The land, the RV park, and a rider of the purple sage

Rain in Fort Benton

To give: JON'S MDA DRIVE

After Tom left I rode 57 miles to Fort Benton. All morning there were hills, but they seemed different -- they were climbs, not to passes, but to "benches," where you would stay a while -- and in the afternoon, the road was flat and fast, like a ribbon pasted on the landscape. I thought, so this is the Great Plains! Google says the Plains are parts of 10 states, including Montana, that lie west of the Mississippi and east of the Continental Divide. Right where I am. All the rivers here drain to the Mississippi, and, just as following the rivers upstream in the west brought me higher, following the Plains rivers to the Mississippi should be a downhill ride.

Should be.

Riding to Fort Benton, I kept thinking I should be able to see it from a long way away, but it just wasn't there. Then the road dropped; cars ahead of me started to disappear; and a road sign warned of of a 7% descent. I dropped, too, and went down screamingly fast, even braking hard. Then we were at the bottom. I guess they call this a "coulee" -- a deep ravine -- and it was broad enough to hold all of Fort Benton and farmlands too. At the top, you think, there can't be civilized life down there, but when you're there, you forget all about the fact that you're in a very large hole.

I liked Fort Benton. Like so many of these small towns -- population 1,400, pretty big in this part of Montana -- it puts its history front and center. They have a life-size replica of a Lewis and Clark fort (Fort Mandan), and plaques and statues of area events and figures. I liked the sort of goofy one of actor George Montgomery ("Riders of the Purple Sage"), which he designed. He was a man of many parts, including, of course, humility.

"I'm onna ride out and kill them thar varmints."

Anyway, as it turned out, I had come on the wrong weekend. It was "Fort Benton's Summer Celebraton 2019." I stayed in the tent section of an RV park that was like the parking lot at a Packer's game. A kid set up his tent overlapping mine, and I gruffly made him move it; the picnic table I had moved in front of my tent for my own use was quickly overrun by middle-school girls, who chattered and played music most of the night (even a rain shower didn't send them fleeing for cover); and, in the morning, a dad in a hammock insisted on calling out, "Good mooorning! Good mooorning!" Idiot. I packed up and left as soon as I could and got breakfast in town.

Today I climbed out of the coulee -- one of a couple of nasty hills today -- and did 60-something miles to Denton, which is just like the town in "The Last Picture Show," without Timothy Bottoms, Jeff Bridges, and Cybill Shepherd. Desolate. I'm in a cinder-block hotel room, if that helps.

I have more to say about today, if anybody's still listening, but I have to go to bed.

Flat flat flat.

The name of this thing is "Square Butte."

Yard art

What are friends for?

Jon gets his wallet back.
Tom J. photo! (Now he wants credit.)

To give: JON'S MDA DRIVE


We rode from Augusta toward Great Falls, and, about 7 miles out, a car wheeled to a stop in front of us, and it was Terri, the manager of The Bunkhouse in Augusta, where we'd stayed the night before. She waved something in front of me -- my wallet! I hadn't even known it was missing! Thanks goodness she'd found it! And been kind enough to drive it out to us! Thank you, thank you Terri. I've been petrified of losing things on this trip, and still have lost things -- but the wallet! It's kind of important.

We rode about 40 miles to Vaughn, outside of Great Falls, and had half a mind to push on to the city until a pickup-driving youth carrying motorcycles stopped and told us a big storm was brewing and we'd better seek cover. We could see it -- an angry black cloud lingering over a mountain in the northwest, and we rode back to a three-room motel connected to a bar -- The Office Bar & Motel, where apparently they do paperwork while drinking and renting rooms. We had negotiated with this establishment on the phone about getting a place, and it was hard to make out whether they really had a room or not.

They did, and it was fine. Not the Marriott, but fine.

I went to the bar and met Jerome, who said it was their monthly "birthday" night, where everybody eats free. Maybe it was a potluck. A bluegrass trio was playing, and Jerome got up and led me through the buffet tables. Fried chicken, taco salad, beans and hamburger, even whipped cream and fruit. It was all great. And the bartender even gave me a free coke. They were all local people, regulars -- guys in cowboy hats and big belts, women poking fun at them, and the woman bartender trying to find the piece of chicken that fell off her plate. No telling what goes on in the bars of America, but this felt like family.

