Journey Through The Middle Kingdom
A transcription of the second book of daily journal from the
mid part of a long bicycle trip, Villa Grove, Colorado to Arcata,
California, April to September 1983. This portion spans from
northwestern Wyoming to Anacortes, Washington. All text is
copyrighted.
June 5, 1983
On an island in the Snake I have something to say:
I have transcended making a living, I am making a life.
Rich with the treasures this world can offer, alive with
the vitality of variety, far beyond many who's lives I
pass through, I would like to meet my equal. Though my path is
paved in gold I pass on alone, watched through glass by those who
see me as scenery.
I have entered the vastness, made my world bigger,
my niche is new born with each day, radiant with open
spaces. The pleasure grows with new harmonies, with each
discovery of wider vistas around the bend the persistence of
petty problems is pacified by the passage of time. The coaxing
of moments out of the hurry calms the distractions to settle amid
the blades of grass, and the world is washed clean
by the electrical rain. The loosening of schedules sets its
own pace, a merry care-more attitude of enjoyment makes
molehills out of the mountains and misery is left down the road
as merriment moves with me.
In this age, I have realized the dream, and I live it while
the world goes on dreaming.
Day 47 June 14, 1983
The mile markers of my life, spun through with transience
carved from the meetings of other lives, the quiet thresholds
crossed, the anguish and anxiety, the smoothness of cooperation
all blend in a palette of emotion, spread across the days of
peanut butter and jelly.
Who can cover the distance cast of fathoms of change? The
drivers who find progress in not going backwards can't,
nor the slipper-lost mothers rotting in their opal yards, many
are fleeing the bullseye, shadows of a forgotten aim. There is
one, bent by the crosses that shock the roadside, lulled by the
babbling of life stories, that sees the same and sees the
different, matched by the unasked question, who is the redeemer
of wonder with high psychic impact on the dreams of the lost
along the road. My mind is scoured by the corners of the lives
tumbled past me in a stream, and polished to a mirror finish by
the gritting of teeth, the small deaths, and the untaken chances,
to reflect the multitudes of others.
Under the light from a wider sky stand the mile markers
of my mind.
Day 48 49.O miles June 15, 1983
The starlit night brings a long slow dawn, breakfast in
paradise while the world goes to work. The sky builds high
clouds as I bend the blades of grass pushing past the
beehives, the trees bade me farewell. The Montana samba is
green and lush, empty and wild, the land aches to be
experienced, and the miles hum beneath my tires.
At Clyde Park I ask directions to hot H20 and get
conflicting information to sort, so I buy a peach, an ear of
corn, and a quart of milk. At Willsal I hit pay dirt, directions
are:
Four miles north of Ringling, turn right onto State road 294
to Martinsdale, ride about a half mile, looking to the left for 3
small trees about 100 yards off the road, go through the gate
in the fence.
Well after lunch under a tree, and the open miles to
Honest John's Saloon for a beer in a bar of 8 women, off to
hot water. Youch, it is hot! The water at the well head
is at least 115 degrees, downstream is toasty as there is lots of
flow! It's wide open here, barely enough space to hide bike.
I'll wait till night to set up tent. Got my first series
of soaks, the thunderstorm meditation, kneeling in rainsuit
on pad in ditch away from trees and bike.
The first electrical storm is past and now into the
second simple rainstorm. I'm dressed more so than usual, very
cold chill factor, windy and wet, but worry-less, as nothing is
set up, excess heat is available, and the Castle Mountains to the
north are enveloped in a changing shroud of rainfall when
I peek out from under the groundsheet.
The artesian well is bubbling its steamy gift, making this
open space special, my own personal if not very private hot
soak, translating this miserable weather into an O.K.,
I'm clean and all I need do is wait until dark. There is a
cooking problem in this wind and rain, but wow, this is such a
high energy spot, yet unnoticed and unused but by a
herd of cattle and me.
The storm is growing in intensity, the herd is followed
by a big black bull who huffs and bellows alarmingly yet
there is nothing I can't handle, the situation is at a
high cope level. I hope this storm is not too big, I may
have to set up tent in it. (water marks on paper here)
Things are getting wetter, and it looks like no relief to
the west, we'll see. The hot bath is a big plus, the storm
and lack of shelter a big minus, what a wild bunch of variables
to average out to a hum.
Later note: After my next immersion, red skinned in
steaming swimsuit I strolled back to the bike. Suddenly
I felt a sharp sting on my ankle and caught a glimpse of a brown
snake disappearing in the rocks.
Upon returning to the bike I examined my leg to find two
fang punctures on the side of my ankle, out of reach of my mouth
also I had no snake bite kit. The universe really hit me with a
cope, so I stayed calm. After a few minutes of no swelling I
decided the snake was not poisonous and set up my tent.
Day 49 23.4 miles June 16, 1983
Dawn brought the cattle lowing, during breakfast I heard
voices, but no car stop. There were two bicyclists discovering
the hot water so I arose and greeted them in bare feet as they
got in and out of the water. Shortly we walked down the hill to
where the late night pickup truck had gone, only to find cold
water at the foot of the hill. Dick and Jim from Billings hiked
about a half mile downstream to soak in cooler water while I
packed up. They came back, talked awhile and left heading east.
I got tucked away and did one last dip before
hitting the wind. It was a strong wind out of the west,
magnifying the slope of my westward climb. I passed a cowboy on
his horse with a dog herding cattle, then a man rolling up a
piece of wire to throw in a trash barrel.
The hill and wind got oppressive with dark clouds
approaching from the west so I tried to fake it out and
have the rain happen while I was sheltered in a dry
cattle crossing tunnel. It didn't so I kept climbing, walking
most of the time.
When the woods began, so did the sleek downhill, a
perfect cruising slope through dense Helena National Forest.
Bypassed the campground and with a few more miles of coasting
found the spot I was searching for, protected by a "No Vehicles"
sign. Pushed a ways up it, over the barriers and found the level
spot around the bend.
Rain began as I set up the tent, so I loaded it up and
hopped inside to escape the downpour. Before the rain quit
the sun came out strong, and stayed out long enough to
capture on my bare skin. Now the sun has faded behind a
cloud and it looks like rain again. Ah, it feeds the
forest, washes the cowshit off my tent, and breaks the
slate behind my bicycle.
Four human beings seen today, two interactive and two
just glimpses from the road. Montana is a wonderfully
empty country, be it wide open grassland or semi-dense
woods with spaces for flowers to bloom in the sun. The
mark of man is subtle and impermanent while that which
survives, survives well. I live in the love of the
Big Sky country.
Day 50 45.0 miles June 17, Friday
My lovely forest, quiet and serene, served me the
morning so gently, wrapped in the silence of dawn. A slow
awakening roused me to breakfast reclined in the dewy
grass, hesitating in the limpid sunshine. Eventually I got
going, such was my enjoyment that I rolled down the road
singing, breaking off my song to greet two bicyclists going
uphill on a bicoastal trip.
