Category: 2016 Northern Tier: The ride

Day 11 Kettle Falls to Bacon Bike Hostel  18.5 miles

The iconic Bacon Bike Hostel sits high among the trees amidst rolling hills in Colville, WA. Shelly Bacon has dedicated her house to bikers equipped with kitchen, laundry and bedrooms. We arrived early after taking a slight detour (I dare not say we got lost) and joined a lovely Englander who was out for a 10-day ride. We also met Aldy the hostel lab, who I spent most of the afternoon and next morning playing hide and seek with.

Day 12 Bacon Bike Hostel to Lake Gillette Campground  23 miles

We had another short day to a beautiful spot beside Lake Gillette in Colville National Forest. We met a lovely guy, the only one in the campground that had just remodeled a travel trailer and was eager to show it off. He had bought the original for $100 and did quite an impressive job with homemade wood cabinets and a complete makeover of the floors and walls. He knew a lot about the history of the area, and told us about his quest for gold that apparently was buried high up around a homestead that was built in the early 1900s. The guy who buried the gold was murdered but no one has ever found it and this guy is on the hunt for it.  That night for dinner I mixed together an onion, lettuce, carrots and mac n cheese (dinner of champs).

Day 13 Lake Gillette Campground to Mill Creek Stealth site 35 miles

A storm pushed us off our bikes and back into a forested area along the river. We got the tent set up and all our gear in a few moments after the down pour started, so we were only slightly soaked. The rain lasted all afternoon and Matt and I had a shivering long afternoon in the tent. We finally got to peak outside just long enough to cook ramen over our alcohol stove. We then retreated back into the tent, as the rain continued to fall.

Day 14 Stealth Site to Priest River Recreation Area 36 miles

Heavy fog and mist made it hard to get out of the dry sleeping bags. There is nothing worse then to have to pack up a soaking wet tent, in 30′ weather. We made coffee with the leftover denatured alcohol, which was enough to warm us for a few minutes. We packed quickly and got on the bikes to warm up and get some internal body heat flowing. With all of my layers on, my hands were still freezing and I tried to position them behind my handle bar bag to protect them from the chill of the wind. We had a few slight climbs and descents and after 8 miles, sought refuge at the Manressa Grotto, a huge cave carved out along the Kalispel Indian Reservation. We stayed in the damp cave for about an hour, goofing off taking pictures and pretending to sword fight with sticks (entirely my idea). Soon blue sky started peaking out and we were off to Usk to pick up snacks for the day. We stopped at the one store in town and enjoyed two coffees, two amazing breakfast burritos and one chocolate donut. We ate outside on the curb, letting the sun warm our shoes and jackets. We pushed on passed New Port and into Priest River where we couldn’t turn down sandwiches and shakes from the local diner before camping at the biker friendly Recreation Area. That night we met a group of four from New England who were all biking the Northern Tier.

Day 15 Priest River Rec Area to Sandpoint 22 miles

A nice quick ride into Sandpoint. Saturday the city was bustling with a farmer’s market and a city wide bike ride for Autism. We decided to get a hotel room and couldn’t check in until 2pm. It was only 11am, so we decided to use their hot tub to soak my knee and walk around the town. Now I know this does not quite seem like roughing it, chilling in a hot tub, but I can’t tell you how much it helped my knee. The hours ticked by and soon it was time to retreat into the room, with a pizza and a local bottle of cabernet. Some how, the rain knew just when to open up and begin to pour, right as I lay in bed, ice on my knee and Dances with Wolves on the tv.

At this point our $19.99 track phone from Walmart has refused to turn on for the second time. You’d think we would be smart enough after the first one failed after a week of use, that we would do something else, but nope, just replaced it and hoped for the best. Sadly there are no Walmarts on our route thus far, so I will continue to carry this lifeless phone until I can return it and get my money back. However, we can use our I-pods when we have wifi, but calling to make reservations at campsites a head of time is not possible, so we’ll have to wing it.

