It is my job to tell you the story as it happened, and not to deprive you of any instances that you may find amusing or beneficial. This means this is not a children’s memo, or for anyone easily offended. My family, I know you’ll still love me. My friends, the same. Future followers, don’t pass judgment, just enjoy the ride, as I know I will. Friends, family, and future followers; feel free to pray for me. God knows I’ll need everything I can get.
Once we awake to another exceptional breakfast we load up the vehicle with hiking gear and out bike stuff then head on to meet some folks who are going to be hiking with us. We’ve got eight people total, and one is a botanist while one other specializes in native plant types to do your lawn in. Boise is definitely in the desert and finding a decent set of plants to have in your lawn can be difficult, so by nature go with plants that are indigenous to the area will yield the best luck and results. Before we head to meet the folks I must make mention of…. One wild thing that not many people in NC are familiar with is flood irrigation. I watched Marty flood his lawn unlike anything I’ve ever seen on purpose. He and his neighbors share an irrigation ditch that intersects their yards and they all have a day designated as their day to flood their own yard. A simple process, but Marty lifted a small gate at one end of his yard, and the yard was built on some unnoticeable grade where the whole yard would flood without seeping into others yards but still had full coverage. Whenever the flooding was at it’s peak, the water was over six inches deep in some parts of the yard. Watching the water weave through elevated produce beds, different rock formations surrounding flowers and the foundation of the house was a neat process, especially when you take into consideration the fact that you could still walk from the house to the detached garage, to the porch and to the irrigation gate itself in the back of the yard all without getting your feet wet. Marty has his shit together, if you no what I’m sayin’.
After the irrigation we roll out to meet the friends and convoy ourselves towards Leslie Gulch. On the way we get pulled over by a police man for speeding. The police man thought it was funny that both cars pulled over, claiming it must be his lucky day to catch two at once. He was nice though, and Marty had stated that he hand’t had a speeding ticket since earning citizenship over twenty years ago. Marty was from Holland, and I think he had as much enjoyment listening to my draw and Lauren’s dialect as I enjoyed listening to how he drew out syllables that I am not used to. As we enter into the gulch, which for the unfamiliar is like a gorge back in NC, but with the absence of water, the terrain is absolutely insane. Insane enough to the point that if you look it up on Google.maps is says “Leslie Gulch-Canyon with Striking Geological Formations”. This is a fact and as we enter further into the gulch and the formations become more striking, Lauren utters rather subtly “That’s crazy.” After about the second time she said it, Marty mentions that he had never heard anyone refer to a geological formation as crazy, and he found this highly amusing, bringing him to laughter multiple times through out the day. For people of our generation referring to something as crazy is normal, even expected. Lauren and I have even been known to say it in unison without any choreography or rehearsal in reference to different view-scapes and occurrences throughout our involvement with each other. After bringing notice of his finding of humor in this, we put up a guard on word choice, and when the guard goes down and this unavoidable use of generational verbiage expresses itself, Marty has a chuckle and repeats “That’s crazy!” Truth be known, it was crazy. Leslie Gulch was one of the crazier places I’ve ever been to.
As we get to our hiking point and start to journey forward the botanist and professional landscaper and plant enthusiast point out a few different things about some different plants. Lauren and I are kind of bored by all the discussion of desert plans, another generational issue I’ve come to notice. Our generation seems to want reward for efforts quick, and easy; a character fault of anyone born after the late ’70’s it seems to me. Some people have more patience just by the nature of their personality types, but most want more, and they want it now. We loved the hike, and absolutely the landscape, but I know for a fact that I couldn’t tell you the single name of any of the plants we saw out there. The knowledge was impressive and pretty interesting, but just like movies, I have a hard time paying attention sometimes. The plant specialist both did well though, taking the information in small bits.
I was beyond grateful to be hiking. Before committing to this bike ride, and also to Lauren, I would have been more likely to hike across the states. I love hiking and even less geographically interesting hikes are still fun for me. I am a huge fan, however, of things that are difficult, physically and technically, things that are intense, or even “crazy”. This gulch provided all of the above, and my most notable moments of the trip thus far have happened on foot, and not on bicycle, although a few moments are creeping up closer to the mark. Once we get towards the end of the gulch and the hills start to become totally unavoidable, we al turn around and head back. The memories of this place will forever be embossed as this place was totally boss.