I talked with Jim and Kathy for at least an hour. They
wished to do as I but had too many pets; twelve cats, a do@,
birds, fish, and a tarantula, so they had to support them.
I told then of the hot artesian well and Kathy gave ne a
friendship pin to fasten to my shoelaces, the rage in
Cleveland. Jim gave me orange juice and we did several takes
on a goodbye as talking was so pleasant.
It's a beautiful day, even though I have a headwind
there is a nice downhill. I stop at the cool spring Jim told
me about and fill the canteens. Only one uphill grade before
Townsend and then the long straight downstretch into
civilization. It's a prim and friendly town with a well stocked
store, a park under the water tower, and a courthouse full of
scents of brass, polished wood, and tile. I ate lunch in the
park, bought a postcard and sent it to the Birchwood saying I
would arrive Tuesday, and make my way through town finding
that during lunch the wind had changed, giving me a strong
tailwind going north.
I cruised up the light grades going 10 mph in still
air, shirt off and gilded in sweat. Then the wind picked up and
sent me flying through Winston, trying to avoid getting my
helmet knocked off by a wide load and for a half-hour I was
speeding in 15th gear, even up hills!
Got close enough to Helena and turned off on the Canyon
Ferry road, considered a spot in the midst of hundreds of acres
of waving grass but too open. Reluctantly I coasted downhill
through commuter private property, then right at the four mile
marker I find this gully, out of sight of the road with pine and
cedars and broken glass. Only one spot for the tent which I may
have to set up soon as a big gray cloud rolled in and cut off my
sun.
I'm pleased with things, the weather is more
nude oriented and the smiles are caught and returned tenfold.
Day 51 28.6 miles June 18, 1983
Yesterday afternoon after writing, a man and his
daughter on two horses came over the hill, we talked a
bit and then they rode up the other side of the canyon.
An hour later when they rode back through I played them a song
and Dave urged me to go to the bar nearby, but I decided
to stay home.
During the night a helluva storm shook the tent
and made my sleep fitful, the morn was cool and windy,
but my tent faced east so I had sun inside, got going
and it was work! Pushed a couple hours to Helena, in East Helena
heard a weather report (winds 20 to 30 mph) and talked briefly
with a bicyclist zooming up and down the same stretch of highway.
In Helena I went to an expensive Albertson's where I read
"Bicycling" magazine, then found my way to the Museum of Montana
history and Charles Russell paintings. On the neat back streets
to Last Chance Gulch I passed an awesome cathedral then stopped
at the Real Food-Store and the park near the Moorish looking
civic center. Got water, got lost, missed Country Club Road, got
wimpy, unsure and negative directions but got out of town fully
stocked.
Wind was a killer, two different folks asked me
for directions (?) and the wind kept blowing with me in
second gear pushing into it. Two kids on dirt bikes
had problems so I fixed their busted spoke and the three of us:
Jamie, Troy, and I bucked wind for a while. Oh yes, Jamie
noticed I had a flat tire on my trailer.
Jamie invited me to camp at their house so we
walked up Sunnyside and I met the rest of the kids: Wendy,
Shelly, JoAnn, and Scott, and their parents Pam and Toby. Under
a barrage of questions, off-color jokes, and urgings to read
Treasure Island and Doctor Kildare, I set up the tent in their
backyard and cooked dinner. Real hospitable people; after I took
a shower I played many songs for them, each one followed by
applause.
The clocks chimed off the hours till the kids had to get
into jamas and bed, I asked Toby how all the kids were
12 and 13 years old, yet no twins? He replied, "There's hers,
mine and theirs, none of ours, but they're all ours." After a
couple of beers it was our bedtime too, so I went out to the
tent where I could see the lights of Helena through the trees.
Day 52 38.7 miles June 9, 1983
Another cold and windy morning, I packed up and
visited the house to say goodbye and tell the onions and garlic
story, Troy, Scott, and Jamie escorted me to the mailboxes.
The road wound up and down, I arrived at State Road 279
just in time to meet Frank from Germany, taking five months
to cross the country on a bicycle. At the Canyon Creek store I
was nuzzled by a friendly dog and greeted 3 bicyclists on a two
day tour with no sleeping bags. A few miles onward I ate lunch
under some cottonwood trees, dodging the rain but not the wind.
I headed up Flescher Pass, walking the last two and a half miles
to the continental divide at 6131 feet with snow falling on me
briefly, then shuddered down the other side as the wind was
knocking me around.
I pushed on, determined to top 36 miles despite the wind and
I did. Made my camp in a dense pine forest and contemplated if
I can make 88 miles to Missoula in 2 days bucking wind all
the way.
Day 53 33.0 miles June 20, 1983
The tall skinny pines were still swaying and still cold
this morn, so I go. At least it's dry! Wind won't let me
be, it dirties up my outlook and sets my mood akilter.
En route to Lincoln two kids were weaving back and
forth across the highway causing the big logging trucks
to honk. I yelled at them to get on the right side of
the road, then a little further I noticed I had a flat tire
on the rear wheel. The kids passed me while I was pumping
it up to get into Lincoln, then when I got going they had stopped
but started again to ride across the road from me. This pissed
me off as cars were honking, and I really hollered at those kids,
saying they shouldn't play games with the road and what they were
doing would either get them or me run over, and I asked them if
they wanted to live to be fifteen. The kids never said a word.
I got to the park in Lincoln, took off the wheel and
discovered it was an old patch given way so I repatched it, put
it back on and in pumping it up created a hole at the
base of the stem that was unpatchable. I took out my new
tube I had bought for the trip and found it had a gaping
hole. So I put on my other thrice patched tube, pumped it up
and put the wheel back on and patched the hole in the new tube.
Whew! I filled up the canteens and went to the store, then
just out of Lincoln at Keep Cool Creek met Tom from Lewiston,
Idaho, who took a picture of me. He was going to Deadwood, South
Dakota on a new cheap bike with steel rims and cranks. Well
onward into verdant Blackfoot canyon I spooked some white-tailed
deer at lunch, my table was a huge stump.
The times riding are crank-blank, so much work and wind I
get lost in it, eight miles further I'm disappointed to find I've
lost my handlebar plug. I started getting discouraged and
searching for a hole to crawl into when I meet a real lightweight
bicoaster from Jersey who tells me it's not far to the rest stop.
The last mile to the rest stop was stumbled part way, and there I
am dismayed by another flat tire, this time on the trailer.
At least I got my thinking cap on and found my helmet was
the perfect jack stand for it. I fixed the tire and cased the
rest stop but didn't like the proximity, so I found an unlocked
gate with no sign nearby and pushed through an aspen grove to my
own little long view and at last a clear sky.
