Archive for July, 2010

Posted on July 16, 2010 - by Nadia

Searching for Josie

July 15, 2010

Sumner wrap up

Been here three days trying to verify Josie’s existence here, to get a sense of the place and its surround, the get a feel for EJ Whit. Vicki Connor at the Ryan House and the Heritage Quest Research Library on Main Street have been very helpful.

SUMNER — Almost at the end of the reel. Almost at my wit’s end. I found her: Josie. Josie! I almost yelled my relief out loud.

For  two full days I’d wandered through the year that brought the summer of 1890 to the summer of ’91. On the big screen microfilm, The Local Matters section of the Sumner Herald – the only section that really mattered to me – read like a year-long  19^th century Twitter feed:

Seed potatoes hard to come by.

Weather for walking alone with the moon.

By way of a mild suggestion we would respectfully call attention to the present condition of the walk in front of Ryan’s hall.

The Sumner baseball club will play a match game with the Puyallup club on the latter’s grounds tomorrow, (Saturday) morning Bet on the Sumners as success is sure unless energy fails.

A.M. Rousseau returned Tuesday night from a two weeks’ visit to friends at Tenino. During his absence he devoted his time to hunting, fishing and getting sunburnt.

Never mind that the man she would marry, who would become, among other things, my great grandfather, was present on almost every page. Elmer John White founded the Sumner Herald  in 1889. He  owned half of it, served as editor to his partner’s publisher, and wrote columns under the pen name Eli, and some people called him that, though he generally went about daily life by his initials, EJ.

He is a funny guy who urges temperance. Any topic that gets too heated deserves to be taken with “sugar and lemon.”  He is well liked. Well enough to run far ahead of the rest of the Democratic ticket in his 1890 bid for the state house, but not well enough liked to to actually win, as Republicans swept Pierce County, as they were wont to do back then.

I enjoyed getting to know EJ in Sumner, but I’ve always known more about him. In the life that lies ahead of him, he keeps writing in his distinctive down-home, third-person style and is noticed and written about, so it’s fairly easy to feel like I know him. It’s her about whom I know so little. Every confirmation of a fact is a bit of grout that holds the fragile tower I’ve been building together. Every correction knocks a clinker to the ground and puts the enterprise on stronger footing. (more…)

Posted on July 13, 2010 - by Nadia

Destination: Sumner!

Day 39: July 12, 2010

Packwood to Sumner, Washington

82 miles

Moss-covered trees, ferns, wildflowers and waterfalls lined Skate Creek Road for the first 20 miles of the morning for a mostly uphill start to the day. Mount Rainier made a cameo appearance toward the end of that stretch, upstaging the throngs of daisies that cheered me along. Rolling highways then until a surprise cutoff from Alder to Eatonville made for a really fun roller coaster ride for 10 miles that flew by despite many logging trucks. Ortonville Road cutoff from Eatonville to the bike path to South Prairie, wrong turn on the bike path, then doubled back, continuing on through suburbab rhubarb and strawberry fields to Puyallup and on to neighboring Sumner, the end of my trip.

Hooray! Sumner. This bedroom community of Puyallap has been in my sights for almost seven weeks now. This is where Josie got off the train she boarded in Clayton, New Mexico. This is where her sister lived. Where she worked as a typesetter. Where she married Elmer John White. Where she started the next chapter of her life. This two-block town, this is my destination.

I got in toward 8 after navigating suburbia for the first time in a long while. I took a bath. Unpacked. And at 10 went to find dinner at the only place open, and found my self being rewarded with a knuckle bump from the unlikely character of Johnny Rocket. The journey never ends.

Gliding along Skate Creek

Skate Creek Road skirts the south side of Rainier National Park from Packwood to Ashford. It is a flatter, forested version of Hwy. 123, which runs into the park’s south boundary and contains some steep climbs, or so I heard. So close to the end, I didn’t feel that getting a few miles closer to Rainier was worth the delay and hills to see for myself. Now, I was focused on my suburban destination.