This morning we had breakfast at Lippi's in Great Falls -- Tom a pork chop and eggs, me the Big Mess breakfast -- and arrived at the Marriott. That's right, the SpringHill Suites Marriott in Great Falls. A benefactor who asked to remain nameless had set this up. There was a big storm outside, rain so hard the streets flooded, but we were warm and cozy.

Sarah comes tonight to stay a night and pick up Tom, and I will be sorry to lose him. He built a fire when we were freezing, he zipped up my jacket when my fingers wouldn't function, he set the pace on the bike, and overcame significant pain. Not everybody does that, even for a friend.

Waffle Wednesday at Mel's Diner in Augusta.

Shannon, of the staff of the SpringHill Suites, where we got to stay.

A couple of grizzled old fogies. 

The downside

Not so bad!

To give: JON'S MDA DRIVE

When I was 18 I rode with friends Bruce and Mark down the West Coast -- Seattle to San Diego. We did 1800 miles in 28 days. That's about 64 miles a day. Today I'm at 830 miles in 25 days -- about 33 miles a day. A pretty good  measure of the difference between 18 and 60. And the bigger days -- 72 miles a week ago, and 50, yesterday -- have been exhausting.

From Ovando we rode to a little National Forest Service campground east of Lincoln. Temperatures dropped into the low 30s, and in the morning some of our water had frozen. Tom started a fire and it was the business of tending it that kept us functioning. My hands, weakened by MD, became nearly useless in the cold. I could not grasp anything -- I had trouble zipping up a jacket, tying a knot, pulling on my pants, all the myriad tasks of striking camp. I might as well have had two stumps, so useless were my fingers. I thought, not for the first time, You are not well enough for this. Tom was huge and understanding help.

We rode 50 that day, yesterday, taking long breaks to lie down in the grass. The Rogers Pass was tough but not as bad as the sharp, steep hills we climbed for almost 10 miles that followed it. Finally we turned onto the road to Augusta, where the hills were milder -- long and slow-building, followed by an exhilarating several-mile descent. We motivated ourselves with the promise of a hotel to decompress. We hadn't had enough food, and in the lobby of the hotel, I stood and felt dizzy, and sat right back down. Tom fetched a sugary soda, and almost immediately I felt better. We checked in, got some dinner, showered and lay down comatose.

Our fire at Aspen Grove campground.

Our next target is Great Falls, a metropolis compared to the little towns we've passed through. It's 55 miles, and we may take that in two pieces. Tom's scheduled to depart from thereabouts tomorrow night, Thursday, and that will be a big loss. I will adjust.

Me and my little tent.

A bikers' welcome in Lincoln.

Chainsaw art in Lincoln. 

Blackfoot and Bigfoot

Biker lodgings

To give: JON'S MDA DRIVE

We're in Ovando, Montana, in the heart of Blackfoot country, between Missoula and Lincoln. Some have called this the country's biker-friendliest town, and I don't doubt it. The Great Divide bike race is under way right now, bringing fat-tired bikers to town, and then, of course, -- of paramount importance to us -- we are here, and will get lodgings in the teepee (dirt floor, two cots) for a $5 donation.

For you culture junkies out there, the book "A River Runs Through It," by Norman Maclean, is set right about here, although the movie was filmed elsewhere.

We are passing under big skies and past mounds and mountains, and, except for one upcoming, the Rogers Pass, the big climbs are mostly behind us. Traffic is heavy and we ride the shoulder of the road, which is a flexible thing, broadening and narrowing according to no apparent formula.

We rode from Missoula yesterday morning and stopped for a break in a little town called Potomac, consisting of a store/cafe at which everybody knew each other, and many of them were drunk, just hanging out.  I got aggressive route advice from a lean, scruffy, raffish street man, and when I gently questioned it -- for who could understand it? -- he took a step closer to me and repeated his idea, and I thought, "Oh, dear." I quickly agreed with everything he said and then we left. Only later did I see that one of my water bottles had been stolen by him or one of the other disreputables within. There outta be a law! I thought. But of course there is a law.

We are making slow progress, finding it hard to plan when accommodations of any kind, even campsites, are few and far between. This extends to the availability of water, which is consideration #1. We are also living under chancy weather, and then Tom, long-suffering Tom, is prone to knee pain, and so we are not pressing.

Dean and Arletta

We had fun here in Ovando at the Stray Bullet Cafe talking to Dean and Arletta, at the next table, who were down from Helena to have lunch. They wanted to see our maps and gave us cogent advice on long vs. short, traffic vs. less, and other tradeoffs. Arletta said she had noted the behavior of loons in Montana lakes. Dean gave me a $20 cash donation to my MDA.