This has been a frustrating day, a niggling not quite there
day, and I'm doing my best to rise above the petty problems and
hardships. My privacy is invaded by a four wheel
drive and for the first time in ages I've knocked over my
dinner, yet I'm trying to move that clear blue sky inside my
head and let the sun set on this day that wasn't mine.
As best I can figure I'm 56 miles from Missoula, which I
can make if there's no wind. With an early start I will have
the most daylight of all days for tomorrow is summer solstice
and Sloyd will be one year old. Many happy returns of the day!
Day 54 56.0 miles June 21,Tuesday
My resolve gave me an early start under a surprisingly
overcast sky, not a breath of wind, aha, I'll make it.
Out at the rest area it's 7:00 and with a shave I feel
hot to trot, sent singing down the road, the miles melting
beneath my wheels with many stops to dress less. Amazing what
you can do before noon with an early start, I climbed a mini-pass
and stopped at the store in Potomac for milk, then thrashed on to
the rest area for lunch 41 miles down the hatch.
I cruised a few more miles to stop by the Blackfoot River
for a solstice ritual, seven baths, blessings, and thanks,
and slowed myself down. The sun flashed bright on me at its
highest briefly so I knew the universe was listening. The world
has made me loved and this last year has been right. The meshing
of events is appropriate and down the road I roll.
In Bonner I'm ambushed by three kids yelling "Bang
Bang!" and shooting me repeatedly with sticks and click guns.
Upon entering Missoula I discover a wood sculptor moving into a
new shop and we talk briefly with a second meeting in
the future. On to the Birchwood to recoup and dissolve
crank blank, meet Bill and Larry on bikes from South Dakota then
we go to the bike shop for tires. I hit the Super Saver
for salad, bounce back to the Birchwood to get let in and
meet Liz from Australia and the weird compliment of off
the street strangers who drop in to sucker off the vibes
and hang out.
Ah, Youth Hostels! Gail says "Probably" to a trade,
Ernie is in Texas and the folks who stay here are mellow
but the visitors abrasive. So nice to have amenities,
shower and kitchen, electricity and a bed, I need to
organize my day into what to take and what to leave.
It's very late as sunset was hours ago at 9:05 p.m., but this
breather breathes life into no longer empty pages.
Day 57 36 miles in town June 24, 1983
The buddha is blocking out and the days melt by in a mellow
haze, Missoula mirrors my lassitude with urban
activity. The late night talks with the transients, soaking up
their rage and sharing my serenity: Greenpeace John said last
night about 4 a.m., "Hinduism is such a beautiful philosophy, I
wish I could believe in it." Ernie, mine host, returned from
Texax, Bill and Larry went back to New York, Bill the long
traveler came and went with the sproggle of cyclists on tour,
Bant the German careless and a flock of others watched
Heidi and Ralph wrestle T.V. style till Ernie called it quits.
I worked out at Woodrush then steeped in a college
atmosphere for an afternoon of shade trees and "Dear Sloyd"
letter, and now I'm in the midst of carving the first of two
trade commissions; a hitchhiking Buddha. I feel like a week
here will slip by like a day and yet be no loss.
The city seeps soft touch, shows a mild hard-core
face that breaks into smiles that are sometimes grotesque
but not by comparison. The bicycles indent the ambience; sure
it's in the U.S.A., but it's here. The survival level
is altered, allowing for an unfocused existence, still I'm
slowly shifting gears. The IF is not immediate, I receive a high
threshold of ma¤ana, but I am my own keeper and that's what
counts.
My role has changed, rather than enriched I am the
enricher, and richer for it. Somebody has to do it. I told John
I was the universe's maintenance man because I see
things that need to be done that no one else will do or even
sees; so I kick the corners, carve the Buddha and fill in the
blanks in the universe's plan. Yet it has to be done with a bit
of blue sky, a peace of the mind and a smile so it won't become
the burden of saving the world, no it's just another step along
the way.
Day 67 37.0 miles July 4th, Monday
Otch, me missoula disengaged. Saturday morning I left
the hostel in a pouring rain to go over to Gary's apartment and
I stayed till this morn giving him life lessons. I felt
unfulfilled, like I had not gotten back from the city what I gave
but still there were moments: Marcia and I half-tight on a
bottle of wine over frozen dinners, Randall's precise location
and fade away, Gary's readiness for new life, Ernie and Gail's
hospitality, Greenpeace John's grip on the arms or the chair as
he deplores a sick world, or Mountainbike John's slow opening to
be. Through it all I'm there: playing, singing and saying hello,
getting little sleep for the people that need me, yes
I must go. The unripeness of leaving was frustrating,
but a lot had to be said, the zoo-ness of dorm life was
wearying, but the folks had to be met. I wished for more, yet I
got a lot to deal with. So after a night of talking till 5 a.m. I
awoke to blue sky out the window and ready to go. All packed up
I said goodbye to Gary, stopped at the Safeway and cruised by
12:30.
What a change being back to moving. To turn the pedals I
don't need to explain, just turn the pedals. That constant
stroke says 0.K., you're going forward now, the road knows, so
don't talk, just go, I've got the power and place to sort out the
last 12 days, far from regrets or satisfaction. The miles melt
the interaction minimal, I cope with the grain of the day
subsiding in feeling, trying to gain a tree-wrapped blankness and
a fresh turned fertile mind set.
I wonder who I will be next time I stop? Ah, it's all me
as I wrestle with the gods themselves, soar out of the group
head to repose in the weeds by a railroad track, under a bridge
the shadows of cars pass over. It's back to the blessings of the
rolling wheel, get me some sleep and solitude and tomorrow will
be finer. The concrete temple knows its own solidity, just west
of Ravalli, out in Montana. Believe!
Day 68 70.9 miles July 5, 1983
Woke up in Hevan's Devils Turf to the whump of trucks on
the bridge overhead and the murmur of Jocko river. Got an early
start in the warming morning under dissipating high clouds.
Oh those miles were covered like sheets on a bed as the sun
bore down on a suddenly bigger river. Approaching
Paradise the land seemed to take on a green ruggedness,
lush and steep, the river coursing through it with swift
power.
In Paradise I wrote a few postcards and mailed 5
letters, just to have that ultimate postmark. The kids
scoured the park for the remains of the holiday and
after lunch I took off with a tailwind, ready to conquer
the road.
Alas, shortly I was held up a good while for
construction and once on the move, the bumpy gravel shook loose
my generator and threw it into the spokes of the front wheel.
None broke, and I managed a temporary fix to ride into Plains,
where 11 cents at the hardware bought me new bolts to replace the
bent ones.
Onward, despite my high mileage it was only 2 p.m.,
so down the road to Thompson Falls. Halfway a U.P.S. man pointed
out a cool spring, then I met Kerwin from Heron on a short bike
trip to Helena. In Thompson Falls I stopped at the store,
consumed beer and potato salad and tried to
call the Whiting's twice. No answer so I wearily head
there anyway as the bank clock read 88 degrees. One section of
the highway was shaded by the mountain abutting the river
in cool relief, and with the explicit directions I found
no one home but a frisky kitten.