Once we get back to the vehicles we finish the trek down to where the gulch meets a river, and thus unbecoming a gulch. This was a sad site to see; an absolute wonder to spectate, but a concern for hundreds of thousands who live in some relativity to this life line. I took a picture of the mountain on the other side of this would-be lake. You can see evidence of where the water level should be, and had probably been since it’s formation(man made). All that was left was what would be classified as a creek back home. It had been like this for a year, we were told. Wether it be seasonal drought or climate change or what ever theory you prescribe to, it was disheartening to look at. We turn around and begin our climb back to the mainland.
Marty and Nurse Betty have been kind enough to deliver us roughly six miles away from a place called Vale, OR. We made a pit stop at a place where the original Oregon Trail ran through. This was an enlightening experience and there are still permanent indentions in the ground from where wagons made the trek from east to west. Perhaps some of these folks took a similar route to us. Either way, we had relief from nice folks, we had bicycles on paved roads, and we didn’t have to bring live sheep and cattle with us. The elements we had to brave might have been similar, but the mode of transportation brings an entirely different level to the game.
Nurse Betty and Marty bid us adieu, and take a couple of amazing photos of us heading down this large decline into Vale. I’m impressed at how many super long downhills we have experienced in the past five hundred miles. Yay for us.
We get to the campground and fumble for anyone who has a clue as to how to check in. We’ve seen the self check in stuff before, but we couldn’t locate this one anywhere. We figure it out and decide to do our first CrossFit type work out of the trip; we only biked six miles today. Something I’ve consistently bitched about on the trip is that I have lugged a set of olympic rings with me for the entire distance and have yet to use them. The rings are relatively light, but the straps have large metal clasps that weigh a few pounds. Whine, whine; I came here to get stronger any ways.
We dug this little spot and slept well on the manicured grass and our sleeping mats. Once we awake we set out for Unity, OR. Every time I think about Unity I am immediately brought back to Charlie Murphy’s True Hollywood Stories and the release of Rick James’s ever epic album, Unity. Unity is around sixty miles away and this is great for us to have a shorter distance and get our groove back. What we didn’t realize is that there is over three thousand feet gain in elevation on this journey. What we did realize is that there is not another gas station or anything of the sort for around seventy miles. We knew this and had prepared for it. Nurse Betty even gave us a package of really nice salami.
We are pedaling through and things are relatively enjoyable to us in regards to temperature and such. As noon nears and the terrain shifts to even more desolate the temperatures pick up, and by about 1:00p.m. we stop for lunch, and after reaching cell service(way later that day) we realized that temperatures had peaked out at close to one hundred degrees. We were both sweating and I don’t really sweat. As we neared lunch time we noticed a few random houses spread out and had planned on knocking on someones door to ask for some shade while we ate lunch as there was nowhere to hide from the sun. No trees, no steep irrigation ditches, not even really any power lines to speak of. We see what looks like the house we will knock on’s driveway and notice some rather creepy signs remarking that all trespassers will be eradicated, government employee or not. This would not end up being the only one of these we saw in eastern Oregon either. We forfeit our hunt for a house and decide to lean our two bikes against each other and huddle in the shade of our bicycle tubing and saddle bags.
We lean against each other, despite our own body heat, because that was the only way to share shade on this gravel ridden shoulder. We have tortillas, ham, salami, and cheese. We had plenty of snacks and such, but this was what we had for lunch. As we gather our provisions, we not only notice how warm we really are, but also how warm our food is. We remove the tortillas and place them back on their packaging for convenience purposes, open the ham and salami packs, and grab a few individually wrapped slices of cheese. Once I start to open the cheese I can see that it is clearly melted, and am forced to spread the cheese over my tortilla more like you would spread peanut butter. I place the ham, noticeably warm to my touch, on the melted cheese and then reach for a few slices of salami. The fat in the salami had started to render out of the meat; it was kinda nice to have some pork fat to spread on my wrap though. It’s hot out here.
