After Washington Pass I camped at Easy Winters, as I wrote in my last post. There on the periphery of the camp near the river was Gus' bike and Gus' tent. It was the third night in a row I'd seen her -- a rare thing in my trip so far. To date I've otherwise only shared an evening or a morning or a meal with another cyclist. Gus is 25, like me, a New Yorker living in Park City, where she works as a ski school instructor. Three nights prior I chatted a bit with her and Joe, an old friend of hers living in Seattle who opted to begin the Northern Tier with her. That's the main cycling route through the northern U.S., of which I have now done a portion. The next night, after I'd crawled into Colonial Creek Campground in the National Park, I camped next to her and Joe in the lone hiker-biker site and got to know them a bit more.
When I left Easy Winters and pointed the bike south to the outdoor hub of Mazama, I found her bike again parked in front of an outdoor store there. I sat at an adjacent cafe in the misty morning and put down not one, but two breakfast sandwiches and not one, but two 12 oz coffees. She walked over and sat down and we ended up spending the next 24 hours together. A quick ride took us to Winthrop, a kitschy tourist town fashioned in the likes of an Old West settlement. We gorged on ice cream and then went grocery shopping. We walked down the wood-plank sidewalk and tried on cowboy hats. People stopped us left and right and their jaws dropped when she told them she was going to Maine; I called it the "Bar Harbor Eyebrow Raise." We were in the rain shadow beyond the Cascades now and the sun was shining on the sagebrush and through the Ponderosas. Traffic buzzed around us. We stopped into a brewery and kicked our feet up next to the broad Methow River with our beer in tow and then had another.
Gus commands an effortless cool that I appreciated in the context of this bike tour. She's a seasoned traveler and nomad. Her and her friends canyoneer, WWOOF and live in busses. Whereas I -- and I suspect most other tourists -- planned and blathered on about our trips for many moons, she opted to do this somewhat on a whim. She is carrying far less than I am and inspired me to slim down.
When you're on the road, it's easy to get lost in the meaningless details of the trip: what gear you're using, how your pace compares to others, where you're going to be in four days, what gear other people have, etc. These things seemed not to stress Gus out. I have no doubt that she'll see the Atlantic.
She also introduced me to WarmShowers, a free couch-surfing app for bike tourists. With some beer in us we coasted in a golden evening down a country road to Twisp and the wreckage of the Wagon Wheel, a decades-old diner currently disemboweled at the whim of a Seattle-based family, who would host us as they convert the space and its land into some kind of restaurant. Ben, an ex-finance guru, and his younger sister Sylvia, were lovely company that night. A fascinating family they are with roots across the West and a disturbing knowledge of places I've lived -- shoutout to Park Hill -- and every Western outdoor town and destination and organization under the sun. I cooked dinner on a hotplate on the floor and we traded stories of our adventures. Notably, Ben is a gnarly-ass bike tourist himself who has clocked many U.S. and international tours. Notably he traversed Central Asia on a Walmart mountain bike. That route included the Wakhan Corridor in Afghanistan, which I've always been fascinated with.
In the morning we set up camp and Ben made me some coffee. It was the beginnings of a warm day that would set the tone for much of the next several days: a hotter and drier climate, brushy surroundings and new flora and fauna. We said goodbye to him and then said goodbye to each other; Gus turned right on the road to continue east, and I turned left.
I quickly rode 30 miles along the Methow River in a canyon that is identical to Poudre Canyon outside of Fort Collins. This cracked me up; all the sudden I felt like I was much farther east than I actually am.
What followed was perhaps my most difficult day to-date. I stumbled onto the Columbia River gorge at Pateros and found that the wind was cruelly not blowing east as I had been promised but from the south. It was a nasty headwind. And it did not let up. I battled it for 30 miles into Chelan. The scenery was somewhat muted in this portion of the state — you know the deal, brown hills and blustery vistas — and the riding was just hard. Near 4 p.m. I still had many miles to go and the wind doubled down. At one point I was attempting to lay prone on my handlebars and I looked to my left and saw the trees doubled over in the wind as I was; the wind flung a fountain drink cap toward me at 20 miles per hour and I turned and watched it race down the road behind me. And then a sudden moment of comic relief. In one nameless hamlet a group of teenaged girls were standing in a field as I lumbered down the main road. Out came a cat-sized dog, trying with all its might to catch me on tiny legs despite my pathetic seven mile-per-hour pace. The dog was in the middle of the road now and cars had pulled over while the girls shouted to no avail to bring the dog to heel. People stood on their stoops laughing, I was laughing, the girls were horribly embarrassed. Eventually the dog huffed and watched me roll out of town. This was orchard territory now, cherries and apples lining the brown hills and gullies, and I kept my eyes peeled for farmstands.
That night I pulled into Lake Chelan State Park. I was lonely and tired so I called my family.
