26 September 2008
Last night I stayed with Anna, her husband Nate, and their daughter Maya Pearl. After an oatmeal breakfast, as Pearl slept, Anna joined me for the first miles of the ride east from Heber. We split ways and I continued up to Daniel's Summit, a climb much more accomodating than Guardsman Pass. This ridge divides the Great Basin from the Upper Colorado watershed, and upon cresting, the narrower valley of Daniel's Creek, with autumn quakies tinged orange, gave way to the sweeping wide and gentle Strawberry River valley. A roadside vendor supplied me with elk and venison jerky.
The Strawberry joined with the Duchesne, and I (mostly) descended to Starvation Reservoir. Climbed the last couple miles, past pockets of farmland, to Indian Bay. The sun set in amber hues and silhouetted ridges. Bathed lightly in Starvation's refreshing water, ate some greens and scrambled around on the sand and the sandstone boulders. Made my bed on a broad, flat rock, perpendicular to the Milky Way's perfectly prominent arc. Saw three shooting stars before dozing in the breezy night.
.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
The Committing Day
25 September 2008
Atom, Kori and I dined euphorically last night. Brad decided to join me for the beginning ride. I was still throwing things together as he arrived. After I finished packing (for those who are curious, the bike weighs about 30 lbs, all the packs and incidentals about 70 lbs more), I slammed a quart of squash-coconut soup, leftover from last night's dinner, some raspberries and a peach. Not your typical power food, but satisfying.
With me on my tank, and Brad on my old road bike, we meandered through Mill Creek neighborhoods, up to Wasatch Drive, overlooking the city on the way to the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon. Just into the canyon, Brad's tire split. The tube bulged out and punctured on the road. With a failed tire, fixing the tube was useless. Brad hitchhiked to a bike shop, and I continued the climb.
Big Cottonwood Creek is steep enough, but Guardsman Pass is a wicked mistress, beginning comfortable and subtle and then heaving into a vertical nightmare. Another biker made the climb with me. He was circling around to Park City. He looked like he could be ninety years old. He was as thin as his bicycle, had a purple Grateful Dead jersey, and a grey beard and hair that flowed like Moses. I descended into Midway down a washboard dirt road, perhaps more miserable than the climb. The golden aspen gave way to red scrub oaks as I crossed from the Wasatch Front to Back. During the climb, I thought, quite strongly, that I could still go back, it's all downhill from here. Now in Heber, that would be much harder. Now the course is set.
.
Atom, Kori and I dined euphorically last night. Brad decided to join me for the beginning ride. I was still throwing things together as he arrived. After I finished packing (for those who are curious, the bike weighs about 30 lbs, all the packs and incidentals about 70 lbs more), I slammed a quart of squash-coconut soup, leftover from last night's dinner, some raspberries and a peach. Not your typical power food, but satisfying.
With me on my tank, and Brad on my old road bike, we meandered through Mill Creek neighborhoods, up to Wasatch Drive, overlooking the city on the way to the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon. Just into the canyon, Brad's tire split. The tube bulged out and punctured on the road. With a failed tire, fixing the tube was useless. Brad hitchhiked to a bike shop, and I continued the climb.
Big Cottonwood Creek is steep enough, but Guardsman Pass is a wicked mistress, beginning comfortable and subtle and then heaving into a vertical nightmare. Another biker made the climb with me. He was circling around to Park City. He looked like he could be ninety years old. He was as thin as his bicycle, had a purple Grateful Dead jersey, and a grey beard and hair that flowed like Moses. I descended into Midway down a washboard dirt road, perhaps more miserable than the climb. The golden aspen gave way to red scrub oaks as I crossed from the Wasatch Front to Back. During the climb, I thought, quite strongly, that I could still go back, it's all downhill from here. Now in Heber, that would be much harder. Now the course is set.
.
The Amble
The following posts will reflect my bicycle ride from Salt Lake City to North Carolina (or to Austin), related matters, and probably some random thoughts.
.
.