All the locals I talked to about Skate Creek said the same things: It’s beautiful, but not safe for riding. No shoulder. Tight turns. This, it seems, is a concerted effort to keep it to themselves. The windy pavement affords very short sightlines, so I did put of riding it until the weekend traffic was done or asleep, but Monday morning I had the road mostly to myself until the very end. Its pavement is compromised by underground springs and it slumps and buckles in large drooping swaths here and there that are all but invisible at high speeds.  I saw an RV hit one and the ensuing fight for control was momentarily scary.

Along the way, vast crowds of daisies cheered me along, vigorously nodding and waving in the breeze, shouting their floral, Allez! Allez! The Nisqually River roared.

And a deer came out to see what the fuss was all about. It was lovely, if (yes, I have to say this after so much heat,) a little chilly. Finally, I was in the true Pacific Northwest.

Thanks everyone for reading along. It’s been a remarkable experience

Posted on July 11, 2010 - by Nadia

Is that homesick I smell?

Family and friends, nice, but not mine

Day 38: July 11, 2010

Nachez to Packwood, Washington

65 miles

A flat road this morning, freshly chip sealed, making a small shoulder simply inaccessible. Never mind it was quite early and there was little traffic. At least it was windy. I was a stinky grouch. After the first 30 miles I took a swim and a break and everything improved dramatically – the climb to White Pass is not steep, just a steady churn. The traffic wasn’t as bad as everyone said, especially once I got the milk trucks to give me a little more space, and the scenery went from interesting to, of course, Rainier.

Yakima is a huge valley that collects solar heat and turns it into fruits and vegetables. Unfortunately, it threatens to do the same to the people who live there. After several days of hitting the 105-range, Yakimites headed for the hills. Rimrock Lake is a huge reservoir filled with milky green glacier melt water and topped with water skiers straight out of the ‘50s advertising literature. It is generously appointed with boat ramps and picnic areas. The lake cries out: Jump in me!

Poor evening planning on my part has left me without a shower since … uhm, Walla Walla, which is the entire heat wave. (This dose of too much information brought to you by Wet Ones Extra Gentle hand and face wipes.) The additional disappearance of my toothpaste yesterday morning added to my personal hygiene woes. So it was that I was stinky and grouchy and pedaled poorly all morning, despite rolling out of my spot behind the Christian Life Building at 5:00 to steer well clear of any early service. Out of tortillas (poor, poor planning, I tell you) I joined the ag workers at the corner store for a lousy breakfast of things wrapped in cellophane.

In that state, I heard clearly the cry of the lake and waded right in.

Everything changed. I was clean, my mind was clear, I had ridden 30 miles by 10 and stuck with my plan to leave the road to the day trippers and departing RVers for the noon hour. I read. I lolled in the sun. I found my toothpaste. I smelled … grilling onions?

Down the beach from me a Mexican woman had laid out a picnic that engulfed an entire table. Most of her family was napping. Luci, her youngest daughter was in the water, splashing and talking to nobody in particular. I was reading. And the smell of a family gathering wafted into my nose and connected to my brain and the cause of my unrest became clear: I missed my friends and family.

For the first time this whole trip I was kind of lonely. I missed the barbecues and river beach time of Missoula in summer. I miss doing things for other people, with other people. This trip has been 99.9 percent free of whining. No severe pain. No deep regrets about route finding. No fussing about the diet. And no homesickness.  All of those things clog the gears of the daily grind that it takes to have a good bike trip, yet they show up now, on the penultimate day pedaling. Acknowledged, they could be released.

I   bundled my stuff and rolled up the shady shoreline. I stopped to ask if I could take a picture of the senora’s picnic. She thought that was weird but acquiesced if I would eat something. So I had a fajita with fresh salsa and learned a bit about the apple warehouse life. Who knew  they pack apples year round?

It was good to sit and use my abysmal Spanish. She appreciated the effort, (which is why Spanish is more fun than French.) I left very full, but aware of that nagging emptiness.