I'm sitting on the steps of this new country home,
exhausted from my record day pulling a trailer and eyeing the
hammock. I feel like Missoula has at last worn away, I'm
entering the Northwest land and it sure is beautiful, Larry
showed up while I was eating dinner, he presented me a couple of
beers and the basement bedroom, we gabbed and I sang into the
night.
Day 69 22.8 miles July 6, 1983
Larry woke early to go to work as a sawyer, he watched
T.V. and drank coffee while I rubbed my eyes and mumbled through
granola. Bong the regulator chimes seven times and he's off. I
chew through a Time magazine and then so out and hack away at the
front porch post. It was cold and raining so I was bundled up
and in vinyl jacket, then the sun came out and I was nude,
chipping away at the finishing touches on a face inset into a 6x6
post on the left side of the door facing the driveway.
The face is oval and fat, grinning out with a knot in
the pupil of one eye. I left a note that read:
"Dear Charlene and Larry,
I'd like you to meet Coe. He's been in your post
a long time, I just moved the wood from in front of his eyes
so he can watch as he weathers. He will guard your door
from frowns and bless all who enter with a smile. You've
made my journey a bit brighter, I hope he brings you a
lifetime of joy. It's the least I can do in return for you
opening your home to those on the road.
Thank you,
Sloyd."
I baked and boogied at 12:30, flowing down the road I
had one glimpse of the river, then amid long straight-aways saw
a biker approaching in the distance. Jack was from Priest River,
a high school guidance counselor bopping down the back roads to
Boise. He recommended a cemetery a quarter mile down the road
where I sat back and stared at the gravestone of Jack, piecing
together the unchewed remnants of my tag end loaves that had been
attacked by pets that morning.
After slamming the gate shut the road wound into
Trout Creek, where a pretty young lady asked me if I had any
problems on the trip. No, I go slow. Slow was the key crossing
the bridge over the Clark Fork river, pausing at the ranger
station for a map, then cranking under hot and threatening gray
skies to meet the railroad and the shore of Noxon reservoir.
I found my field of ferns, waist high wondrous green,
ditched the bike and trailer and minimalized down to the
lake shore where the wind had raised small surf. Immersion in
the waves cleansed me and gave me new life, to bounce back
through the echoey tube of a culvert and set up the tent as the
first drops fell. Tumbled inside to wait out the storm, then
emerged to a glistening fern country where I stretched naked in
the slanted shafts of afternoon sun.
It all comes down to now, back in my element, where the
squirrels scold and birds chirp and I can hear the lapping of
the lake beyond the railroad track. After all the houses it's
nice to be home in the middle of what is mine; this sparkling
land of green in the big sky country.
Day 70 40 miles July 7, 1983
Ah, sleep, sweet sleep, despite some hazily recalled
trains passing in the night, my fern grove is a private place to
lay redolent, lazy gain in rain splatters.
The sun arrives sliding twixt the drops, and I'm
so slow loving it that 1 p.m. sees me gone at last. This is the
lush land of solitude, the towns across the river are far from my
pedaling presence. The Rock Islands, green and gray schooners of
forest and stone pass, also NOXON, a mystical looking word, then
once beyond Heron, the magical Montana state line.
All of a sudden I'm in Idaho, bathing and basking while
lunching on the shore of the Clark Fork river. Up and down goes
the road to the town of Clark Fork, I stop in the store and stock
up to Sandpoint, the folks tell me of Samowen so I head there,
Well I'm not a vehicle and $5 is too much so I sneak up a service
road; swam a half mile in Pend O Reille lake, and snuck off to my
free and-easy campsite feeling good and tired.
Day 71 Rain all day July 8, 1983
Day 72 31.8 miles July 9, 1983
Morning was tentatively good, at least no rain like the day
before confining me to my tent. I packed simply before going to
the swimming beach to shave, swim, and eat breakfast shivering.
The day seemed to be turning up better as I went Beyond Hope,
East Hope, and Hope itself, cruising beside this large mountain
lake complete with seagulls wheeling over the piers of marinas
while the gray clouds released their grip on the green peaks.
Before long I was entering Sandpoint, stocking up and
stopping at the Chamber of Commerce for a map and a large pill
containing capsule facts of Sandpoint. I sorted it all out at
the city beach park. Next to the beach was Windbag Sailboat
Rentals, I checked it out for a windsurfer.
At first it seemed possible to barter, but the guy wanted
only a wooden salad set, as the wood would set me back $9 I
rented a windsurfer for an hour for $6 and had my thrills
cheaper. He loaned me a wet suit for free and I took to the lake
with a passion, tacking out beyond the breakwater to reach long
stretches into the distance. The wind was good for sailing yet
not strong enough for soaring, I brushed up on my technique and
got in a good run. Then I asked some topless ladies sunning on a
drifting boat what time it was and luffed broadside back to the
harbor.
I went back to the beach again to change and eat lunch,
then rode on down the road out of Sandpoint, through Dover and
into the country. I came across a small sign saying "Bicycles -
Free Cold Water" so I pulled my rig in. An elderly lady gave me
some water and told me to stop in the log cabin where her son
lived, as it was he who erected the sign. I did and met David,
Frieda and Nathan Blood, a hospitable family of Seventh Day
Adventists. I ended up camping in their backyard and having
dinner with them.
The evening passed with intelligent discussion of mutual beliefs,
we had much in common despite our differences.
Day 73 37.4 miles July 10, 1983
Morning was mellow, made of a good breakfast and a
goodbye to Frieda and little Nathan.
The road rolls up and down, I creaked up a wind to
Priest River and stopped in a store to spend more money, now I
am better stocked. Rambled on out of town to find non-existent
Albani Falls, a trimmed park of tourists and the
core of Army pervasion where I sort and lunch. Poof! After
lunch instant Washington, once past Newport I turn onto a quieter
road. At a viewpoint I discover the belt off on the odometer,
and am interrogated by a pipe smoker who informs me of the
proper way to pronounce the Pend 0 Reille River that flows by
below.
Onward I search for the evenings resting place. In
Dalkena by a church I meet two walkers who are father and son.
The father was completing a border traverse from Maine, after
crossing the southern U.S. and the length of the West coast. We
talked for a while then they had to continue their slow pace, so
I left them behind and finally found my spot in the woods. It's
a nice spot except for the millions of mosquitos. The woods are
much thicker here and the air more humid.
Day 74 37.5 miles July 11, 1983
Sufficient sleep comes with repeat performances. The fabric
skin of the dome is pierced by the hypodermic tongues of too many
mosquitos so I put off exit until I'm organized for a mad dash
punctuated by swats, to trip out of the dry, damp, dark, clear
forest and down the road.