We eat our more than panini warm sandwiches and get back on the road. Hot and sweaty, we begin to wonder if our water supply is going to be sufficient. We reach a few decent climbs, and as we reach the top of one of them, Lauren lays out the she has to rest. She noted that is she could she would take a nap on the side of the road. I’m not noticing that anything is wrong with her from a performance stand point; she’s been pushing the tempo for what seemed most of the day. One thing I’ve learned in my years though, when a woman talks, you listen. We stand on the side of the road for a few and she seems to work out whatever type of internal battle she had going on. The temperature has cooled a bit, or at least we had some shade as cloud coverage provided a thick blanket between us and the sun, and a very light drizzle coated us for a few. It must be reiterated that at this point of our trip it is still our ultimate goal to get to Seattle as quickly as possible, and not routed for us at this point was the San Juan Islands, but we have began looking into making it a possibility. We pull up on a field of sage brush, winds picking up, and I see a small aircraft starting its engine to go for take off. The winds are pushing against us pretty relentlessly at this point, and I am excited to see how this small plane fairs with the wind. He takes off and immediately takes a turn into the winds.
After he takes off, I see two guys get into a truck and start heading towards us as they were exiting out of the drive that I was standing on. Lauren makes the notion that we should ask for a ride, or water, or both. The temperatures are heating back up and even though the wind is blowing, it is blowing against us very hard, and it seems as though some of the wind gusts are only amplifying the heat that we are starting to experience again. When the truck reaches us, I see that the guy driving this dually is about nine years old, and his co-pilot is about six. He confirms this we he introduces himself and says “Yeah I’m nine, and this here is my little brother, and he’s six.” There is no other adult in the immediate vicinity and they inform me that the pilot of the plane was their father. Said the plane had been sitting in the field all winter and that was the first time starting it back up. Interesting stuff.
Accepting that the nine year olds were not going to give us a ride, nor would I ask them, we press on. We crest a hill and come to the bottom where we see what looks like the remnants of a town. This place was known as Ironside Mountain, or plainly, Ironside. We stop at a post office and no one is there. We knock on the door of a trailer, no one is there. Go to another house and no one is there. We look around and start to notice that the entire area is near dilapidated. A short pedal further and I see a few SUV’s in a small lot next to a trailer. Stating that she refuses to go any further without water(out at this point), Lauren and I pull in in hopes of life. There is, and an older man waves me up the stairs.
His daughter is there visiting from Sacramento and she offers us some lemonade. I can tell you one thing is for certain; the taste of this lemonade chilled to 37degrees or less almost hurt it was so good. As expected the older man, in his late eighties, and his daughter start to ask us a few questions. After hearing our story the daughter agrees to drive us a few miles up to the next town, still fifteen miles away. After we get in the large SUV, she decides she’d rather keep going down, treat us to dinner, and drive us even further. After we reach some cellular service again, we look up our next place to stay, and find that there is a bike hostel in Mount Vernon. Here we come.
As ever interesting as Idaho’s landscapes were, Oregon puts up a good fight. As we peddled through the desert and suffered under the conditions of heat and wind, as we got into this ladies vehicle and began to ascend, rather steeply through the Malheur National Forest, snow reappears and the trees begin to live again. I love the ever changing scenery. As we continue up for some miles we begin to descend slightly and an opening awards us an opportunity for a pull off. The viewpoint was looking out over what was known as Strawberry Mountain Wilderness, and it was one of the more beautiful things yet. It is hard to compare one beautiful spot to the other, and comparing apples to oranges only yields a discrepancy for critique, but the emotions that one goes through in a journey and the mindset that one is in when reaching new areas adds an amazing ingredient in the recipe of experiences. I wanted to sleep on the hillside looking over this view with thoughts of the Beatles serenading me to sleep with Strawberry Fields forever. It was a bit chilly, however. We stop at a little Mexican joint and get our fill on some grub before heading through John Day and into Mount Vernon where the bicycle hostel is. Again I am left ever thankful for help, and we are allowed to continue our trend of getting to Seattle as quickly as possible.