Kathy Schoendoerfer

Kathy and her husband run Blackfoot Angler, a store for fishing equipment that has broadened to some general sporting goods and, especially, biking stuff. I bought my new water bottle there today. She has a remarkable collection of bear-in-the-wild photographs she took over the years. These include one of a mama black bear standing tall on her legs, with her cubs around her feet. "That, I'm convinced, is Bigfoot," she said. And another shows a grizzly mom with her cubs, staring at her across a stream.

She said the key to encountering a bear is to not show fear. "Never run away," she said. "To a bear, that says you're prey." She said, though, she does arm herself with bear spray.

In between

Pondering routes, or something

Our second afternoon in Missoula, at the Emmaus Center, a campus ministry gathering place. School is out, and we've had the whole first floor to ourselves. We have done it great disservice by spreading our stuff all over the place. We stopped at Cabela's yesterday and I got a new tent, new socks -- and new light pants so I don't feel like such a savage when I go out in public.

We met Pastor John Lund at the center. What nice guy! He even left us chocolate-chip cookies last night when he left for the day.

We went to Adventure Cycling headquarters yesterday and got a tour, ice cream bars, and a commemorative bandanna (which of course I now can't find). They took a polaroid picture of us and posted it on their picture wall. It is the kind of nonprofit business you'd feel proud and fortunate to have a job at. They have about 40 employees, including cartographers, magazine editors and designers, social media people, people who work with states and other organizations to mark routes and buy into the United States Bicycle Route System.  

Otherwise we've been napping and doing light housekeeping -- laundry, trying out the new $99 tent, etc. My wife will be pleased to learn I got a haircut today -- more appropriately called a "head shave." We were visited by Jeri Delys, Montana development director of the MDA. She's a triathlete who discussed fundraising and gave us pointers on the road ahead. And then we fell back into our delightful torpor. 

We had pizza last night that we continued to eat all day. One more meal should see us through. My requirements are Mexican, this side of the bridge, with an ice cream stop on the way home. Tom had fits figuring it out.

We're next headed for the wilds of eastern Montana. Jeri said we'd see elk, deer, antelope, foxes, maybe moose. And she said, Don't play around with a female moose. Promise, I won't.

Mr. T. Juster, distinguished gentleman --
who needs an eyebrow trim. 

The Emmaus Center, with bikes

Missoula is learned, sophisticated and stylish, more like Madison than any place since Portland ...

... but then, you know, it's still Montana.

Lolo Pass

Tom Juster (right) and yours truly

To give: JON'S MDA DRIVE

I woke up this morning and the first thing I see outside my tent is my old friend Tom Juster, just up from his Idaho home 5 hours south with his wife, Sarah Kruse. We had talked about him joining the ride, but I got messages that he was in the Bahamas, Miami, Los Angeles -- I thought maybe he was hanging with Leonardo di Caprio. He would surely deny that.

Anyway, he made it to my campsite, ready to ride. Because we had Sarah's support, and because there are no rules, we gave her our luggage so we could tackle, unencumbered, the awe-inspiring Lolo Pass, elevation 5225 feet, which would unlock the east for us.

The pass was 12 miles away, but it's an interesting rise that might be said to start almost as far west as Lewiston. Following rivers upstream is a nearly invisible way of getting the rider higher, and from our campground we found it easy going -- for a few miles. Then it began to rise precipitously, with unending increases curling along the side of the mountain. You may think you're near the end -- surely you've done enough -- but no, that supposed endpoint is just a turn that disguises an even more urgent rise.

It was just over 12 miles and it hurt.

Sarah met us at a rest stop at the top, the ever vanishing top, and, after some procrastination and a visit to a nearby field of bright blue quamash flowers, we put our bags back on and sheepishly descended.

There's a lot of Lolos in the area, including Lolo Hot Springs, and we went as far as the town of, simply, Lolo, about 46 miles. Tomorrow, a short ride to Missoula.

Andrew and Suzie

I met my first long-distance riders going my way yesterday. The first was a guy from Minnesota who stays in hotels, gets up at 5 a.m. and does 100 miles a day. Who needs him.

Then I met Andrew and Suzie, who stopped by to see the sodden mass of myself resting by the roadside. We talked about our rides, past and present, and I later camped near them at the Lochsa Lodge campground.