One mile out I re-run into the two hikers, Butch and Jim
with their dog. Our speech is full of road talk and general cope
in motion that makes me feel fine-tuned, just the right amount
of slow. One of the few people who wished he could go as fast as
me, Jim the younger, gives me a heavy-duty bungee cord he had
found. In Cusick I dropped two postcards to set up an Anacortes
mail drop, bopped over to the store followed by a gaggle of
kids, to purchase spinach and bananas and then cruise from
Cusick for one last bing past the walkers.
Shortly I meet Shelly and Chris on Schwinns and in
makeup from Castle Rock, Washington. They had ridden through
downtown Seattle on the first leg of their first trip. ( Over a
month later I talked to Shelly again on a beach
in Oregon.) Another ten miles in an eyeblink and along comes
John from Australia. We talk for hours about ridgididgi,
probation, friendship pins, mutual routes, summit mile posts,
addresses, and culture comparisons.
The reminder of time splatters on the skin in tiny
intermittent raindrops, a gradual gathering of the "cooling
mist" as a Blueslide lady smilingly refers to it. Up the hill
through the impending wet where a small station wagon full of
family offers me a place to stay for the night. They give me
directions to there house and leave, I lift my voice in song to
the gray skies cheerier with dry hope.
Yes, the wet evolves to rain in the miles to Tiger, where a
long-haired lady shows me hair barrettes made by the mother of
the family I'm to stay with; the Nordstroms of Ione. I roll the
last three miles with a shortstop at the airport grocery, then
over the open metalwork bridge spanning the Pend O Reille river
to the first house on the left, marked by a blue mailbox with a
white star on it.
A group of people looking stunned, and lots of blank faced
absorbing kids are not saying much in the conversation dominated
by a barking doberman. "Mom's not here and Dad went swimming" so
I went swimming also, under what seemed to be an almost ernest
rainfall, in a duckweed clogged and overflowing swimming hole
with dock and diving board. The first of many hospitable acts,
Mr. Nordstrom brings me a towel, and I tell him about a sand
drop.
Out of the water we dry off and change to go stand by the
bike and talk, very soon supper is ready with introductions all
around. Joan is the darkhaired and plump mother who receives
much joy from setting a fine table for 12, and being a congenial
hostess. David is the father, bald, bearded, blond, and relaxed.
Their kids are Donna, Andy, Tim, and Ruthie. The stunned ones
are road-shocked family of the sister of Joan, Americans living
10 years in Canada. Dinner is an active affair with dishes
whisked on and off by Joan, the adults at the dining room table
and the kids eating from T.V. trays in the living room. It's
followed by a perfectly timed hot apple crisp, then a hit the
road exit by sister and family.
The evening settles down with the meal and the guitar comes
out. It's nice, there's no T.V. in the house. The kids whisper
a bit of song, but the singing is up to me so I row through it,
interspersed with personal references. The kids bring out the
tiny guitar no one can play, I tune it up and play "King of the
Road" on it. Tim grabs it and wails away, so he is sent back to
his room to practice.
The time is right for the portfolio, my woodcarvings are
silently digested with the only emphasis on sign ability, then
it's bedtime for the kids. I fix my glasses with their jeweler's
screwdrivers and am left to a hot bath and clean sheets in the
toy corner of the living room, a guest among the untouched
Rubik's cubes.
Day 75 10 miles July 12, 1983
The soft rain went on all night and past the dawn, a soft
morn when I rose early and shaved before the Nordstroms stirred.
Breakfast was a half grapefruit, orange juice, milk, oatmeal, and
waffles, with some songs. Philosophical talk of transcendental
meditation while working out, a mix of bench presses and
instruction, motivation and finances, then more music on the
piano and singing with the guitar.
Well, I might as well stay for lunch, another beautiful
table set, then we drill holes in the metal slow moving vehicle
sign.
David mentioned how God has lots of time, He's bigger
than conception, and said that is what he was impressed with of
me; how I threw out the schedule and gave myself time.
He told me of the hurry of a co-worker at the Box Canyon Dam,
who, instead of stopping to think about the problem
or why a breaker would not fit, grabbed it and shoved it in
and was electrocuted for his efforts. David also told me
of his once being a Seventh Day Adventist and how now the 7th
Day A's hated him worse as a heretic than an infidel; he'd rather
be a heretic than miss the truth when it's presented.
Out in the driveway I trimmed my load for travel and
David let the doberman loose so he could chase me to the bridge.
The dog ran up to the road and chased a pickup truck passing by,
managed to get run over, then ran back
to us yelping and proceeded to die in convulsions at our feet.
David said, "Oh, it was about time for a Black Lab anyway." I
never found out if the doberman had a name.
On that note I separated from the squadron of kids on
bikes, crossed the bridge and headed for the pass. Four miles in
a light drip and I start climbing, walking, and sweating another
three to the top.
I refer to the map John gave me and decide on Nile Lake.
Here I am near Nile, with it's lily pads and fishermen, under a
still gray sky I'm laid back.
Day 76 No miles July 13, Wednesday
The Nordstrom family showed up just before dark yesterday,
they had been looking for me. David did some prophecy, averting
his eyes and hiding behind the phrase "We believe." I tried to
give him comfort for he revealed tough times to me, but I am in
the "cathedral in the wilderness" as he calls it, and my temple,
my church, my body is not forsaken.
Shortly after dark rain began to fall, and fell steadily all
through the night and the next day, except for an hour between 4
and 5 p.m,. I slept late, wrote a letter to the multicolored
mountain Goat saying who I am, sorted out my wallet, nibbled,
munched, and played guitar during the dry.
It's a quiet spot, though it's close to the road there is
little traffic, and the sandy graver where my tent is keeps
puddles from forming. I feel relaxed but I hope this rain is not
permanent. Oh yes, I finished reading 760 page "The Agony and
the Ecstasy" by Irving Stone. So ends another rainy day by the
Nile ala Washington.
Day 77 46.1 miles July 14, 1983
At last blue sky, rejoice in the sun! I dried out the tent,
sleeping bag, etcetera while soaking it in. Nile Lake became
busy so I did some push-ups and left about noon. At Lake Leo I
dumped my trash and filled up with water. An old lady in a
camper said I could share her campsite but I wanted to do more
than a mile today.
On past Thomas Lake and Coffin Lake to stop at Crystal
Falls where a L.A. Hawaiian examines my bike, proclaims it not
that good a bike (a lot better bikes are rusting in garages) and
leaves me to eat my sandwich.
I coast down and shortly arrive in Colville, stock up
and eat, then spot a second bookstore while leaving. While
checking out the titles a bicyclist by name of Don enters to
talk to me but my mind derails so he leaves, then the guy
running the store gives me an extra book
so I book. I bump past Kettle Falls, over the Columbia and up
into the woods to camp. I've got a spot of rain, a view of the
mighty river, and the dynamo hum of the powerhouse on the other
shore.