The bike hostel in Mount Vernon was a very neat set up. The property itself was very interesting with a large cliff face for a back drop and a neat fencing to hold in very large rabbits and a few goats that enjoyed traversing the terrain. There was a great place to do some maintenance so I took the opportunity to hang our bikes up and clean out our gears and derailers thoroughly. It was amazing how filthy they were from the dirt road in the Leslie Gulch area. We had taken precautions to cover the bikes completely while they were on the bike racks, covering them completely in a tarp cinched with bungee straps. Little difference it made but it was worth the effort. I spent roughly two hours on our bikes before retiring to cook some dinner in the hostel. No one else was there so we had free reign to the grounds. We plan on going at least to the Ukiah area in the morning, but are keeping our fingers crossed for another opportunity to cover more ground. This opportunity came at a cost.
We head out on this thoroughly enjoyable HWY 395, enjoyable despite the fact that it is around 39degrees and looks like it might rain. As we continue on the views gain beauty and the terrain remains trying but not killer. We experience the rain in the cold for about an hour. I remember pulling over to eat some trail mix where Lauren and I talked for about thirty minutes about how great the chocolate in the trail mix is and wishing that the whole bag would have been comprised all chocolate. We continue on, sloshing over mountains and serenity and the low traffic levels are quite enjoyable. We see numerous abandoned houses leading Lauren to speculate as to why these shells of old homes are left with no care. My theory, aside from lack of industry forcing people to move away, is what I refer to the Farmer John Theory. Farmer John had some land and a farm, and he had a decent life where he raised his kids. His kids, after having a taste of television and radio, realized that there is a great big ol’ world out there and couldn’t imagine staying in there small town. Fueled with desire for more they leave the homes in which they were raised behind and Farmer John is left to tend to things on his own. Farmer John, as sad fate would have it, eventually passes away and the children he raised have little interest in maintaining the property from a far, and although the population is too low to have anyone willing to rent the house. The neighbors who grow the same crops would love to acquire the property to grow more, but the kids, having now acquired street smarts in big cities and astute universities know that they could charge plot rent to the neighbors, and let the houses remain in hopes that someday the market might make the sale more profitable than renting out crop space, thus leaving the house to fall to shit. Is this the truth? I am not at all sure, but I’d like to think that my theory has plausibility.
Many of the houses have the scare tactic signs, and scary they were, stating that all trespassers will be executed. Even though it looks like no one lives here, and by here I mean anywhere we’ve been to for twenty miles now, I’d rather not push my luck. We finally find ourselves dropping off of a hill top and looking down into a little town that looks like it holds a bit of promise for us to be able to at least get a convenience store hot dog or something of the sort. When we pull closer we see a picturesque church that looks like a scene out of a country dream, and as we get closer we realize that some of the windows are busted out and we have another large building taking up space with not apparent use. There were news bulletins of some sort on the doors, but we didn’t go up to see if they had any relevance. As we continue on into the town of Fox, we realize that there is no store, but we do pass a small warehouse type building and see smoke coming out of a stack. We had boiled some eggs at the hostel and decided to knock on the door and see if they would let us absorb some of the heat that they are putting off. A wife and husband are running a mechanics shop out of there and they state that they service anything with an engine in Fox and Long Creek, just eight miles down the road. Lauren and I remove layers of clothes that are wet and drape them in various manners around the large wood stove, taking special care to try and dry out the socks and shoes. We’ve been cold for a few hours now. Eating our eggs and soaking up the warmth is beyond necessary at this point. Lauren and I go back and forth about wether or not we should leave at this moment, or wait for a few more moments to pass in front of the fire place. After deciding that it is time for us to head on down the road we walk out of the door and start to gather ourselves to ride ready. Lauren is expressing a rather serious distaste for continuing at this point and advocates hitching, but as unfortunate as it may be, we have no option but to continue on. There were may three cars that drove by in the nearly hour that we were in Fox. After our fate is accepted we know we have eight miles to Long Creek where there is a gas station and most importantly, coffee. It sucks too, because if the weather conditions were any better, this stretch of road could have been some of the funnest riding we’ve had. After Lauren pushes her frustration out, she grabs her bike and starts to mount just as I look to my left.