Day 16 Sandpoint to Cabinet George Rec Area 40 miles

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY! We slept in until 7am and pigged out on a continental breakfast, waffles, hardboiled eggs, egg/cheese sausage sandwhich, apple, coffee and orange juice (and yes this is only what I ate). We were able to face time with Jeff and talk with Jerry to wish them a great Day. We then loaded everything up, turned in the keys and pedaled east following a railroad track along Lake Pend Oreille. Beautiful views of the lake surrounded by the mountains we continue to climb. Being Sunday, we didn’t have much traffic from semi’s and logging trucks. We ended up finding a small beautiful stealth site, not listed in our guide book.

Day 17 Cabinet George to Libby 54 miles

THANK YOU AMY FOR RECOMMENDING THE I-T BAND. I picked one up in Sandpoint and had some luck with it the day before, but today I had no knee pain in the afternoon. We also had to switch over to mountain time, which means we started at 8:30 am instead of 7:30. I feel somewhat defeated when we leave after 8 am. The first 15 miles were a breeze nestled deep within the woods along Highway 56. We stopped short as a pair of female Bighorn Sheep had their babies grazing along the highway. We stopped and watched them intensely as the babies would run back into the woods as cars would fly around the corners and then slowly come back out when all was clear and quiet.  At around 2pm we arrived at a possible camp site, but having the knee pain minimal, after I figured out the right tightness of the wrap, I was not ready to quit for the day. We cycled passed a store we were going to eat at, so we ended up eating lunch outside a closed restaurant. Our cheese and avocado wraps tasted delightful while rocking in the rocking chairs on the front porch of the restaurant. A nice man quietly opened the door and I thought he was going to throw us off the porch, but instead he just wanted to talk. This guy didn’t own the restaurant, but he had enough authority to let us in to use the restroom. He wished us well and we continued on stopping at Kootenai Falls where we walked across a swinging bridge and delightfully rested at the falls. There was no camping at the falls, so we filled up on water and were planning to stealth camp somewhere in the National Forest. However, the road quickly  became steep on both sides and I put it on auto pilot and drifted into Libby. We stayed at a campsite where I iced my knee and was in bed by 8.

Day 18 Libby to Campground 25.5 miles

Short day due to morning storms. We hung out at the local grocery store and used their wifi until noon when the rain stopped. We quickly biked out of town and rode on Old Haul Road. The stretch of road was like our own bike path along a railroad track, with rolling hills, beautiful yellow flowers and no cars. We made the short climb up to Libby Dam and then camped a few miles passed it. I soaked my knee in the river and had an impromptu swim when the sun came out at around 7pm. We are spotting more and more white tailed deer everyday.

Day 19 Campground to Eureka 35 mile

We met up with the group of four that we had met back in Washington and all camped at the city park along with another couple that was biking for a few weeks. We all set up our tents next to the Farmer’s Market that is held every Wednesday evening. It was great to see the artwork and have our tents front and center to all the locals walking around and able to listen to an accordion performance. So far we have hit four local farmer’s markets, which is a great way to see a glimpse of the town.

Day 20 Eureka to Columbia Falls 70 miles

This was our longest mileage day yet. Thank you I-T band, many podcasts and the ongoing soundtrack from my childhood of “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy down in my heart…where? Down in my heart….where?” That I continue to sing to myself as the miles drift by.

Day 21 Columbia Falls to West Glacier 17 miles 

700 miles plus 🙂

 

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.

Jodi and I crossed into Idaho two days ago! We had a short day into Sandpoint today, where we wandered around a farmers market and stocked up on supplies. We’ll be in Montana tomorrow or the next day!

Over the past week and a half, Jodi and I have crossed the Northern Cascades. We’ve crossed the Pacific Crest, we’ve climbed our highest pass in Washington, and we’ve cycled through valleys blazing under 90-plus degree heat.

We have traveled by bicycle a little more than 300 miles through Washington and are now looking east to the Rocky Mountains.

In this time and across this place, we have followed the movement of water, up and down mountains and through valleys. It has been our one constant. Water has determined where we would camp, where we would rest. The mist spraying off dark mountain stone has cooled us as we ascended steep mountain roads. We’ve kept pace with water tumbling downhill towards the valleys. We’ve washed off sweat and grime in cool mountain streams, let aching muscles and soreness slip away in shallow pools, and quickened our heartbeat plunging into snowmelt waters.