Day 78 25.3 miles July 15, 1983
Talk to someone, no, I didn't talk to anyone today. I
awoke to a low cloud hovering over the Columbia, the sun wan to
non-existent. I packed in my bare skin and left the site at 5
minutes to 10. However while stopping to pump up the tires I
blew out a tube in front, install my last spare but then a brake
pad falls off so that must be replaced, I arrive at the road with
dirty hands at 10:35.
One short run in high gear, then begins the climb, a water
stop at Canyon Creek campground, then up through changing mist to
sun to mist, 3rd gear, 2nd gear, 1st gear, walking. I
walked most all of the last six miles, sometimes zombied,
sometimes elsewhere, sometimes there, step, step. At last the
top of 5575 foot Sherman pass, up from the Columbia river at
less than a 1000 feet.
I put on my jacket for the run down four miles to take the
first left. I push my bike up a dirt road around Mt. Washington
to new growth with a bit of open sky. A bit more rain and the
afternoon is gone. I'm feeling still inside, my ears still
ringing from a truck that backfired next to me.
Day 79 23 miles July 16, 1983
Peering straight up into the sunlit blue sky rimed on the
edges by evergreen, I feel as if I have fallen into a well filled
with winter. Crusts of hard white ice cover the ground and the
air is chill with a low mist that weaves through the bases of the
moss-covered trees. One hundred feet above me is a late summer
afternoon, but my fingers are frozen and two inches of ice in
piles of hailstones ornament the forest, I ain't going nowhere.
I froze into Sweat Creek campground and humbly observed it cost
$4.00, so I found a gate and pushed past a staring black cow with
a yellow tag #130 in her ear.
The day was balmy with some sun while I ate peanut butter
and jellies in Republic park where a pistol packing kid informed
me I could get to the coast tonight by car.
Tony the hitchhiker who was tired of hitching, said he would
go with me if he had a bike, so I replied I had noticed some
bikes for sale two blocks back. We rode/walked back to the
Good-as-new store where there were two old women's Schwinn one-
speeds. The shop wanted $40 each for them, more than Tony could
afford. He didn't have a sleeping bag, he told me how he was
sleeping in the alley behind the bus station in Washington, D.C.,
when he woke in the morning he had a bump on his head and no
sleeping bag. He promised he would try to get a bike and catch
up with me. Huh. He and the two motorcyclists both smoked
Camels, the motorcyclists claimed to be avid bicyclists, but the
bikes are home in the garage, not enough time.
Time. Half of the miles today were covered in a half hour
at 11 after a quick late start, a fast zip down the hill into
sunshine to stop at the store then up into town, past an airborne
dirt-biker and a jackhammer operator digging in the road. Once
in town I go to the hardware store for an inner tube and water,
then park in the park behind the store.
Oh what a sunny day, but not for long. Those thick ominous
clouds tromped in from the west and after the trip with Tony I
climbed into them, over the county line and up to the national
forest just as the rain started pouring down. I dashed, and on
the right arose an old hog feeding shed, shelter from the storm.
I managed to miss most of the hailstones beneath it but not the
rain as the roof leaked pretty bad. After a while I figured
staying there was as wet as being on the road, so I put on the
rain suit and schlepped out into it.
I sped down the road dodging piles of hailstones, only a
half mile to Sweat Creek. Instant winter slush, worse because
the hailstones floated on the surface of deep puddles,
camouflaging them to look like solid surface until you step in
one up to your ankle. It will most likely be a frosty evening,
different to be ice-bound in mid-July, I guess from this point
the weather can only get better.
Day 80 39.9 miles July 17, Sunday
First thing moved everything into the sunshine sixty feet
away. I settled down to a brilliant morn, turning and rotating
the slow shuffle of objects to follow the patch of sun as the ice
melts and the sleeping bag dries.
Close to noon I checked out of the misty woods, went to the
well for water and there a forest ranger said I had ambition.
Huh. If I had ambition I'd get a job. Down the road I go, or
rather up the road over a mini-pass to a short run down the other
side to pause for a naked lunch.
Afterwards a long coast of sweet swooping turns,
passing motorcycles on their way up going the same speed. Blink
through Wacounda and on down till I meet 12 bicyclists, junior
high
school students from Spokane en route to Newport with no front
panniers. One had a flat tire and the tour leader fixed it. We
talked for a bit then down into Tonasket I glide, slip in the Sac
& Pac and find out about this place: Grumbacher Lake.
Riding out of town I meet Tom and Ted from Indiana, on the
road almost as many days as I. I gave them the Colville National
Forest Map from John, nearly bought some plastic and on we go our
opposite ways. Ta dum, Ta dee, pedal along the busy highway till
the sign in fine print points to an entrance blocked by a cable,
no problem, I slide my rig under. I find a home spot out of
sight of the road, watched over by rugged cliffs and a short ways
from the "dinky" lake, big enough with a deep feeling, clear
water, and fish. I walked down for a bath and swim, so nice I
feel clean now, refreshed and recharged by the stillness of
standing waist deep in the lake, fingers unmoving on the surface,
soaking in the calls of the birds about their nests in the
cliffs.
Such a super fine day, no rain or ice or endless gray, I
feel deja-vu here, like somehow I've been here before. The parts
we are made of were once a part of everything else.
Day 81 30.3 miles July 18, Monday
Dive in, life is fine! The day began with my all time favorite
recreational sport, sunbathing. Light for breakfast, more light
for lunch. About 11:00 I cast off from this dark sparkling gem
of cool water set deep in the steepness of the mountainsides.
Brringgg goes the bell on my handlebar as I bounce along the
shoulder, the wind at my back and the sun is high and hotter,
Riverside by the wayside as I head for Omak.
In Omak I do the dance of bank procedure to receive a
receipt for the carrying of a cashier's check 25 feet, sign here
22 times and over to the Safeway to again spend too much money
but I eat well, oh well. With grocery bag balanced on handlebars
I walk to the park past the bank, dump it all on a picnic table
and proceed to stuff my face while gabbing with a couple riding
bikes from Okanogan. The guy shows me a longer but easier route
to Twisp, avoiding 4000 feet of climbing. I felt like I didn't
want to haul Safeway over the hill, so I said I'd go for it. Out
into the heat I did, through 95 degree Okanogan and off at the
turnoff to Malott, through orchards of apples with signs that
said "No Help Needed" and clusters of empty pickers cottages,
tiny but tidy. Malott had the ever present bar, a store and a
few houses. On past it I climbed the hill the guy described, saw
open space far to the south, and a little used dirt road leading
down to the river.
The dirt road went down a hill to an open gate and green
sign saying "Close Gate", so I did with me inside this wildlife
refuge. The Okanogan river is my bath, sun on my buns and the
sky devoid of cloud, so balmy I'm going to sleep out of the tent
tonight, beneath the boughs of a cottonwood tree. The hills to
the north shift as shadows set them out from one another. The
world is so beautiful!