The Salmon and Lemhi River valleys
13 August 2008
Yesterday, we continued along the Bitterroot, in the sawtoothed shadow of Trapper's Peak. We rested in the long grass at an oxbow in the East Fork, before camping at Sula. Jim hitchhiked down from the Continental Divide, for a mail drop, as he hiked the ridge from Mexico to Alberta. As he thumbed his way back to the trail, we started the climb to Lost Trail Pass, from where the Bitterroot flows north, and the Salmon runs south. We touched the Divide, and followed the Salmon River down into North Fork. The alpine forests began to thin out into small farms. We rested at a campground in North Fork, interrupted by three girls, poster children for teenage self-hate and destructiveness, who lost interest after they realized we wouldn't buy them more beer for their two o'clock binge.
Nearing the town of Salmon, the thinning forests succumbed to large expanses of river-bottom farmland. Craggy outcroppings towered over the farms and the rolling hills of sage. We headed east, along the Lemhi River valley, the Divide on our left, the Lemhi Mountains on our right. After a few miles, spent and without nearby campgrounds, we eyed the hayfields for some stealth camping. At Baker, a town of four houses, we knocked on the door of Solaas' Bed & Breakfast, to see if we could fill our water. Without hesitating, Roger offered his lawn for camping.
"Honey, I'm gonna show the boys the garden!", he cheered. His wife smiled and waved, having no clue who we were. He guided us through his greenhoused tomatoes and filled our bike helmets with apricots. A trellised arcade of green beans framed a dusky view of the Lemhis.
Roger, 72 years old, had rooted in this valley some forty years ago. For five years, he never left the county. Not from some cloistered fear of the world, but because here he was starting his life. He raised his ten children, hunted up in the Divide, fished in the Lemhi, and started a lumber business. He spent two weeks straight, handmaking a wood picket fence, jigging and painting each picket, and setting them in a series of peaks and valleys. After setting deep roots, he ventured out, heading to Alaska and Canada to fish and hunt. Recently, he went to Thailand to help build a school. In the morning, he brought us an egg sandwich, fresh from the henhouse.
If you're passing near Salmon, stay at Solaas and say hello to Roger.
.
Yesterday, we continued along the Bitterroot, in the sawtoothed shadow of Trapper's Peak. We rested in the long grass at an oxbow in the East Fork, before camping at Sula. Jim hitchhiked down from the Continental Divide, for a mail drop, as he hiked the ridge from Mexico to Alberta. As he thumbed his way back to the trail, we started the climb to Lost Trail Pass, from where the Bitterroot flows north, and the Salmon runs south. We touched the Divide, and followed the Salmon River down into North Fork. The alpine forests began to thin out into small farms. We rested at a campground in North Fork, interrupted by three girls, poster children for teenage self-hate and destructiveness, who lost interest after they realized we wouldn't buy them more beer for their two o'clock binge.
Nearing the town of Salmon, the thinning forests succumbed to large expanses of river-bottom farmland. Craggy outcroppings towered over the farms and the rolling hills of sage. We headed east, along the Lemhi River valley, the Divide on our left, the Lemhi Mountains on our right. After a few miles, spent and without nearby campgrounds, we eyed the hayfields for some stealth camping. At Baker, a town of four houses, we knocked on the door of Solaas' Bed & Breakfast, to see if we could fill our water. Without hesitating, Roger offered his lawn for camping.
"Honey, I'm gonna show the boys the garden!", he cheered. His wife smiled and waved, having no clue who we were. He guided us through his greenhoused tomatoes and filled our bike helmets with apricots. A trellised arcade of green beans framed a dusky view of the Lemhis.
Roger, 72 years old, had rooted in this valley some forty years ago. For five years, he never left the county. Not from some cloistered fear of the world, but because here he was starting his life. He raised his ten children, hunted up in the Divide, fished in the Lemhi, and started a lumber business. He spent two weeks straight, handmaking a wood picket fence, jigging and painting each picket, and setting them in a series of peaks and valleys. After setting deep roots, he ventured out, heading to Alaska and Canada to fish and hunt. Recently, he went to Thailand to help build a school. In the morning, he brought us an egg sandwich, fresh from the henhouse.