My, what a mountain

White Pass is nine miles above Rimrock Lake, past a couple of other little lakes that would be fun to hang out at too. The road is lined with huge walls of rock boxed into chicken wire cages. It is evidence of past rock slides and bulwarks against future ones. I heard later that White Pass is the only pass through the Cascades that is guaranteed to remain open all winter. Never closes. It’s a military thing.

After the pass, the descent is quick and long. I kept my hands on the brakes and my eyes in the rear view mirror, ready to hop into the narrow shoulder if traffic showed up. It was pretty quiet, but it wasn’t really a sightseeing posture. A sign said scenic overlook ahead, and I thought, I’ll cross over to it if there’s no traffic. There wasn’t and I skidded into the gravel lot, and well, there it was, Mount Rainier, bigger than life, just sitting there decorated with snow and a few puffy clouds. What a stunning sight. I could have cruised right on by. I sat and looked and talked to people for a half hour.

Mooove Over.

I got the milk trucks to stop running me off the road when I saw one coming up on me on the climb. He had oncoming traffic, two cars passing him at once and me to deal with. I saw a break in the rock boxes and stood up and sprinted for it, pulling in in time for him to pass most easily by. He waved thanks and after that the milk trucks that have bothered me for two days started giving me lots of time and space. I think he radioed that I was OK.

Penultimate pedal

This is my last night camping out on this trip. I’m in a genuine rainforest and it’s pitch dark black, a rarity on this trip. I’m staked out in a sloppy way on a slope by a side road under a towering cedar. A creek is rushing by somewhere. The soil is so loamy my stakes barely hold. Entirely new noises fill the air. A bug that sounded as big as a bat was trying to get in the tent. I think it was an owl that just roared at some bird squawking in its space. This is a long way from the abandoned ranch house in New Mexico, the rock art canyon in Utah, the hotspring in Idaho. I’ll miss nights in my protective nylon space.

Posted on July 11, 2010 - by Nadia

Day with the dead

Day 37: July 10, 2010

Pine Creek Resort to Nachez, Washington

80 miles

Another scorcher of a day, ride was mostly downhill or flat after a five-mile climb to the summit on Hwy. 97. Despite dire warnings to the contrary, Hwy. 97 was fine to bike with little traffic and wide shoulders, though I started early to beat both heat and traffic. Later I was told it is famous for drunk drivers. I wound my way from Union Gap to the far side of Yakima on an unsigned greenway that was a nice break from highway riding, but dumped me out at a confusing overlap of I-84 and Hwy. 12. It took lots of conversations and riding one exit stretch on the Interstate to find the workaround, South Nachez Road. The final dozen or so miles was tough with no shoulder, the sun blinding both me and drivers coming behind me and thrashing wind.

There is a road to Reno where the ancestors wait to bless the bettors. As far as I can tell, it’s a long way to Reno from the outskirts of Toppenish but the early wagers caught my eye as I pedaled along Hwy 97. There wasn’t a car in sight so it was easy to just stop and give the crazy scattering of change the once over. A half dozen quarters, lots of dimes and nickels, countless pennies. What in the world happened here? I glanced around. tThis was quickly adding up to enough change for a convenience store ice cream break. I stooped and started picking up coins. I didn’t have many in hand when something made me look up. Well above me, a rag tag collection of scarves and beads fluttered in the wind, tied to a stretch of field fencing.

The place had a funny feel and there was a steep little worn route leading up the hillside, so I went up.  On top of the hill, a fenced in square held a commanding view of the valleys to both the north and south. Inside the fence, collections of junk – plastic bottles, old shoes – were piled on what seemed to be a handful of very old graves. Coins, lottery tickets and pull tabs were left as offerings. This was clearly a sacred site. I did what anyone who knows what happened to Greg Brady when he took the idol from the cave in Hawaii would do: I carefully put the money on one of the entry gates and recommitted it to whatever its original purpose was.

