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

The wind and the waves

Bearing the essential
at the Roosevelt Mini Mart

I lay shivering in my tent last night till 3 a.m. when I finally had the gumption to put on my heavy-weather gear and try again. Then I slept till 8 -- pretty late on a bike trip. I didn't get rolling till about 10:30, went 7 miles, felt like I couldn't face it, and checked into this $68-a-night Quality Inn. "We got plenty of rooms," the clerk said.  Call it a day off. Or, maybe, an office day.

This is my third, and the way it's working out, it's been one every three or four nights.

Bruce left Thursday and I stayed in The Dalles that night, then took Highway 30 and a frontage road about 22 miles to the thriving little town of Biggs. I had to cross a bridge there -- one of those busy, two-lane, no-shoulder, no-sidewalk bridges -- and I gathered myself, said a prayer, and ventured out. A strong wind was blowing from up the gorge, throwing me sideways toward the rail, and I had to fight to stay on course. Cars and trucks passed me on the left, threading the needle between my shoulder and oncoming traffic. I was honked at only once -- remarkable under the circumstances -- but that was little comfort at the time.

Then, about two-thirds of the way across, the passing stopped. I saw a beige sedan in my mirror. He was behind me, not too close, and not trying to pass, just sitting there. I was puzzled, irritated. If you're going to pass, just get it over with, I felt. But he continued to follow me patiently all the way off the bridge, until I was settled on the road, and then he drove off. I wasn't until later that I could interpret this. It was an answer to the prayer, possibly. He'd put an end to the passing -- deliberately, I think. Nobody would try to pass him and me -- there just wasn't space. It only cost him a few minutes -- but that was more than anybody else was willing to give, and it made a huge difference. So, thank you, beige car driver.

Washington's Highway 14.
 As fast as the wind.

I spent two days on Highway 14, on the Washington side, a road advertised by my map as "limited services" --  no gas stations for 82 miles. I brought a gallon of water, a water filter, and extra food. There was little traffic, and on the first day, Friday, the wind was blowing at 35 miles an hour right at my back, and I sailed. I could sit still, pedaling idly, for miles at a time and go as fast as 20 mph without effort. The rolling hills became minor irritations -- just push up and over with a handful of strokes. But when the road turned me sideways to the wind, the bike became difficult to control, and I would have preferred milder help.

I landed, finally, at Roosevelt, Washington, across the river from Roosevelt, Oregon. I ate tacos at the Mini-Mart -- more like a cafe than you would think -- and had eggs and sausage for breakfast the next day. So, there was service in the "limited services" desert. In between meals I stayed at the town park, full of windsurfers and kite surfers, enjoying the blasting wind. It is a famous place for this, and some of the dozens of people there had come in their vans from Utah and other points east.

On my second day, yesterday, the wind was mild, and dwindled to nothing as the day wore on. I rode numbly, depleted, finding no services, this time for real. Every one of the few eating spots was closed for the day, or closed permanently. I got water in Paterson from the local fire-rescue station ("We cover 300 square miles, from the dam to the county line and 10 miles wide," said David, one of the three paid employees) and pushed on to Plymouth, where I had my awful night.

I'll be back out there tomorrow.

A windsurfing hotspot

Rough and refined

Rowena Crest, outside The Dalles.
(I hope this video plays!) 

Yesterday would be Day 6. It was short mileage with brutal hills and Highway 30, just as brutal. I had to walk the last 100 yards up one of the hills, I'm ashamed to admit. We also were stopped in our tracks by a black bear cavorting in the road ahead of us. He/she went left, into the trees, then back onto the road, then I think noticed us -- the noise we were making (yelling!) -- and went crashing through the brush on the right. It seemed on the small side -- female, maybe? - and we worried that she might be protecting cubs. We rode ahead slowly, warily, and there was no more sign of her.

The gorge has tightened as we have crept up it, finally holding just the river, the rail tracks, the highway and, way across the water, a lonely road that clings to a small shelf of land above the waterline and snakes through tunnel after tunnel after tunnel. All of it is hemmed in by the hills.

We did trails and the Historic (old) 30 when we could, but finally were shunted onto the expressway. Oregon, though, in its bike-mindedness, put out barrels so that we had, in effect, a freeway lane of our own. We came to a newly laid trail, took it until it ended, and then were surprised at other signs of the state's commitment, such as an elaborate bike ramp under construction:

That's just for bikers! Quite amazing.

In Hood River we met up with Nigel, a friend of a friend who invited us in. We threw our bikes in the back of his pickup and he took us to his house up in the hills. We met his wife, Ruth, kids Liam and Rory. We had a great dinner of pork chops, potatoes and squash and an evening of conversation. We stayed the night -- a civilized reprieve, and we really appreciated it.

Then, today, 25 or so here to The Dalles -- a tough climb but a really inspiring ride that brought us way up above the water and showed us this vast land.

*

Bruce leaves today, to get a train back home.

I have a few miles yet to ride for a campsite down the road.

Mount Hood. The view from Nigel and Ruth's porch. 

A state that gets it.

Huffing up yet another hill.

First in a series of tunnels

Nigel and Ruth.

The backyard fire pit with beads of blue glass.

Into the gorge

When we thought we'd seen everything, the trail led to a stone stairway outside Cascade Locks. There was a runner for your tire, and, well, we went slowly, carefully down. It was not what we expected, but it seems like there's always a way.