If you're passing near Salmon, stay at Solaas and say hello to Roger.
.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Bitterroot River valley, at dusk, near Victor, Montana
11 August 2008
Patrick and Kathleen walked down from the foothills, after investigating a small pillar of smoke and a nearby osprey’s nest. They waved from a distance, and twilight's purple rays ran up the Sapphires, giving way to the long shadow of the Bitterroots. We waited, I on my lumbering oak tree of a bicycle. Before we even said hi, Patrick invited us to camp on the grass near the anvil house. We slept there, under the Perseid-filled sky.
Patrick had thrived over stage four throat cancer. Tall, lanky and robust, with the positive worldview of someone who has survived. Kathleen ran rivers, among a life of other vocations. Just as tall. Her face spread from a narrow chin, prominent cheeks, eyes set wide as to cast their reach around the world and wavy hair that followed after the reach of her eyes. They had spent two summers, traveling across Montana and Wyoming in covered wagons. He was a farrier by trade, shoeing horses, the tools of a blacksmith. She now wrote, most famous for How to Shit in the Woods.
Their house a large barn, warm with yellow and purple flowers on the porch. Sweet well water. Filled with the tools and remnants of worthy living. Literature, straw hats, rough hewn beams, jars of tea, oats, and fruit, tree-trunk tables, journals, letters and a place to sit together. Cluttered perhaps, but not the tedious clutter that overwhelms you and pushes you out. Rather the soulful clutter of a vibrant mind, the rhythmic patter of an inviting heart, urging you to stay and feel.
According to Patrick, in nearly every spiritual worldview, the traveler is sacred. You never know who the traveler may be. A traveler is by nature weary, needing rest, and to be recovered. A traveler remembers gifts received, and reciprocates them to the world, as traveler and host may never meet again. And the host, then, the host is divine; firm, rooted, a central point that emanates and gravitates love. Keeping, covering, creating.
Such were the night and morning cast at Romany Forge.
.
Patrick and Kathleen walked down from the foothills, after investigating a small pillar of smoke and a nearby osprey’s nest. They waved from a distance, and twilight's purple rays ran up the Sapphires, giving way to the long shadow of the Bitterroots. We waited, I on my lumbering oak tree of a bicycle. Before we even said hi, Patrick invited us to camp on the grass near the anvil house. We slept there, under the Perseid-filled sky.
Patrick had thrived over stage four throat cancer. Tall, lanky and robust, with the positive worldview of someone who has survived. Kathleen ran rivers, among a life of other vocations. Just as tall. Her face spread from a narrow chin, prominent cheeks, eyes set wide as to cast their reach around the world and wavy hair that followed after the reach of her eyes. They had spent two summers, traveling across Montana and Wyoming in covered wagons. He was a farrier by trade, shoeing horses, the tools of a blacksmith. She now wrote, most famous for How to Shit in the Woods.
Their house a large barn, warm with yellow and purple flowers on the porch. Sweet well water. Filled with the tools and remnants of worthy living. Literature, straw hats, rough hewn beams, jars of tea, oats, and fruit, tree-trunk tables, journals, letters and a place to sit together. Cluttered perhaps, but not the tedious clutter that overwhelms you and pushes you out. Rather the soulful clutter of a vibrant mind, the rhythmic patter of an inviting heart, urging you to stay and feel.
According to Patrick, in nearly every spiritual worldview, the traveler is sacred. You never know who the traveler may be. A traveler is by nature weary, needing rest, and to be recovered. A traveler remembers gifts received, and reciprocates them to the world, as traveler and host may never meet again. And the host, then, the host is divine; firm, rooted, a central point that emanates and gravitates love. Keeping, covering, creating.
Such were the night and morning cast at Romany Forge.
.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
The Preambulatory Notion
The following posts will reflect a few days of bicycle journey, taken prior to my transcontinental cycling relocation.
.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)