Upon later inquiry I learned that the site dates to the 1800s, and is a traditional burial site for the Yakama Nation. Tribal members headed to Reno toss money out of their car as they go by, with the understanding the ancestors will watch over their wagers in the future. A larger, better kept burial site is on the hill behind a fruit stand on the west side of town.

It was a week for cemeteries and legends that started with a walk through the Goldendale Cemetery on Friday. The front part of the large grounds is mowed and the stones are in good shape, in straight rows. But in the back, where the stones are generally much older, from the 1860s, 70s and 80s, many of the monuments were broken, pieced together on the ground or stacked in their parts. The grass isn’t mowed and wild grass blows fluff and long. I asked what happened to that part of the graveyard. The woman at the museum told me it had been vandalized. And that a guy who had tended the cemetery had chopped down a bunch of trees and they’d fallen into graves. That latter bit sounded just strange to me and I chalked the whole telling up to just one more example of how weird Goldendale is odd.

In the works

Riding the Northern Pacific

I spent two hours at a train museum dedicated to North Pacific memorabilia in Topponish. Among the cool things was the almost completed restoration of a locomotive, one sister of which is located in a park in Missoula, the other in Helena.

Headed to Sumner

My trip is winding down. I suspect I will arrive Sumner Monday evening. Anyone want to join me for dinner Tuesday? Come on down! I’ll have 2,200 miles on the odometer and legs and many too many memories to even catalog at this point. My battery is very low so I’ll save longer summary posts until I am there. Thanks for reading, everyone.

Posted on July 10, 2010 - by Nadia

Goldendale: Josie’s birthplace

Day 36: July 9, 2010

Goldendale to Pine Creek Bar and RV campground

15 miles

The last noodle of common sense left in my noggin after yesterday’s heat advised me to stay off the road until today cooled down. I did that, pedaling just far enough to set myself up well for an early start to Yakima tomorrow. Highway 97 gains almost 2,000 feet between Goldendale and the summit, mostly in pleasant, staged rolling hills with a wide shoulder.

In 1870, Calvin and Jenny Keys and their four kids lived and farmed and kept house in Klickitat County, near Goldendale, Washington. When the census taker came knocking on their door, the oldest son was nine, the youngest, a girl, three months. Calvin was 40, Jenny was 34. They were starting over. Done were the days of drought in southern California. Done were the endless rains of the Olympic peninsula. Here, cattle ranged free with few acres plowed or fenced to keep them out. There were enough people to make it feel settled, but not enough to be unsettling.

This is where Alice Josephine would be born in the hot summer of 1872, after a winter that recalled, for the few who had been around then, the devastating freeze of 1961-62. That was the year the livestock died and settlers were left with no choice but to move on. That was the year people started talking about planting hay, about sewing flax, about putting up feed and barns that would allow them to weather such a winter. This year, 1872, was the year they really got serious about such things. Josie was born onto the high country north of the Columbia River in the year that it got settled. Where there had been a few hundred living, now there were a couple of thousand. Fences went up almost as fast as cabins, and the frustration of open range ranchers like her father Calvin grew.

The Keys clan stayed in Goldendale as long as they could stand it. Time was money, for now. The ranch wasn’t big, but it was worth almost $1,000. That was enough to pull out and start over again someplace less crowded. Before Josie was a year old they had done just that, heading south to Pueblo and Trinidad, the ranching towns of southern Colorado that offered more range, and less snow. It was the beginning of Josie’s life on the move.

Presby Mansion

In 1902, Winthrop Bartlett Presby figured he had what it took to show the world that Goldendale was no backwater. He sunk $8,000 into a fine house, with 22 rooms and fireplace tiles imported from Spain. Today, the Presby Mansion is a museum featuring the everyday doings of turn-of-the-century Goldendale. It is beautifully restored and maintained and includes a research library with indexed census, marriage and death records, among other things

Outside, the old carriage house features a frontier school room and newspaper press shop as well as a collection of threshing and farming equipment.

The Sentinel, Goldendale’s newspaper, is the fourth oldest in the state and its progression is represented in a pressroom display featuring an early printing press, linotype machine and printers lead.