Never once, alongside these streams, have we thought to ask “whose water am I taking?” The water moves so quick here, it seems an endless supply pours out of the rocks. It seems a quick splash, a cool drink, could do no harm.

However, for those who live here, on the west side of the mountains, on the east side of the mountains, these cool streams and flowing waters affect their every moment, and to that end, we have become witness to the manipulation of movement, the focused direction of this shedding water, the casual indifference and careless waste.

We are travelers, passing through, our pace just slow enough to begin to observe this relationship to the land, to the water.

Several days ago, we camped at a small motel. We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and the proprietor told us we could camp anywhere, just away from the sprinkler. The sprinkler ran–tick, tick, tick–all afternoon. It ran after the sun went down, it was still running the following morning when we woke up. All night long, this water ran, from its cool headwaters down along wildflowers and Douglas Fir, along paper birch and past deer, down it ran into a concrete wall, a flooded pool, down it ran into a pipe, into a hose, into a sprinkler.

The east side of the mountains are dry and desertlike. It is so easy to see the effects of water use. To see the drought-tolerant landscapes butt up next to rich, soft green lawns and patchwork farms. It is so easy to cast blame on these farmers, on these residents, as we cycle past, to question the rationale in farming on volcanic ash, and dry, arid land. It is not so easy to forgo that apple, that pear.

And Moses lifted up his hand, and with his rod he struck the rock twice: and the water came out abundantly, and the congregation drank, and their animals also.
– Numbers 20:11

In the 1930s, with lands ravaged by the Dust Bowl, farmers starving and families suffering, development was focused on the Pacific Northwest, a land that promised bountiful harvest, if only the waters could be caught. If only the waters could be manipulated, redirected, focused.

The Civilian Conservation Corps, I believe, is one of the finest and most successful programs to ever come out of the United States. So many of our public lands, our bridges, our roadways, can be attributed to the work of 17-25 year-old young, single men (and later, women and married couples). It is not without its complications, but so many of the structures built by this program still stand strong, a lasting testament–and perhaps one of the few legitimate indicators–to the will and determination of the so-called American ideologue, the young, hard-worker putting in long, full days, doing meaningful work, sending home wages to his family.

In the late 1930s, the CCC were in full force, focused on projects throughout the country. Of those projects, the most notable are dams.

Dams have a profound effect on the rivers, watersheds and communities around them. They can reshape entire regions, and in the 1930s, dams were seen as our way forward, out of depression, an elixir for growth and development, a symbol of our ingenuity and strength, and a recreational wonderland. To that end, dams were constructed across the nation and only now are we beginning to question the long-term effects of these impoundments.

Two days ago, we crossed the Columbia River at Franklin D. Roosevelt Lake. The Columbia and its tributaries produce more than 44 percent of total U.S. hydroelectric generation. It is the fourth largest river,  by volume, in the United States.

How can we, traveling so briefly through this area, question the validity of damming this river? Of creating lakes where salmon should push? Of necessitating dependence on altered lands?

I salivate, pedaling beside fig trees that shouldn’t be there.

I fill my water bottles with dammed water.

On the western side of the mountains, the effects of these dams aren’t apparent. They’re hidden deep inside the moisture-rich lands. The effects flicker in the lights of downtown Seattle, they course through the warm showers of the bed and breakfast in that quaint little town. They add freshness to that microbrew. The rain coming off of the Pacific blankets the truth of damming these mighty rivers, of altering these lands and denying the many benefits of free-flowing water.

There are many studies on why rivers should remain free. The economic cost of maintaining dams, the environmental cost of maintaining dams, is wearily high. The effects upon indigenous people whose survival has been dependent on swift, free flowing water, whose cultural stories have been developed around mighty rivers. Western opinions on dams are changing; they are being removed at a rapid rate and rivers are being restored. But how can we not recognize perseverance and fortitude in such past times of depression and suffering? How can feelings of loss not be tempered by memories of starvation?