“Lauren.” I yell, starting at a low decibel, and growing to the upper ends of acceptable.
“What?” She shouts back, starting to commence the pedal strokes with a hint of vexation.
“We have to get inside. NOW!”
I can see over to my left for about fifty yards, and that fifty yards that I can see is becoming ten yards less by the second. Within fifteen seconds of the start of this dialogue a wave of hail, starting that fifty yards away, has closed around us and we are pelted heavier than when we were in Wyoming. We run back to the door we had just exited and knock hoping for a reentry. The wife tells us to get inside. As I start to pull the door closed, I pause for a second, partially in bewilderment, and partially in appreciation of the awesome power of Mother Nature. These types of hail storms are a spectacle. We stay inside for about five minutes before the wife’s sympathy for us begins to over power her and she offers to take us the eight miles to Long Creek. It hailed almost the entire way, stopping just a few hundred yards before the gas station. We had crested a pass between Fox and Long Creek that at the top had started to accumulate snow that was mixed in with the hail. I can not recall many other times in my life where the precipitation was so fierce that I couldn’t see more than a few feet through it. I’ve experienced many thick fogs, but this was the first time that the hail was so dense that you could only see two feet through the ice.
Once we get to the store, we know we are going to have to figure something out relatively fast. When we were unloading the gear from the wife’s truck it was still raining very hard and it was paramount to get everything under this small over hang on a porch. As I pushed my bike away from the truck, my bungee cargo net that was probably the most underrated piece of equipment yet, stayed hooked onto my back rack and found its way into my spokes, wrapping itself tightly around my hub. I was pushing the bike in a hurry when all of the sudden my bike tire stopped rolling. This has potential to be a large problem, but as the rain is coming down, now is not the time to try and inspect the situation. The rest of the gear is loaded on this veranda and we go inside. Coffee and great burgers.
We had a tip that there was motel around and given the current state of affairs we think this might be our only option providing a hitch hike down’t work. There were some friendly cowboys inside and their company was very welcoming. None of them were heading the way we needed to go. Go figure.
After regaining some dryness and warmth Lauren goes to the gas station to see about a ride or a place to stay. I start working on my bike. One of the larger regrets of the trip was not taking a picture of how fucked up my hub and spokes looked like they could be with this bungee chord wound so tightly. The net had became so involved in the spokes that the force had flattened three of the metal hooks used to attach the net to and around whatever it was encapsulating. Layers of bungee and metal, it took my almost fifteen minutes to remove every bit of the tangled mess with my Leatherman. Taking the rear wheel off was the first and easiest step.
As I worked on the bike, I saw Lauren walking back towards me. She had said the she struck out on a ride, but we might have to suck it up somewhere here. At that instance a man who had just walked into the restaurant/grocer we were at walked out and asked if I needed any help. At that moment I was also beaming as I had just untangled what appeared to be untangelable. We made small talk with him for a few moments and he offered to let us ride with he and his lady to the campground down the road from their house. Ask and you shall receive.
We hopped in the truck, seated four wide with our gear in the bed, and headed down the wet and cold road. Once we reach the campground, a good twenty miles down the way, I get out and start chatting with the lady at the desk. they have dry wood for sale(a total necessity as it is supposed to drop well below freezing this night), and the price was decent for a spot. Once I pay and go back out to the truck, Lauren opens the door, and who we will now call Pretty Ricky and Shiva, say we should just stay with them. This goes back to what I had made mention of earlier. You can’t just strike up a conversation with “Seriously, my girlfriend and I are studs, and we help people!” and expect them take you seriously. After having been in the truck with Pretty Ricky and Shiva for what was creepin’ over a half an hour, Lauren had got to the point where she was a first year med student and I was almost halfway through my M.B.A., but enough time had elapsed now to where we had some credibility beyond just being to drifters on bikes. This conversation breed more interesting news as Shiva had a Ph.D in some sort of tree science/forestry service; forgive me my lack of memory. On our way up to their house they also mention that Shiva owns, in conjunction with the house, an amazing amount of property that she has sanctioned for re-forestation, and has this immense tree and land management project going on. Once we arrive I realize that there is enough beauty and wild life here to inspire aw in the most dull of folks, and enough O2 being produced for an entire city to thank her for her efforts. It was almost bewildering the views and serenity that this woman possessed. Once we get all the way to the house, they mention we should take some four-wheelers and crest the top of the mountain and then they will cook us some dinner. Yes, and yes.