Architecturally, the house is over the top, with its widow’s walk so far from the sea, it’s wrap around porch, and its stifling third floor. Its hard not to imagine that Mr. Presby had a pretty big ego. Apparently, it was at least a bit bigger than his income. Household gossip tells that he died in debt, and the house was seized by his lien holders. His wife held no claim to it, as she had divorced him earlier, on grounds that he was an insufferable grouch.

Roll on, Train fans

I won’t be here for the Train concert at Maryhill Winery tomorrow, but Jesen gave me a hint of what I’ll be missing in his family’s RV at the Pine Creek Inn, 13 miles south of Goldendale. Belting out a full-on rendition of Hey Soul Sister, the Spokane teen had a rapt audience singing along, watching his every move. The RV was humming, and that’s how it should be the night before going to see a big concert – a little show, with a lot of friends.

Selena and Scott saw me roll into Pine Creek and struck up a conversation while their three kids paced the gravel driveway, watching for their friends to drive up in their deluxe RV ride. When Jim and Gina and their five boys arrived, the stage was set and I was just lucky enough to be invited in for a bit. Selena and Scott are from Portland, Gina and Jim from Spokane, and a few times a year they find an excuse to get together. This year, the excuse is Train and the first concert ever for the three Portland kids. Oh, what a time tomorrow night will be!

Jesen brought the musical talent, but everyone threw something into the pot. Jared did a backflip standing right there in the RV. In his socks. Brett and Andrew lured the herd of lop eared rabbits that lolled around the parking lot into the lair they made of celery and bread. Sam and Brock held down the couch, Kate bravely yawned and claimed the sole girl spot in their big bunch of boys and everyone sang along with Jesen.

Camping. Regardless of tent size, it’s summertime in America if there’s a singalong, the burgers are a little burnt and old friends welcome a new one into the circle. Thanks gang. Have a great time at the show.

Posted on July 8, 2010 - by Nadia

The pits: From garbage to Goldendale

Day 35: July 8, 2010

Crow Butte State Park to the water tower woods above Goldendale, Washington

63 miles

In which I climb out of the gorge and see some lovely country but suffer from heat exhaustion.

I could see Roosevelt’s towering grain elevators almost from Crow Butte and expected your average shipping town. As I drew near, I was amazed to see a robot-like lifter device hover over a container on a flatbed train. At first I thought it was delicately loading something into the top of the flatbed, but it engaged some clasps on the top and simply lifted the whole container up and off the train. I couldn’t see the operator, I think he was below in a forklift like vehicle, only with a high overhead reach instead of a down low one. It seemed quite close to the mechanical shells that duked it out in Avatar.

I got over my amazement at seeing the containers so easily lifted off the train and realized the town smelled like garbage. As I slowed down, there appeared an excess of flies. Then I noticed the majority of the containers on the train below the grain elevator read BWI, the garbage company. I wasn’t sure about eating at this café, but after asking one of the pilot car drivers idling in the parking lot, it seemed my choice was there are nowhere. Roosevelt is a one-breakfast town.

Carrie filled me in on the garbage. For at least 20 years Roosevelt has based its prospects on selling landfill space to cities in need – cities in Washington, Idaho, even Canada, send containers of trash there. Hawaii is trying to, but invasive species concerns has its trash shrink wrapped on the dock in Seattle. Roosevelt is a river transport town, with an small to middling industrial port, an active rail line and a highway. At its back, the river bluffs rise in steep drainages that curl and unfold into the high Greenoe Hills. The garbage is hauled seven miles back into one of these folds, where it is dumped, old-school, into a lined pit. None of this new-fangled baling and stacking. Carrie says they give tours, though she allowed it would be a tough bike ride up there.

Her husband is working a new angle on the dump – a methane electrical generating plant. One is already in operation. He’s working on the second and there’s plans for a third. This river valley is one giant electrical surge.