They are remarkable bikers. They met when they were English teachers in Korea and were on a ride together. They hit it off, and in the last several years they've biked the Balkans, Portugal, Spain, Sweden, Germany, Denmark and South America. They got married along the way, and are now riding   North America in a 9-month curlicue pattern, touching almost every region, and aiming, finally, for Colorado.

They were planning to ride up to Glacier National Park just for kicks when I last saw them. Kicks.

They were fun to talk to, and you can see more about them at by2pedals.com.

Roadside attraction

Rest stop

Timely warning

Whom you meet on a bike

Mia

Been a couple long days since I've posted. It's tough finding wifi out here. But I'm back for better or worse.

I've been playing phone tag with the MDA to raise my goal, since all my generous friends have broken through the $5,000 I first set. So, until I get it changed, let's just say it's $10,000. Ambitious! If you've already given, don't feel obligated -- and if you haven't given, likewise, don't feel obligated. Let's just see what happens. Here's the button: JON'S MDA DRIVE.

I was written up in the Lewiston Tribune the other day: https://lmtribune.com/northwest/jon-olson-just-keeps-pushing-on/article_5ea8a78d-6027-51d3-839e-cf1e8b4df47d.html

The article has an MDA link, but it's not MY link, so if you give, use the one above!

I had a couple of long days. I was advised at the bike store back in Lewiston to stay off the Lewiston departure route my maps recommended, so, two days ago, I went to Winchester, somewhat south, instead. It brought me through Nez Perce territory, where historical markers along the road tell a story that probably the Nez Perce themselves wouldn't tell, a story emphasizing white men who knew the Nez Perce, the arduous task of building tunnels for the railroad, and other notes that featured few Nez Perce. I didn't see one that mentioned Chief Joseph, who led a brilliant running retreat to save his people from annihilation by the U.S. Army in 1877.  There may have been a plaque like that, but I didn't see it.

Saturday's ride featured a pastoral morning -- easy, interesting riding -- followed by a brutal, 13-mile climb up a mild grade that just never stopped and killed me by inches. Yesterday, after heat and hills, I had a thrilling 9-mile descent into the nice little town of Kamiah, where I am now. The road was like a country lane that wound among the trees in beautiful, graceful arcs.

In the Winchester state park, as I was getting ready to go yesterday morning, Mia (above) and her father Omar came to visit. Omar said they'd seen me in the paper and he asked about the trip and was impressed with the MDA effort. We chatted, and then when I was leaving, Mia and Omar and her mom, Jana, met me on the way out and gave me the purple shirt, a shirt from her school. So nice of them -- and I needed a new long-sleeve shirt! Maybe they noticed the putrid state of the white one I'd been wearing. They met me again at the store at the entry to the park and bought me rolls and orange juice. Omar said they lived in Lewiston and often came to the park.

Lin Tull Cannell

The day before,  I'd stopped at a marker about William Craig, a pioneer who married a Nez Perce woman in the late 1830s and settled among her people. A car parked behind me and a couple approached. The woman said she'd seen me in the paper. They were Lin Tull Cannell and her husband, Merk. She's written a book on Craig: "The Intermediary: William Craig Among the Nez Perce" and was doing further research, looking for his grave. (See the book at  https://www.amazon.com/Intermediary-William-Craig-Among-Perces/dp/0945648456/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=lin+tull+cannell&qid=1560782629&s=gateway&sr=8-1) They were from Orofino, the major city within the Nez Perce reservation.

Bob Blakey

I met Bob Blakey at the Lewiston bike store, and later he rode out to the campground. He had a lot of information about bike routes, all of which bore out. He rides an electric bike -- said he'd lost a lot of weight riding -- and, as a member of the Lewiston City Council, had fought for electric bikes to be recognized as non-motorized vehicles so they could be used on the bike trails. He wished me well and rode off home.

Rick

Rick was my driver to and from downtown Lewiston on laundry day. He had called me on the way to the campground saying he'd be late because barbed wire was pulled across the road. It wasn't just barbed wire -- a car parked in the lot above had come too close to the edge and tumbled down the steep hillside and come to rest against the guard rail, pulling the wire fencing with it. They were still wrestling with the car when we returned to town. Rick seems to like his job, and was looking forward to a Saturday shift when he would bring a group to the Spokane airport -- for him, a lucrative trip. His employer is Canters Cab -- three drivers and two cars. In a land where Uber and Lyft have yet to make serous inroads, Canters does the job.

So that's it. The Lolo Pass looms ahead and commerce becomes sparser. I'll be back when I can.