Day 82 34.4 miles July 19,Tuesday
Dawn was clear, the sun striking my sleeping bag as it cleared
the horizon. I breakfasted in waning light, then took my leave
as dark clouds rolled in. The trail led to Brewster, I hopped
over to the IGA, hey, then on to Pateros.
In Pateros I stopped in the park on the Columbia, where two
hitch-hikers discussed fishing. I ate in shelter from
the rain and conversed with Mark for hours. He was a fast talker
from Detroit, discovering the good life, trimming apple trees
and picking cherries instead of making cars at Chrysler.
We parted after three hours and I rode up along the Methow
river, a colder, clearer, and more rushing river than the
Okanogan. Past the town of Methow I parked under a bridge, where
I am now writing by the pink flashes of lightning, dry but
windblown in the storm.
Day 83 38.0 miles July 20, 1983
The thunder in the night mixed well with the whoomp of cars
passing overhead, I kicked back into dream land and did serials
until almost nine, then cereal. As a temporary troll emerging, I
shortly encountered a lady pushing a stroller toward the bridge;
a double wide stroller with twin blond boys in it.
Further on a few miles I stopped at a fruit stand to buy
cherries, apricots and peaches, and there I weighed my rig on an
old fruit scale in front. My trailer weighed 130 pounds, the
bike 70 pounds, and I weighed 205 pounds, so my guess of just
over 400 for the whole rig and me was accurate. After Carlton I
met Paul due in Seattle tomorrow noon, he circled in the highway
to talk, rather than unstrap his feet. Then at the store in
Twisp met John and David on bikes from Palo Alto going the long
way to the Grand Canyon via Montana. I ate lunch in the Twisp
city park,and afterwards en route to Winthrop met Steve from
Seattle, who warned me "Winthrop is a tourist trap!"
The historical marker said the first western novel was
written there in 1902, but now I see video cameras. Technology
is so wonderful, the tourists can go home and watch where they've
been on T.V. The fortunately short downtown was done in a rustic
Western theme, right in the middle some jerk planted himself in
the street in front of me to holler "Where ya headed?" twice
before I whispered "Death" into his passing ear. But I made it
through alive, stopping at a fruit stand just short of the wooden
gateway to the Cascades. I drank fresh apple juice and chatted
with Brad who ran the juicer, presenting him with my copy of "The
Third Industrial Revolution." He invited me to stop by if I pass
through again, and told me good spots to camp could be found
after the bridge, seven miles up.
So I cooked into a strong head wind, stampeded a herd of
cattle, arrived here by the Methow River. I bathed in its icy
water and caught the last sun as young girls on horseback
galloped to and fro on the other side of the river. Improved
planet arises, ya.
Day 84 18.2 miles Thursday, July 21
The horses galloped again this morn, I fixed two broken
spokes in the cart wheel and wrote a letter baking in the hot
sun. Twelve thirty rolled around and I rolled over and left.
The road gave me steep uphills and gentle downs, following
the river to Mazama. In the window of the store sat a man behind
two signs. One sign said "Wanted - Information on Marijuana
Growers in Okanogan County, contact Sheriff", and the other sign
said "WE HAVE SEEDS!"
Lunch in Early Winters, along side the Early Winters Creek,
then on up the pass. The climb was not at all steep, but had a
variation of walking sections and gliding sections. A convoy of
Mexicans in an old car and older Econoline made worse time than
I; the second time I passed them they asked how far to the next
town. Forty-nine miles.
Two miles further I cut off at Cutthroat Creek, slip into
the steep woods and drape my body over a rock in the last rays of
the afternoon sun.
Day 84 15.7 miles Friday, July 22
My sleep was spotty with strange dreams; party swing and a
charactiture drawn of me. I woke all of a sudden realizing it's
9 a.m. The woods filled me with the green smell of fir as I
stretched my browning body in the morning sun.
Shaved and fed, I rolled down the Cutthroat Creek Road at
eleven to climb the pass and catch up with Bob, 59 years old from
Spokane on a touring bike. He set an easy pace as we pedaled up
the mountain in first gear with plenty of stops.
Bob was a retired mining engineer so he described the
process that made the cirque we were in. We stopped for lunch on
the top of Washington Pass and ate at a shady picnic table. It
was pleasant to have someone to answer the tourists' questions
for me. Whipping down the other side we hit 37 m.p.h. according
to Bob's speedometer, braked to a stop by a rock cascade to fill
up our canteens then on down to climb up Rainy Pass, an easy
climb compared to the first.
We parted ways at the top and I started my slow descent
searching for a spot to soak up this glorious cloudless blue sky.
That's hard to do in a rain forest where the only sunlight is on
the road. The woods looked cool and dank, full of crystal clear
streams, but I know me and I want sunshine if it's to be had.
After many stops to peer into the uninterrupted depths of tall
evergreens, I came across a man-made clearing, a gravel pile and
logged area.
Sun on my buns, gonna soak them bones till it's time to set
up camp. Ah, what luck to be in a rain forest when it's not
raining, it balances off the time sitting in a cave near Moab in
the desert watching the rain fall. This country I'm in now is
rugged and lush, with rocky pinnacles reaching out of shrouds of
snow, grasping for pieces of stark blue sky, and so am I. Blue
sky is in short supply, I'm a lucky man.
Day 85 42.4 miles July 23, 1983
Right at dawn I heard raindrops on the tent so I jump up to
cover bike and tent then back inside to catch some Z's and listen
to the rain. At 8 I start the day glad the rain quit and the sky
is clearing, later on the road I met Earl, 66, very proud to have
done a century two days before up from Seattle to Newhalem. A
few miles on I met a family of Albertans from Edmonton.
After a nice long run to Panther Creek, a climb to look out
over Ross Lake while a man who's spending his kids' inheritance
describes where he has been and when, comparing it to my trip,
and a woman who said I must have good legs. I get hard to open
in such situations, I feel like a refrigerator door and the folks
just gaze blankly undeciding while all the cold spills out. Rip
down to the lake, bonk through a campground to eat lunch amid a
heavy undergrowth of tourists.
Press into the wind, blasting through cuts and tunnels down
to Newhalem where a pleasing store offers cold seedless purple
grapes and peaches. The rowdy bikers (on Harley's) have a
spokesman who interrogates me terse and to the point, "How many
miles? From? Financed by? Now this guy is really biking!" I
leave their loud hug and struggle to sit in a latticed flower
room, eating fruit and entertained by a small boy and a small
dog.
Newhalem is a company town, owned by the city of Seattle.
The town was painstakingly neat and had an extensive park,
covering half the area. The park had chin up bars, a football
game, and rotating sprinklers.