It didn’t happen without its boosters, not even the garbage. Apparently back in the day, the town didn’t own the whole drainage behind it. Apparently, where ever the garbage goes now was once tribal lands owned by the Yakima tribe. A forward thinking Rooseveltian, deceased these last six years or so, negotiated the outright purchase of the land, paving the way for its future as an intermodal garbage handler. The port and train tracks are all abustle. The east end of town still stinks.

Pilots for the wind

The parking lot of the M&J bar and grill hosted more than its share of pilot cars – those little cars with signs reading Oversized Load. I counted eight there when I left, each with a professional driver. The radio crackles to life. The truck has left the landfill, go ahead and start up the grade. And the woman I’m talking to gives the Let’s go, and one quarter of a four-part wind turbine gathers careful steam for a steep road ahead. Wind. This is the gorge and it is lined with dozens, if not hundreds, of huge wind turbines with more towers and more electrical transmission lines going in every day. On Monday, a double-roter Chinook helicopter is scheduled to begin a week of lifting the tops of towers onto bottoms that a contractor is racing to get installed by then. I know this from the onion guys yesterday and saw proof of it today – bulldozers working high on the hillsides and towers staged in meadows below.

I left the bar and grill at 9 as a pilot car driver in her reflective vest was reaching over the bar to show Carrie how to finish a part of whatever it is she was knitting.

My very hot day

The usual route to Goldendale is a busy highway up a steep hill. The map showed some alternatives and Carrie said they were gorgeous. Either way, there was a steep river bluff to climb. I’d been eyeing the alternative for some time, so I took it. Twenty miles or so after leaving Roosevelt, I turned up a canyon road. It followed a lovely reservoir and stream, crossed the  creek and started climbing. In short, this climb consisted of two steep two-plus mile climbs with no shade in sight. Temps climbed into 100s. I drank tons of water and ate everything salty I had, but I felt nauseaus and dizzy at the top with 18 miles of rolling hills to Goldendale. I ate my apple and focused on getting down. I stopped at the first ranch house I came to and rinsed off with cold water. I stopped at another and stood in the sprinkler. I felt lousy. I finally rolled into Goldendale at 3, two hours longer than I thought it would take. I was hardly of a mind to begin my search for Josie and my foray into the records at the county courthouse did not bode well. The museum is good and may be more fruitful. I’ll begin fresh in the morning.

No room at the inn

Having struggled to get here, it proved a tough town to find a place to sleep. The RV part set me up under some trees about 20 yards from a meth house.  A girl-fight broke out. Blows were exchanged. Much a-grammatical shrieking went on. It seemed my stuff would likely get stolen if I left italone, and that I might get caught in the crossfire if I stayed. I repacked my tent and moved on. Other homeless woman stuff (me, in search of a place to sleep) ensued and I finally went to the nicest restaurant in town and ate a meal that contained vegetables before taking on the oak forest on the hill above town.

I am sorry I don’t have a photograph that really captures the, uh, spirit of Goldendale. I’ll try for that tomorrow. (In fact, no photos tonight as my camera is packed away. I’ll add some later.)

Posted on July 7, 2010 - by Nadia

Roll on, mighty Columbia

Day 34: July 7, 2010

Walla Walla to Crow Butte State Park, Washington

97 miles

Concerned about wind and traffic along the Columbia River, I got an early start and was happy that neither fear was realized. Traffic was very light along Hwy 12 from Walla Walla to Umatilla, and not much heavier along Hwy 14 in Washington. I spent my time on the Interstate bridge crossing at Umatilla wondering how I was supposed to have gotten on that nice bike path, but survived the crossing on the shoulder of the vehicle lanes. The wind, don’t say it out loud, it’ll jinx me for tomorrow, but the wind … was at my back. I covered the first 60 miles by lunch time, holding steady at 20 mph for long stretches. It almost felt like I was biking instead of hauling.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Fish. Nothing. Nothing. Fish. Nothing. Fish. Fish. I wish I knew what kind of fish I was seeing on the close circuit fish cam on the fish ladder at the dam at Umatilla. They turn a corner, look dazed and are gone, headed up stream. I like to think that among them are salmon intent on spawning in Redfish Lake outside of Stanley, Idaho. Based on early counts down here, they were already expecting a banner year up there. It is amazing to see the obstacles we’ve put in the way of salmon, amazing to know that any of them respond to the urge to get back home with such vigor that they find a way around.