We did just about 35 miles today, climbing 750 feet in spurts and starts out of Troutdale, suburban Portland, and riding up through the little towns of Springdale and Corbett. We passed little businesses burrowed into the trees -- Tad's Chicken 'n Dumplings, and the famed nightspot Shirley's Tippy Canoe. We stopped to take in incredible views at the Portland Women's Forum State Scenic Viewpoint -- generously open to men as well -- and Vista House, a kind of shrine to the glories of good views. The land laid out before us was something to behold -- the water, the sky, the looming mountains. I have been heard to say, "Scenery, as a category, is overrated," but I'll give it, grudgingly, to the Columbia.

Leaving the Vista House, we negotiated a two-mile descent on two-lane blacktop full of hairpin turns and S-curves. We braked pretty hard all the way, and pulled over, when we could, when a driver behind us was angling to pass. I even had to stop to give my hands a break.

The rest of the day we descended into the gorge, following Historic Oregon 30, which is not the Big Highway, but a quaint, century-old two-lane road with stone guardrails and little traffic -- and then trails through fields and woods.

I've gotten a little better since my ignominious performance of Day 1, Friday. The hills are a little less daunting, and by riding at my own slow pace and taking breaks when need be, I can get it done.

But then, ask me again after the Lolo Pass.

Tomorrow: Hood River?

Bruce negotiates a rock. 

From the Women's Forum Viewpoint.

Outside the Vista House

The road down from the Vista House.

Past Portland

Mike, Chris, Jon and Bruce as Mike and Chris were about to leave the trip on Sunday.
(Bruce's bike featured!)

Bruce on the St John's Bridge, Portland, Monday.

We had McMuffins for breakfast this morning in Scappoose, and rode about 10 miles on Highway 30. It was full of trucks. The river was out there somewhere to the left, but we weren't looking. The bridge to Portland, above, was just as busy, and we walked across it instead of riding, the traffic and the rails not quite what we liked.

Portland has great, marked bike lanes, and it was easy to move around, people giving way, leaving space, waving you on. We had a little trouble finding our way approaching the airport, but worked it out, and then suddenly we were on a trail that followed the Columbia, a close-up view. Passing Government Island, you might be seeing what Lewis & Clark saw -- trees and untrammeled shores. On the near side, there was a lot of development into the water -- boating facilities, sheds, even houses in gated communities, with garage doors for boats!

We rode toward Mount Hood, our talisman, and made 40 miles before calling it a day here in Troutdale, east of Portland, where we're staying at the Holiday Inn Express. (Chris and Kristi will remember this -- they made reservations here, then backed out of them, using Jon's unpredictable bike ride as an excuse. But when I checked in, mentioning that I was Jon on a big bike ride, the clerk said, "Two beds, then?")

Our best day yet.

From the St. John Bridge

Mount Hood in the distance

A swim before breakfast.
Parking lot on shore. 

Pretty nice riding.
Uninhabited Government Island is on the left -- you can camp there and there are walking trails,
 but you can't get there without a boat.
Mount Hood, faintly, left of center.

What you want, and what you get

Promises on Puget Sound

Mike, Chris and I at the Pacfic, in Fort Stevens, at the wreck of the merchant ship Peter Iredale, from 1906. 

Well, we aren't setting any land speed records. Bruce and I are in Scappoose, Oregon, west of Portland, having managed about 90 miles in three days. Mike and Chris, who signed on for just the weekend, had to go back to work today, sigh. They were great companions, easily the strongest riders and yet had the patience for us less prepared. I am, clearly, the weak link.

Day 1, Friday, outside of Astoria, we had to climb a couple hills you wouldn't find in Wisconsin -- ruler-straight inclined planks to the sky. One was two miles long, and one was three. By mile 30, I was creeping along on flat pavement at 8 miles an hour. At a break, I lay down on the lawn of a state fish hatchery, in the shade of a big pine, and immediately fell asleep. My legs were dead. We discussed options, got water, and a rode a couple miles back to camp at Gnat Creek Campground -- no services at all, but it was good enough for us.

I had prepared for this ride, but I was shaken by how unprepared I really was.

Day 2 was better. I took to riding far ahead of the others, or far behind, so I could set my own pace without reference to them.  However fast or slow, it was comfortable. There were still hills, but they weren't the monsters of the day before. We rode along Highway 30 much of the day, catching glimpses of the Columbia River, off to the left, and riding through its breathtaking valley. At a little town called Clatskanie, our route took us up to the north on a winding side road, above the Beaver Falls River gorge, a dizzying height with a waterfall and rushing water flashing in the greenery below. Bruce called it one of the best rides he'd ever had.

Campground options were few, and the Hudson Parcher campground outside the town of Rainier was really nice and made sense. So, it ended at another 30-mile day.

Today, we packed up at a leisurely pace, then descended a frighteningly steep hill to the edge of Rainier. We got coffee and a sweet roll at a stand and pressed on through towns that have dots on the map but no actual presence -- Prescott, Goble -- and into St. Helens. This was the end of the road for Chris and Mike, and, at the Dari (sic) Delish, Kristi picked them up and they were gone.

Bruce and I rode here, Scappoose, about another 9 miles. Portland lays another 25 miles ahead, and, while he would have done it, I wanted wi-fi and a little time for this, so we'll end up in a campground here.

Bruce, Chris, Mike, at Hudson Parcher Campground

Breakfast at the Berry Patch, Westport, Oregon. Probably a little much.

Bruce's goofy bike set-up

Collecting water. Someone has to do it. 

Chris in camp

The big valley

Chris, a "siesta master," as people who know him say

Crazy!