Now, at this point, as Lauren and I are on a mule-four wheeler, with Shiva and Pretty Ricky on their own ATV’s, blundering up this amazingly steep and beautiful mountain scape, I start to beg the question… What a series of events that hath led us to here. Wrapped up in an abundance of warm clothing provided by Pretty Ricky and Shiva, driving this beast of an off-roading machine, next to this amazing women, going up this simply stunning landscape, what made this happen? If my dear Alison hand’t purchased us the tickets to go to Chicago via Amtrak, would we have been there? What about if Nurse Betty and Marty hadn’t have trekked us from Mountain Home, and then three days later into Oregon? If our friends in Van Tassel hand’t pulled us out of the hail storm, would we have had the opportunity to be pulled out of this hail storm by these two? It seems in the thought of probability, the answer would be no, and what a shame that would have been. A damned shame.
Once we get to the top of Shiva’s mountain, as it will forever be known by me, we see a gorgeous doe by her lonesome as she takes a moment to admire us, and we return the gesture. A short hike out through the wild growth brings us onto a bald where we can see out for what must have been over sixty miles with all sorts of beautiful hill tops and geographic discrepancies to ponder upon. This offered another opportunity to see, and this time two at once, different storms way off in the distance. As I watch the rain pour by the thousands of gallons down from 10,000feet, I can only picture myself and Lauren pedaling ourselves through God’s gift of hydration with venom in our mouths and overwhelming frustration teeming from our beings. My, oh my, what a difference perspective can put on your mood. Appreciation of what is, acceptance of the same, and the power of wisdom to allow this moment to happen. I still get cold chills thinking of this moment in spirituality.
On the way down the mountain we came across some pretty vicious sleet, but having the piece of mind where we were going to and sleeping in heat made this a laughable situation. The pelting still invoked a sting, but merely temporary given the gift of certainty. The dining room heated by wood heat, naturally, dinner is phenomenal, and Pretty Ricky makes mention of needing to visit his grand-daughter in Pendleton Oregon and would like to drive us to this desert town. Here we go again.
Some of the driving that Pretty Ricky took us through was beyond beautiful. It’s hard to keep the interest up when describing landscapes, and it can become even harder to do any one place justice because eventually, you are just comparing apples to oranges. These views were peaches, and boy I’ll tell ya, I love me some peaches. The trend of twenty miles being the max distance of one geographic type in this north western myriad holds true. We were at Shiva’s surrounded by trees and mountains and clearly elevated some thousand feet above the floor we were looking down unto, and as we eased onto the floor the trees disappeared, and the drought crept in. The plight of the desert, as depressing as it could be to this North Carolinian, hailing from a place where you can drink from a stream and being nearly surrounded by rivers for my short stint on this earth, it stills holds an amazing serenity that lushness will not provide. I’m not sure if I find deserts more captivating because I was raised in the land of plenty, or if deserts really are just that badass, but I love being in them. Perhaps the excitements is fueled by the fear of uncertainty of not knowing if there really is food or water. I love the desert though. Do not remove me from my roots, but the appreciation is definitely there.
We have a host set up for warmshowers in Pendleton, more comfort, and Lauren finally decides that she is going to have some tests run in efforts to rid herself of the burden of whatever is ailing internal organs. This did not come easily. Lauren, who at current does not possess an insurance policy that would make it affordable for her to go to a clinic to see about what is going on. I have an idea, and a more absurd idea than anything I would have proposed on my own had the situation not allowed itself to go as long and as far as it had, and this is where you have to ask yourself whether something was a good idea or not. I will go ahead and let you know something; if you ever have to ask yourself this question, you already know what the answer is… NOT A GOOD IDEA. I’m thinkin’ to myself “Dawg, you got an opportunity to do something that will really help your girlfriend out, and it has the potential to make you look like a king. This is definitely a good idea.” Doofus.