Breakdown

Refuge

I should say first off THANK YOU to the person who paid my bill at Follett's bike store in Lewiston. I was shocked. Somebody's a pretty good detective.  Justin, at the store, wouldn't tell me who it was. Nor how much. For the record, I got a new tube with sealant on the wheel, three extra tubes, and four CO2 capsules, which allow you to pump up a tire in seconds.

After Sonny gave me a ride to Pomeroy Wednesday night, I checked into a hotel -- the kind that doesn't offer ice -- and spent the night and the morning futzing with the back wheel. I finally changed the tube and reset the tire, and the wobble was gone, so I started out. The highway was replete with workers spreading pea-sized gravel on the road, and I had to wait in line with dozens of other cars as oncoming traffic took its turn on the one lane that was open. When my turn came a couple crew members threw my bike in a truck and I got driven across. Getting on, I thought: Finally I can ride.

I rode about four miles and had a flat.

I spent an hour by the side of the road changing the tube, looking so pitiable that a man driving a street sweeper gave me a bottle of gatorade and a bottle of cold water. I was pretty well supplied, but I took it nonetheless. Finally I started out again, and climbed to a summit (the lonely, distant house pictured above) -- just three or four miles on. There were warnings for truckers to check their brakes, and a sign warning of a steep, five-mile descent.

The road was wide, unlined, and filled with the new gravel. Trucks passed me honking, and I could only just hold on and hope they would give me space, and that I wouldn't lose my nerve. A mile and a half downhill my back wheel started to wobble. I wheeled to a stop by the guardrail to see that I had another flat.

My spirit broke and I became preternaturally calm. I'd blown through three tubes in a day, and had no more tubes, and inspecting the one I'd changed, I could not find the leak, in order to patch it. I started walking -- no shoulder, gravel roadsides -- and I stood still, clinging to the guardrail, whenever a truck came at me. I watched with a pleading eyes the pickups going my direction, hoping one would stop -- but, really, it would have been dangerous for any of them to stop.

I walked about two miles, and pulled into the little lane leading to a house on the lefthand side. The yard was filled with cars, motorcycles, tricycle-motorcycles, RVs and big box trailers; the house was a wreck; and the sheds were filled with tangles of hoses, equipment and more cars. Hoarders? Yard-sale entrepreneurs? Hard to say. I walked around the house, but it seemed vacant, so I walked on.

It was a very dangerous road, with no accommodation for anybody not in a vehicle. The Northwest, finally, had failed me.

I had no phone reception, but I saw messages I'd missed earlier, including some from Joel, a reporter at the Lewisburg Tribune, seeking a time for an interview. (Kristi had set this up). He wanted it today (Thursday), and asked when I would be getting to town. When I got reception I pulled into a wider space in the road and left him a message: "Hi Joel. This is Jon Olson. I don't think I'll make it to town tonight. Is tomorrow OK? Or, heh heh, if you want to come and pick me up, we could talk in the car on the way to town."

Joel's text: "I'm headed your way. About how far from Clarkston are you?"

So I got saved again.

If you'd asked me before I left if getting a ride or two was cheating, I probably wouldn't have answered, but I would have thought so, in some way. But out in the big wide world, you would have to be insane or naive not to choose safety over risk, life over death. The mountains don't care if you die, the truckers surely don't care. But I really really care.

*

Joel brought me to Hell's Gate State Park, south of Lewiston, and I set up camp. The woman in the RV next door said, "Boy, you look tired."

Today, a photographer came and took my picture for the paper! For surviving the hill! Look for the story online in a day or two!

And I spent the day in town at the bike store and doing laundry. I love doing laundry.

Idaho's first Territorial Capitol Building, 1863.

Off-kilter

This pot is not even round any more. 

This used to be a pretty good tent.

I got off to a late start yesterday. You could call it poor time management, but I did enjoy myself. I partook heartily of the lush breakfast that came with my free room. Then I ran into my benefactor -- or one of them any way -- the esteemed Jonathan Grant, who runs the front office at the Whitman hotel. He was very excited about my MDA trip and I was just as excited about my room at the hotel. We must have shaken hands three times.

I asked him how the little town of Walla Walla could support a hotel like that. He said it was wine. I had passed cathedral-sized wineries out in the country -- huge edifices -- and virtually every street downtown had a handful of wine cellars and tasting rooms. It was actually hard to buy regular food. So the hotel benefits by traveling wine aficionados.

