and had a great time. They wanted the blog address.

Malta has a well known dinosaur museum - apparently lots of artifacts are found in the area. This weekend is Dino Days, and the high school rodeo. I think I'll stay.

And the winner is

Friday, June 11 I just passed the 1,000 mile mark, and with some experience I offer the best and worst list:

Best coffee: Jean's Bakery, Chinook, MT on Main St, 4 block South from Hwy 2. I had lunch here, and it was great.

Biggest breaksfast: Park Place, Colville, WA at the east end of Main. Called the Mt. Rushmore, for $6.50 you get two huge pancakes, 3 eggs. hashbrowns, 4 thick slices of bacon, a slab of ham, 2 sausage links, biscuits, coffee, and for non-bikers, compiimentary nitroglycerine pills in case your heart stops.

Best dinner: Paramount Cafe, Okanogan, on 3rd near library and post office. In an old Masonic Temple this place is a gem, funky atmostphere and a varied, interesing menu.

Most interesting lunch: The Eagle's Nest, Chester, MT. I had quality ground beef, cabbage and onions in a fluffy pastry, with scalloped potatoes and not overcooked mixed vegetables. This is a town of 500, with no other nearby towns. A lucky village.

Nicest city park that allows camping: Ione, WA. It's away from it all, on the wide, meandering Pend Oreille River. Well maintained, lots of trees, and bench swings activates with the foot platform. And it was free. Close runner up: Chester, MT city park. Free, and it has hot showers (donations accepted).

Most serious about litter: Idaho. $1,000 fine and up to 10 days in jail. Least serious: Montana. $100 fine.

Armpit towns: It's a tie between Kettle Falls, WA and Havre, MT..

Most expensive shower: $5, Havre, MT at the RV park on the east end of town. After being in Havre for a few hours, you feel like you need a really long hot shower, and they know it. The shower rooms were immaculate, with heated floors.

Headwinds and Gulampies

It is a second day of headwinds, this time 30 mph. I’ve been cursing for a long time. I have to curse really loudly to hear myself over the howling of the wind. Now it starts to rain. It rains 17 inches a year here, so we got a month's worth this morning. But the worst is yet to come, after it stops raining. Because it hasn't rained in a long, long time, the highway is covered with a nasty, sudsy soup of whatever has fallen from passing cattle trucks, droplets of goo from diesel engines, tire cheese, and other unidentifiable things that in Pittsburgh we used to call gulampies. So with each new passing truck, a biker experiences an exhilarating heavy metal bike-and-body douche. I fantasize about the passing Burlington Northern train. I imagine it slowing and stopping, near this crossing. I hustle to a car transporter, lift a grate, toss the panniers inside, then pull up the bike. As the train resumes its western voyage, I pitch the tent on the car decking, staking it to the hook used to hold cars in place. I ride the train back to where the weather is the climactic norm. Where the name Rainy Pass in Washington State has the ring of a forewarning.

At the moment, I'm in the Grand Bar in Chester. Locals, apparently farmers, are
celebrating the 70% chance of rain forecast for tomorrow. I keep my mouth filled
with beer. There's been a 6 year drought. That means this morning we had three months
of rain. I'm happy for them. Really. I'm not an angry person.

Chester has an immaculate town park, and bicyclists are invited to stay for free
on the lush green grass. There are even hot showers. The petit, beautifully dressed
bartender Kari was married there four years ago. Kari really stands out among some
of the rougher clientele. She changed the sign "Have another beer until she
starts looking better" so it reads "he". The Grand Bar is also a
casino. Once they found a dealer, a high stakes card game was underway. Chester
doubles up on the usual amenities. The grocery store sells pints of Everclear 190
proof for $8. I haven't seen that stuff since the spike-the-grape-drink picnic at
Penn State. And it was the same price in 1972. It still carries the warning 'Do
not use near an open flame'. Unless you're making Three Alarm Cherries Jubilee-ee-ee.

Chester also sports the best Internet-accessed library, with seven late model Dell
computers with high res screens. They closed at 5 pm today, but let me stay until
they had to leave - anoher 45 minutes. I am really liking small towns. I later ran
into the librarian and friends at the Grand Bar. Chester rocks.

A driver in a 1934 Ford waved about an hour outside of town. I spotted his car at
a storage garage in town and stopped by to see his 1942 Ford and 1954 Ford. The
1942 is rare because Ford stopped making this model after the war started, and it
was one of a small number that had stainless steel, as opposed to painted, trim.
The cars were completely and lovingly restored. The 1942 had an interior of burled
walnut and taupe-colored bakelite dashboard, complete with push-button radio. Photos
will be posted!

I met a couple from Tucson, who are traveling from Anacortes to Niagara Falls and
then down to Florida. They pedalled right past me in the driving headwinds. He's
older than me, and she's younger. I was inspired, but still yelled expletives at
the wind and dark clouds. They're camping at the park. The couple I met outside
Whitefish, from New Joisey, is staying at a motel in town. They were a trip. Another
older guy with a much younger woman. At first I thought they were putting me on
with their accent. There was something incongruous about them - they would look
just right in a big white Cadillac convertible with red leather seats. It's great
to meet other bikers.

Sun, tailwind, hooray Montana!

Tuesday, June 1 What a difference a day makes! Sun, and a tailwind part of the day helped move me 83 miles today. The only places open at 9pm are the casino bar/restaurants. I rode around looking for something more healthful, but all was closed. The casino stopped serving food, but gave me two (deep fried) choices that they could still make. I hungrily went for fish and chips and a Moose Drool on tap.

The town campground was behind the Chamber of Commerce, and only had one other camper. Setting up camp took a little more time, because I rolled the headlamp inside the tent this morning. I fell asleep before my head hit the makeshift pillow. I realized the next morning that the open field behind my campsite was the town cemetary.