Before we came down to the Columbia, we passed Sherman Creek, a heritage site tucked in a small pocket on the side of the mountain. The creek ran quietly, like the lightest windchime, through a grassy field. Small conifers poked through the grasses. Wildflowers bloomed along the waters edge. There we sat, on a concrete bench, overlooking this winding stream.

The bench we sat on was a former spillway where a dam had stood. Sherman Creek had at one time been Sherman Lake, built in the late 1930s by the CCC. A small, log bathhouse still stood, the only structure besides the bench that still remained on the site.

Sitting there, my thoughts ran from the water up high on the hillside, down through the grasses and over the bench. They ran through the whispered memories of young men, writing home about the beauty of the Cascades, filled with pride in their work, work that would be there long after they were gone. Work that would memorialize them, that would connect them across the landscape and across the country, work that would allow for young children to swim in new lakes, for families to drive the Blue Ridge Parkway, and for motel hosts to run sprinklers all night.

Daily, we value water. Its proximity to us is at the forefront of every pedal stroke. Its weight on our bikes is ever-constant. Its coolness on a hot day, its threat of rain under cloudy skies, remains.

I always wonder, on these trips, how much of this will carry through when the journey is over. How will I feel water when I associate it with a tap again, and not a cool, clear stream? What relationship will I have with the watershed where my fruits and vegetables come from? What memories will be scattered, what struggles will be felt, what countries will be built, what ideologies will be changed with every drink, with every swallow?

 

We did it! We conquered Sherman Pass. The last three days have been a whirling of miles, small towns and cute resting spots. In Tonasket, the vistor center offers a patch of grass behind it for bikers headed through. We spent the evening visiting their local co-op treating ourselves to a bottle of their local hard blueberry cider shared over a radio-story from This American Life. We camped right across from a yoga studio, but being Sunday it was closed. Monday started right off the bat with a tough climb up the Wauconda Pass (4310′), preparing ourselves and my knee for next day to come. We peaked and descended and were surprised when the trail told us to hang a left onto a paved bicycle path that took us high above state road 20. It weaved in and out and around the mountain side. It was a nice enclosed ride closing out our day. That evening we set up camp outside Republic at their fair grounds. Free Ranged goats came up to us and sniffed at our gear. I had just resupplied and had a kale/spinach bag that i let them nibble at. They reminded me of my days spent with the goats at the Brevard Zoo’s Petting Zone. We also reunited with Dan and Lise and their tribe who are cycling for victims of strokes. They are pulling a travel trailer and our biking each day while a support crew brings the trailer to meet them along the way and at night. They are headed East as well but will finish in Boston. They are looking for a driver to help with the trailer over the next two months, so if you or you know of someone wanting to help check out Spokesfightingstrokes.org. We went to bed early and and parted with our new friends early the next morning to fight the 15 mile climb to our highest point on the Northern Tier, Sherman Pass. My knee ached the entire way and I had taken my recommended dose of Advil for the whole day by 11am. Two hours later we reached the top, took a break and clipped in for the final 20 mile steep descent. As long as I can just glide and not have to use my knee, I can get off the mountain. The wind had started wipping up, and the temp dropped, so we put on all our layers for the downhill. Face covered with a buff, the thrilling downhill had finally brought joy and pain relief. I had finally perfected my downhill and the fear was now replaced with joyful speed. We stopped 12 miles down at a spot where the CCC had built an American Camp during the Great Depression. A small pebbled creek runs along side a small meadow of wildflowers. The only building that remains is a small bath house and historical signs describing the area.   With the sun shining down on the creek we took a long break, ate a snack and  I soaked my knee. The pain was immediately gone as I rested it in the water. Had it not been in the low 60’s I would have gone for a full body submersion, but the air was too cold. As the clouds moved in, we left that special spot and completed the downhill across the Columbia River and into Kettle Falls campground. The east side of Sherman Pass was by far the prettiest part of the trip thus far. It followed a creek the whole way up with lots of waterfalls and dammed ponds.