The next day was much better. I rode a small pass in the early morning heat and connected again with the main interchange, Highway 97. I was elated to find the heat tamp down the infernal wind. In Sunnyslope, which is across the river from Wenatchee, I stocked up on locally-grown apples and a bag of some of the biggest and sweetest cherries I’ve ever had. Then on through the orchard paradise of Cashmere. The feet of the Cascades were closing in around me again and I saw glimpses of the high peaks. I camped that night at Blu Shastin RV Park.
This park is the realm of the Daves. It’s run by a Dave, who gave me a discount and a free slice of pizza. It was hot when I arrived so I promptly dove into the sparkling pool. There I met Dave #2, who hung off the railing, shoulder-deep in water, in his 60s. The proud new owner of an RV parked there for the summer. An infectious good mood. He’d just come from his grandchildren’s high school graduation bashes in Tacoma and was showing me photos of them in their robes, covered in flowers. He offered me some beers so I walked with him to his trailer and we cracked some Modelos. Together we demolished the bag of cherries. Then Dave #3 arrived.
I couldn’t tell whether they were together or not. But they looked near-identical and bantered like a couple, them with their bushy mustaches, square frames, beer-bellies, flip flops and gold chains. They’d bought the RV together and were spending much of the summer there. Dave #3 is a retired hospital chaplain who launched homeless shelters in Spokane and Anchorage. I sat there and we traded stories about that and travel. Then they fed me a mountain of burgers and hot dogs, and then a salad, which I’d been craving. Dave #2 patted me on the back and gave me two more beers before he sent me on my way. Great people.
In the morning I crushed Blewett Pass. I marveled at how quickly I pedaled over the 4,500-foot traverse, feeling disembodied, as if I was watching someone else do the work. I leaned in for a long downhill on the main road. The valley opened up again, the trees fell back and I climbed a long and peaceful hill beneath wind turbines with little traffic. From there I did not pedal for ten miles — literally. And I watched the valley continue to open beneath me. This was a feeling I cannot describe. The air became hotter and drier. Soon I was in Ellensburg, a moderately-sized college town here on the high plains.
This has been a particularly important stop for me because I have family here. My cousin Colleen is two years older than me and making a life here in this beautiful community with her husband Tanner and their 10-month-old baby, Ellie, who I had not met yet because of COVID. Her eyes are huge and blue. I think she’ll be a drummer because she abruptly slaps her chubby little palms on tables and hard surfaces. That, or a writer, because she loves pens and, separately, paper.
I’ve been able to rest here. It’s been a blessing roll around on the ground with Ellie and watch Colleen work wonders with her. Colleen is set to begin grad school. While Ellie babbled in a high chair and captured the hearts of each and every patron around us, Colleen nursed a cocktail and told me about her aspirations, how she wants to use her knowledge as a young mother to help others in similar predicaments navigate postpartum disorders and early parenting. She continued to tell me this the next morning, effortlessly bouncing Ellie on a knee as she screeched and chuckled and crawled all over her. Truly inspirational to see. I can’t wait to come back and hear how Colleen and Ellie are doing.
Cycling
Much of this stretch is on 97. It’s a main thoroughfare with more traffic and, at times, small shoulders. You’ll get pretty good at navigating slip streams here. They’re the wind funnels semis create when they whip past you under the right conditions. They’ll either suck you in after them, bestowing a much-appreciated boost, or bump you moderately to one side.
The riding is really good for most of that road, though. No sketchy bridges or tunnels. Old Blewett Highway, which leaves the main road to traverse the pass, is awesome and much less pock-marked than I’d been told, but be careful on the road for any speeding traffic. I encountered three cars and heard all of them coming easily. Be careful on the downhill for pot holes and the rare car.
Encounters
Before Cashmere a toothless old man pulled up to me on a three-wheeled cargo tricycle. He wore suspenders and a big sunhat.
As I studied my map he told me all about how electric vehicles work and how much more feasible battery storage is now. Next, he said he’s getting an electric car. It was hot and I paid little attention to him, searching as I was for my next food and water stop. Proudly he showed me a makeshift wooden bench me’d crafted for the machine. It had replaced the stock seat that stood too prominently, he said, and caused him to flip the thing a few months ago. That got my attention. He said he was OK and chuckled.
Traffic was bunched now near us before a traffic light across the highway. Someone in a sedan waved to him and he squinted and studied her. She pulled away.
“I didn’t know her,” he said, smiling. “I guess she knows me.”
Musings
I’m having hand pain now. My right hand cyclically experiences numbness throughout the day. As of writing on the 18th I have just raised my handlebars from their lower, more aggressive position in the hopes of alleviating this pressure on my elbows and hand. Fingers crossed; this is making writing difficult.
Gus inspired me to cull my possessions. I’m much more lighter now than when I started. Yesterday I mailed half of my clothes, my travel pillow, some bluetooth headphones and a wildfire pamphlet.
I oscillate between wondering why more people don’t do this and then, the next morning, it’s clear to me why. I think that’s evident in today’s blog.
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