Ode to rain

Monday, June 7 It began to rain on the tent at 2am. I've had time to notice many types of rain on this trip. Spattering rain. Driving rain. Sheets of rain. A wall of rain. Spitting rain. Pissing rain. Horizontal rain. Buckets of rain. Sleeting rain. Hailing rain. Dismal rain. Bullets of rain. Waves of rain. Threatening rain. Freezing rain. Chilling rain. Blinding rain. Beating rain. Misty rain. Foggy rain. Oppressive rain. All night rain. All day rain. Waking rain. Thundrous rain. Endless rain. Tiresome rain. Bitter rain. Numbing rain. Relentless rain. Unforgiving rain. Waning rain. Memories of rain.

Ode to wind

Tuesday, June 8 Head wind, side wind, anything but tail wind.

To the tune of "Love For Sale": Bike for sale Fully loaded bike for sale; Take a ride to paradise All of this is worth twice the price: Bike for sale. Bike for sale Primed for touring bike for sale; A bike that's prepped and fully oiled, One that's only slightly soiled: Bike for sale. Chorus: You've got a Headwind Side wind Anything but tail wind: Bike for sale.

The difference between the highest pass and a Montana headwind: the pass is easier. There's no pass that is 70 miles up. Even the worst pass gives you a small break or a plateau. Your frostbitten toe has a chance to warm on the way up. You get to go down the other side, fast. Even if it's cold, the downhill still doesn't last all day.

I awoke in Cut Pass, Montana, with ice pellets on the tent. The average temperature this time of year is 48 overnight, 75 in the day. At noon it was in the low 40s with a 25mph headwind as I continued on Highway 2, but only after repairing my first flat tire. I didn't run over anything - I had no experience with Presta valves, and noticing the lock nut half off, tightened it so it wouldn't come loose again - pulling the valve stem right out of the tube. Luckily, I'm carrying two spare tubes: the nearest bike shop is still six days away. Towns are farther apart, with no options to camp along the road, so it's a short day today; the flat tire made it impossible to reach Chester before dark. I've decided to stop well before dusk now - there are a higher percentage of reckless drivers in Montana. For long stretches, Highway 2 is narrow, and has a steep gravel ditch in place of a shoulder. The speed limit is 70 (just a suggestion, apparently) and there is a lot of truck traffic. The town people are friendly, warning me of the crazy drivers. There is an English gentleman about a day ahead of me, perhaps we'll meet one day.

Going-to-the-snow in Blizzard National Park

Sunday, June 6 The day began at a campground near Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park, the rain tapping me awake at 4am. I decided to treat my fellow cyclists to breakfast at the nearby Lake McDonald Lodge, a classic big timber turn-of-the-century national park structure. The bicyclist's highlight: a sumptuous buffet that included custom made waffles, for under $9. The front desk could not connect to the Internet, and so we had no weather forecast. The rain pelted as we considered our fate - there were few tenable alternatives. Bryan and Jacob peddled into the deluge as I stopped to take the first of many drenched photos. The river was swollen; streams overflowed onto the road. Glimpses of snow and frozen waterfalls appeared between the mist and the dripping evergreens. By this time I've ridden in the rain enough that I could enjoy the scenery and the experience. The gear kept me warm and dry for the most part. As I climbed higher, tourists stopped to photograph me in wonderment. It started to snow, and tourists expressed disbelief. A snow plow driver stopped to tell me how much snow was at and past the pass. The grade became steeper, the terrain more rugged and beautiful, with huge waterfalls spraying mist onto the road. It got colder, more snow, higher winds, but I was still working up a sweat.

The last two miles were close to treacherous. I imagined kicking up my feet to dry in front of a fire at the visitor center. In mid-daydream I passed an avalanche chute; a strong wind blew down it, pushing my bike and the all but aerodynmic panniers about three feet to the right - onto the edge of the continuation of the chute, where an avalanche had blasted away the guard rail. I was a few inches from going over - I screamed and dismounted, making certain to land toward the road, on my left foot. Shaking, I walked the bike at a sharp angle into the wind to the other side of the chute. Suddenly cold and wary, I chugged up the last mile, staying in the center of the lane, allowing those few cars to pass as they could. 1/2 mile from the pass, the 10 foot walls of snow provided protection. A car stopped to offer me a ride, which struck me as funny.

After photographing the Logan Pass 6,670 feet sign, I rolled into a parking lot filled with yellow flashing lights. The park Ranger closed the pass; I was the last person coming from the west side. Everyone had to evacuate, and they were searching for two snow boarders. With a gleeful high five, us bikers greeted each other, and a ranger took pictures. We were to load our bikes and gear into the back of a pickup, and after the snow boarders were found and sent on their way, we would be shuttled down to safety. The Visitor's Center had closed, and we stood in the Men's room, out of the blizzard.

The downhill ride proved that the pass had closed with good reason. There were blizzard conditions for miles; large rocks were strewn on the road; the wind howled; the ranger put the heater on high.

We were released at the St. Mary's Visitor's Center. I almost fell to the ground getting out of the truck - winds were gusting to 65 mph. Bryan, Jacob and I huddled at the Visitors's Center to decide on a sane plan. The nearest sheltered campground was 6 miles into the wind, though another ranger volunteered to take us. We found a sheltered campsite in town, on a grassy lawn in a lowland behind some woods. The sun came out in a narrow band above us. We could see rain on boths sides of us all afternoon. Everything dried. We compared stories of our adventure. The local cafe fed us a huge meal as we chatted in a wonderful spirit of comraderie. We would sleep well and have amazing dreams.