Cruising on I met an Aussie from Sydney who had hiked a lot
in the U.S. We watched one crazy driver of a motor home swerve
past another then part ways. On a windward glide push of ten
more miles there are lots of little side roads but I wait till
one feels right and take it, turning left to the river.
Yahoo! Sun space and big private level, swift flowing
Skagit bath on mossy soft rocks, laid back and taking in the
conclusion of the day, washed by a restless wind.
Day 86 50.2 miles July 24, Sunday
Morning was a gray affair; efficient despite myself I'm
rolling by 9:30 and in less than a mile I leave the Ross
Recreation Area. A calm descends green-aired, Mark from Seattle
had little to say and so did I. Marblemount, Rockport, into
Concrete to do the dance of the supermarket, backtrack and catch
the bridge over the Skagit River.
Ah, excellent narrow road with little traffic, the rain
forest canopy covering sections. I'm becoming aware of how thick
the rain forest is, impassable and damp with ferns, raspberries,
blackberries and thorns. The only access is from man's
intervention, such as roads and cleared land, and wherever the
sun is allowed in the thorny berries grow in dense hedges along
the edges. Deep in the shadows of the rain forest it is ferns
that set the pace, clumped bunches of all varieties interwoven
with the spans of spider's webs. It's damp, and occasionally
there are columns of bugs that bother the air, little dancing
motes of mindless activity. Laid over every
object, be it rock or trunk or junk, a thick carpet of moss
glazes all surfaces with green globs of fuzz. In places the rain
forest has been cut down, and a ferocious race for the sun mixes
species in maximum profusion.
My glide is at ease, it's an eaten mile day of cliff,
pavement, and Skagit; civilization approaches. I halt just past
Day Creek in a quarry and hit the rim to sun, clouds come so I go
on down the road, a nice spot but I can do more. Five miles
later a place by the river invites me to swim but not stay.
Another spot, no level space, and another the same.
For sure I come to the big highway, a doberman chases me so
I take the first likely exit, and have a level spot out of sight
of the highway on a soon to be railroad embankment. Two long
views of crushed rock, a sign of red and white squares, the hedge
of green, my rig and I.
Day 87 39.9 miles July 25, Monday
Last evening a railroad builder checked on me and said,
"O.K., don't leave any trash." As dusk arrived so did the slugs:
black ones and grey spotted ones oozing along their trails of
slime, some up to six inches long. Between the mosquitos, the
slugs, and the two idiots who got their 4-wheel drive stuck on
level ground fifty feet from me and spun their wheels for hours,
I got to sleep late. In the morning I was under a low grey sky,
surrounded by slugs, five to ten on every square yard. They were
all over my bike and my stuff, later I even found one in the
road map. I wonder if they make good pets?
Rolled before 8 a.m., slipped to Mt. Vernon and called to
find the Athens Royal Spa was for men today. I flashed my
Nautilus card and did a good workout, sauna, steam, sun, soak,
and swim. Feeling clean I rode in a light rain through urban Mt.
Vernon, stopped at a riverside park to wash the slug slime from
my pan and eat lunch while talking to ex-executive Ed, who quit
his job to ride a bike more. Then to a food store after which I
chatted with a lady from La Conner in front of a closed
bookstore. As we had both brought books to trade, we traded.
Light rain and heavy traffic to Anacortes; finally my first
island in an arm of the sea, still a long way to the Pacific but
connected to its salt water and tides. In Anacortes I located
the house surrounded by totem poles, and the woodcarver, Paul
Luvera, signed a photo of himself for me. Next the bookstore
where I met Michael Moss, who invited me to a rehearsal of "The
Amorous Flea" at eight. The lady who worked in the bookstore
commissioned a carving of a large hand from me.
I rode out to Washington Park at the northwestern tip of
Fidalgo Island and in the campground I met the Chain Gang, a
bicycling club from Eugene. Fixing dinner was a race against
time, with the questions of the group and hassling with the park
ranger, I had no time to eat, so I poured water on the hot stove
to pack it and zoomed to the show with a hot dinner. It was just
starting so I crept into back row center and masticated rice
while enjoying musical Moliere by the Anacortes Community
Theater.
After the show Michael led me to his house on his bicycle
where I slept under an old fire truck in the back yard while
foghorns lowed out over the water.
Day 39 Around town miles July 27, 1983
Anacortes: the gentle rock of boats at mooring, screams of
seagulls and children at play, the quiet streets and slow paced
atmosphere of a pleasant port town.
Those of the sea meet those of the land, the interaction of
different worlds overflows with hello, the boat makers restore
their fine-lined hulls, dust off their shop aprons and punch the
buttons on phone and computer. There are Croatoan visions of St.
Nicholas in my future. I do like the pace of this place, it's
like the opening of a dance marathon; regulated high energy of a
dream become real.
I'm asked if I'm the captain of my rig but I feel as if I'm
the cook, creating a stew of memories and a big hand. How to
serve? The tide shows its faces and the air is salt, I cast my
net along the shores of my mind to draw up what has drifted
across the sea of me.
Day 92 43.7 miles in 4 days July 30, 1983
Ah, so pleasant! I have carved a hand, a face, and a staff
these days, seen "The Amorous Flea" twice, met many good people,
including some local notables, and even the bad things turn out
for good.
Yesterday I rode out to Washington park again to swim in the
cold sea water and relax in the sun. Out on the grassy point I
spoke with Nancy from Golden, Colorado, who has a cottage on
Blakely Island. Time flew, and before I knew it I realized I
would be late for the ferry if I didn't hurry.
Ah, haste; in turning a corner the trailer flipped and
crashed, wrapping a wheel about itself. I thought the wheel
destroyed, but with the generous help of a man watering his lawn
on the corner and his son I got the wheel straight again and made
the next ferry to Guemes Island. Even tho the last ferry is on 6
weekdays I caught a later crossing as it was Friday, the weekend.
Guemes Island is off the beaten track, rural and slow paced
compared to Anacortes across the channel. I slept in the hay
barn of Richard and Margie's and their kids Rachel and Tim. They
have goats, chickens, garden vegetables, and alder smiles.
In the morning Margie introduced me to Phil McCracken, a
sculptor of renown, and we talked of life as I toured his studio.
He studied under Henry Moore and over many years has built a body
of work. His house takes in the islands and Mt. Baker and the
expanse of time.
I swing with being, taking the trail to the north shore
beach through scotch broom and ferns. The spider's webs breaking
tell me I'm the first to soak in the sun today, so I nestle my
behind in the gray granite sand and recline among the weathered
driftwood logs along the beach.
The land and the sea are feminine in nature here; rounded
knees and breasts of islands, nothing harsh or poisonous. The
Olympics remind me gently by their hazy silhouettes to the west.
The waves lap the shore with soothing caresses, the ribbons of
dry kelp entwine the beach like lost strands of a lover's hair,
and the sun breathes life into all, a warm mystic mother
illuminating the wonder and unknown beauty yet to be seen.