So, these two salmon were swimming along, headed up stream and one ran into a cement wall. “Dam,” she said

Layers upon layers

Onion prices will hold steady until September, then they’re likely to drop. Onions shipping now have over wintered, they’re good, but they could turn any day. That’s just the kind of onions they are. Such is the wisdom – minus routine profanity — gleaned at a cinderblock bar, restaurant and convenience store at the end of a work day in Paterson, Washington. Biking along the Columbia, I dodged the occasional onion in the shoulder, escapees from the business of feeding the world.

Long, long trains of Powder River coal roll along the far shore of the river, headed west full, headed east empty. As I sit in my tent listening to them across the inlet that is the feature attraction of this park I am reminded of past experiences sleeping along this river: Trucks, trains and frogs all make for a loud night.

From a bike, the Columbia is an ocean threading between the dry cliffs of continents adrift. Swinging around the corner as Hwy 12 turned into Hwy 730, the river unfolded into yet another of the many, “Oh wow,” moments of this trip.

Some like it hot

Not matter how cool and refreshing the label on the bottle, grapes like their days hot and dry. They got their wish today as temperatures broke 100 on the highway. I thought it was a little cruel of Canoe Ridge wineries to flash their label at me. It wasn’t the first time on this trip I’ve had to tell myself, you can paddle in August, though as it’s going, I’ll be able to squeeze a float into

July as well.

Posted on July 6, 2010 - by Nadia

Out of the woods, into the winery

Day 33: July 6, 2010

Elgin, Oregon to Walla Walla, Washington

48? Miles

I wanted to leave the highway and cut across the mountains and wheat fields to Walla Walla, but my map just hints at the possibility, the hunting guide serving as  convenience store clerk said No and I’m feeling a little risk-averse after the Hell’s Canyon adventure. I shared the highway with lots of nice but large timber trucks. A 20-mile climb was followed by a descent of about the same, the down steeper than the up but tangled with cross winds, a harbinger of my coming days. And yes, this marks my entry into the last state of my journey.

In the mid-70s a machinist planted some grapes in Walla Walla and started what has today become a center for American grape growing and wine making. The last five years have seen a bit of a boom of new vineyards being planted and new wines produced and I have staked out a spot for the night at one of them: Waters winery and vineyard. It’s a gorgeous spot with young vines staked out on a rolling south-facing hill.

Waters had its first crush in 2006 and its grand opening in 2007. Although the tasting room is closed today, Robbi and Christa welcomed my arrival and left me at the end of the day with a variety of wines to sample. After serious consideration, I decided the 2008 Syrah paired nicely with my fresh corn tortillas and peanut butter dinner, though I’d like to come back and try the whole selection again with some of my more discriminating friends. Thanks for setting me up, Bucky. Waters is terrific and everyone working here treated me better (even) than family.

My highway route to Walla Walla took me through the town of Milton-Freewater. I spent much of the morning forgetting its name and thinking of it as Milton Freeman.  As I rolled into town I screeched to a halt at a genuine tortilla factory. I have pretty much lived on tortillas this trip and there was no way I could pass up the chance to buy them hot off the griddle. But I didn’t need five dozen.

The guys who were bundling them cheerfully packaged up two dozen small tortillas for me. When I asked how much, they waived off my money and kept up their clowning for my camera. I ate several then and there, had more for dinner, and am regretting not buying the standard five dozen pack – I’ll be done with my two dozen by the time breakfast is through.