Wine wine wine

For Jonathan's exploits on "The Price is Right," see The Price is Right.

And for his celebrations of Adam West, a Walla Walla native, see Batman.

I stopped at the bike store again, to get my odometer going after it took an unauthorized vacation, and when I finally started riding, it was near noon. I got hopelessly lost in this small city, and when I found my route, it was uphill into a headwind on a regular basis.

I finally stopped in Waitsburg, and was charmed by it. It's still living in its rich past, and makes no apology. Most of the buildings are a century old, and there are charming -- or frightening -- statuary right out on the street:

Founding the village

Passing on the history

This poor little miscreant has to listen forever

I made it three more miles to Lewis & Clark State Park (there must be about 5 of these), only to find my tent pole broken.

I did well this morning, starting early and riding with a little gumption. But, man, it got hot. I started to take it in 5-mile pieces, stopping for a quick sip before going on. A young guy was walking on the other side of the highway and asked me if I had any extra water. Extra water? But I said he could have a gulp if he wanted. He came over and unscrewed the cap on my water bottle, looked at what I had, the put the cap back on and handed it back, taking none of it.

"How do I get one of these cars to pick me up?" he said.

"Stick out your thumb," I said.

We parted. I did glimpse, on his pack as he went, a gatorade bottle about half-full of water, so at least he had that.

I got to a much-advertised bathroom that I had thought would surely have water, and maybe snacks! But it was just an open pit toilet. The drivers that stopped all had water and ice -- they knew this country. There was a warehouse next door, and I went to explore. Two guys inside said there was no water there, but one gave me a cold bottle from his truck. I sat down under a tree and thought I would wait out the heat.

It clouded over briefly and I got on my bike -- and it shimmied. The back tire was soft, and I was bereft. After a bit, a retiree pulling a cattle trailer stopped. When he came back from the bathroom, I said, "You got any animals in there?" "Nope." "Are you to going Pomeroy?" "Yep." "I got a flat. Can I throw my bike in the back?" "Put it in then," he said.

So I cheated. 13 miles, and I don't even feel bad.

Sonny, who gave me a ride.

Gotta love it

Cathedral of wine

Bruce's last message

I wanna stay here forever

Too bad they spelled it backward.

I'm staying at the swankiest hotel I've ever stayed in thanks to my MDA drive and the magical powers of cousin-in-law Kristi, who asked for a backyard for me to sleep in and came up with the ritz. I can't even really explain it, so at the next family reunion ply her with drink and maybe she'll talk.

Here's a little proof -- my bedroom:

You could put a football team in there.

And the "sitting room" -- yes, I do have a sitting room, where I entertain dignitaries:

And here's the entry:

Pretty plush. I wish I was cleaner and had better clothes.

My ride today was 54 miles, a nice ride, with commerce just when I needed it. I recommend to all travelers the truck stop in Touchet, which has all the bad food groups that will keep you fueled. I must've spent an hour there, and I think this is a pattern: If I can take an hour break with food in the middle of the day -- somewhere where I can SIT DOWN LIKE A HUMAN BEING -- I can make a good day of it. That's why I bonked the day before last and had to take a day off -- that, and no sleep the night before.

The countryside has changed. From the spectacular rocky outcroppings and forested hilltops of eastern Oregon, the landscape modulated gradually to bald, dirty-yellow bulges, the almost complete absence of trees, and an invasion of wind turbines and bushes, most particularly this noxious fellow:

Does anybody know what it is? I don't either. It doesn't provide shade, nor decoration, nor anything that I value. It grows well, I think, on a minimum of water.

A couple days ago I topped a hill, and saw, finally, NO HILLS AT ALL. The mighty Columbia was still there in the flat landscape, taking the form of a placid puzzle of connected inlets that seemed in no hurry to go anywhere. A little googling told me I was now in Oregon's "high desert." At 4,000 feet, it is certainly higher than Death Valley. This is not the same High Desert that California claims, but I believe they are similar, though a little googling is a dangerous thing.

I want to defend this countryside against charges that it is boring -- and it is a little boring, just like many a Wisconsin ride or Michigan ride is boring. But anything you spend your sweat on, well, you have to say it was worth it.

The Columbia now turns north, and we will see her no more.

Assorted pix:

Michael, co-owner of Allegro Cyclery in Walla Walla:
"The Lolo Pass is not very steep, just very long."

Finally, here's a link to the MDA drive, which is still open! Jon's MDA drive