The Second Week

Jodi and I are moving into our third week of cycling. We have taken one day off and had a few short days to rest up and resupply. In that time, we have moved east through the Northern Cascades, through the Bitterroot Range and into the Rocky Mountains. We’ve crossed Washington, the “panhandle” of Idaho, and are a good 60 miles into Montana–our longest state–with a total of around 550 miles of the Northern Tier completed so far.

This trail is markedly different from other long-distance trails we’ve completed. There is a near continuous presence of people and towns. Even when tucked deep into national forest land on rural country roads where there may be a 30-minute gap between passing cars, the pavement and white lines are a regular reminder of the foundation of civilization that permeates and spreads and divides.

Even experiencing the mountains this way has been new. When hiking, you are tucked into the womb of mountains, following narrow trails shaded with a dappling of light that breaks through the leaf cover, following switchbacks up to a ridgeline where, when lucky, you are afforded a rewarding view. Hiking the mountains pulls you away and centers you, orbiting the spine of the range in a quiet, dark and rocky world. Cycling the mountains is like running your fingers along an egg shell. You feel the rough pockets and can trace the curves. If its a good egg, you may get the tiniest tuft of a feather or the smallest clump of earth. The inside, though, remains a mystery, separated by the thinnest of membranes. Riding a bike over a pass and along mountain roads affords the most spectacular views with more frequency than almost every mountain I have hiked. It is, however, primarily a superficial accomplishment. The peaks remain just in the distance. The dappled light remains just beyond the membrane.

In our second week, we began to notice the differences but we also settled into the similarities. Packing up your entire world every morning. Your tent, your sleeping bag, your supply of food. Looking at the route ahead, following the trail laid out on the map, looking for unwritten messages in the elevation profile, untold stories in the lines. Thinking about food. Thinking about food all the time. And most importantly, moving forward. The singular commonality between this trail and every other is the need to move forward. The drive coming from deep in your gut, telling you to just keep going towards that rising sun, towards that spot just beyond the horizon, past that mile marker, past the top of that hill, around that bend.

For me, the second week is one of irritability. By this point and after this many trails, I can very clearly identify it. The anticipation of the trip has ended, the beginning of the story has been written, now it is routine.

This second week is a week of moving bags and repacking gear in increasingly more efficient ways. Its a week of figuring out how much food is too much and how much is too little. Its a week of fine-tuning the liters of water you’ll carry. Its a week of sore muscles that aren’t going to get a break for many more months. Its a week of adjustment to the presence of the sun and the movement of the wind. Its a week of learning to appreciate slivers of shade and five minute breaks.

The second week is a week of communication. Its a week of adjustment. Its a week of writing and scratching out and rewriting a blueprint that will guide us down every road, over every mountain and through every day.