Posted on July 6, 2010 - by Nadia

Seeing the trees in Oregon

Day 32: July 5, 2010

Joseph to North of Elgin, Oregon

62 miles

I felt a pang of nostalgia for something I never knew as I pass the bustling Boise Cascade lumber mill outside of Elgin. It’s a hum that defined the Missoula area for many of my friends, but was more of a culture than an employer by the time I moved to town. The truth is my personal connections to the western landscape were formed by the wind, prairie and pronghorns of Casper, Wyoming. All these trees press in on me, and can make me feel anxious. Yet, at the rest stop at the confluence of the Wallowa and Grande Ronde rivers, the garbage contained Starbucks to-go cups and tags off of new river gear. This is not foreign soil. Oregon is at once novel and familiar, and it is going to be a challenge to see the land ahead of me with fresh eyes in the moment, and not take the familiar for granted or shrink from the closer, more pressing landscape.

Michael and Sarah and I parted company around noon as they headed back to Missoula and I to finish my trip. I took an additional hour or so to update the blog, as we were out of cell range at Lake Wallowa over the Fourth. So it was that I just rode for a few hours and didn’t take time along the way to get to know people or places. The towns came up quickly, and were small but tidy and busier than the small dots of Idaho or Utah: Enterprise, Lostine, Wallowa. Each had a store that was still in business, a church or two, a bed and breakfast.

I’m still in hay country, of course, but noticed for the first time the spindle balers turning out round bales. Round bales are banned in many states. (Why?) Because the cows were having a hard time getting a square meal out of them! (Sorry, had to.)

The landscape is filling up as I approach busier urban centers such as Walla Walla. My maps no longer show dirt roads or river rapids, and route finding is getting trickier although there are more people to ask.

Posted on July 5, 2010 - by Nadia

Celebrating with friends

Day 31: July 4, 2010

Joseph, Ore.

Day off pedaling; hiked with Michael and Sarah into the Eagle Cap Wilderness

The town of Joseph is named for Tiwi teqis, Chief Joseph, the elder leader of the Wallawa Nez Perce and the man who declined the treaty modification that would have ceded all the Wallawa country to the United States. Pursued by U.S. soldiers, Tiwi Teqis, and then his son the younger Chief Joseph, led their people on a sad and terrible journey and retreat, north and east to Canada. Being in Joseph, seeing the stunning mountain lake country, and the high green pastures that he refused to cede, lends me a visceral sense of what drove him to take the stand he did against such overwhelming opposition. Here, he is celebrated during  Chief Joseph Days (and rodeo) the third full week of July.

Downtown, the town of Joseph features flower boxes and bronze sculptures along a two-block stretch of shops, fly-fishing emporia and cafés. The town’s museum is as complete as any along my route save for that of Clayton,  NM. A full room is devoted to telling the native perspective of the Nez Perce flight. Elsewhere, the early settlement of Joseph is detailed. Despite being surrounded by mining prospects, Joseph was an agricultural community founded initially, according to the woman at the museum, by ranchers who received permission from Chief Joseph to graze their horses on summer pasture.

Just west of town, the Hurricane Trail threads its way into the Eagle Cap Wilderness, the first wilderness designated under the federal Wilderness Act. The area is also home to several wild and scenic rivers or recreation corridors. The mountains here are steep, rising from about 4,500 feet to 9,500 feet, with creeks booming down jagged drainages, shooting off cliffs into gushing waterfalls. Glacial moraines form scenic lake Wallawa, which attracts boaters and anglers and sets the stage for summer resorts at the south end of the lake. This area is about seven hours drive from Missoula, but just four or so from Boise and most of the license plates here are from Idaho or Oregon.

After

a hike with plenty of vertical, up a drainage filled with the scrap wood and rubble of a violent spring runoff, we ate. Michael brought enough burgers and franks to feed an army and I did my best to put a dent in it. Our cabin at Flying Arrow Resort overlooks a rushing creek so we barbecued in all-American splendor. Then napped. Then drove to a widespot in the lakeside road to view a fireworks display that reflected in the lake and thundered off the mountains and was all in all a great capper to a weekend with friends.