“Hey, I know that you’re uncomfortable, and I’ve got an idea on how to remedy that.”
“Go ahead…” she insists.
Three hours later I find myself in a doctors office, explaining to him about how on my trip to South East Asia I had picked up some sort of parasite, who was baffled. Poking and prodding my stomach and listening with intent through his stethoscope he sighs, following with
“I just can’t believe it, Jordan.”
“What’s that, doc?”
“I just don’t… I’ve never… I can’t…”
“Hey man, you got me scared now. What’s up?”
“It’s just the strangest thing. I don’t hear anything. I can’t even tell that you have any issue at all in there.”
Ain’t that a bitch? Anyways, I find myself with a plastic container to shit in, well, for Lauren to go in, and hopefully put an end to this discomfort after a rather uncomfortable screening. My blood pressure was something along the lines of 148/129 and my heart rate was almost 130bpm. The fact that I was practically lying probably made my system go into over drive. As soon as I get back into the waiting room, I sit down next to Lauren for about two seconds, and she looks at me and says…
“I can’t do it.”
“You can’t do what? Shit in the container?”
“No, I can’t lie.” We’ll at least someone had their head on their shoulders. She earned some serious cool points, although I did spend the next thirty minutes just boiling in my skin because I had waited for who knows how long in the waiting room, waited in the examination room, told a pretty damn believable story to the doctor, got my shit pot, and was ready to give it to the girlfriend. At least I got my vitals checked and didn’t actually commit any type of insurance fraud. Lauren went in the next day and got a nice, new pot of her own and submitted a subject for testing. What a world we live in.
The morning was rather rushed the next day, as we had to submit Lauren’s subject, and then hit the road with our host in Pendleton’s swim team and coach, as they were heading all the way into Washington state to a place called Pasco. Pasco is part of a tri-cities conglomerate, made of Richland, Pasco, and Kennewick. A budding trifecta of commerce in the middle of the high desert. It’s hot. It’s dry. It is rather unkind(as far as Mother Nature is concerned; the people were nice). On the other hand, it isn’t humid. On our drive up from Pendleton to Pasco, almost an hour and twenty minutes, we witnessed a Benz that had lost it’s bike rack with two bikes crumpled across the interstate, and we also saw the ever interesting Umatilla Chemical Weapons Depot. It was a rather eerie sight; dirt hills covering bunkers where tons upon tons of chemical weapons are stored post destruction. The concept of after having destroyed something, placing it in a large, very thick walled metal container, and then burying it in a multiple thousand ton earthen grave, makes me question whether or not you have actually destroyed it or not. However, the fact that it was stored in such a close proximity to the Umatilla River, as well as the Columbia River, must mean that there is no cause for concern… Right?.?.?.? I mean, right?
Once we got to Pasco, we called who was supposed to be our host to let him know that we had actually found a ride to Pasco, and thus were going to continue on North. We had picked out a campground at a place called Priest Rapids Dam, and that is where we were heading, right at sixty miles away. Once we got to Pasco we sat for some lunch on the sidewalk before pedaling on our first journey in Washington State. I was very excited to be in Washington because 1. my brother lived in Seattle for some odd years just shy of a decade, thus giving me a bit of ease of feeling familiar with a place that I had no clue about, and 2. because from everything that I had gathered over the course of my life, North Carolina and Washington state have a lot in common in terms of culture, landscape, temperature, etc. Right now I’m not seeing too much of the similarity, as although there is some desert territory in NC, nothing as vast as what I’ve been looking at for the past few days and into now.
And desert it was. A first everything felt right. Low humidity, a cooling breeze, and a lot of bike paths on the Columbia River. Almost twelve miles of our day was spent on the Columbia and it’s network of bike paths. At one point, Lauren stops to check some directions or drink water or something of the sort, and I pause just behind her. As soon as I stop I hear something. It sounds familiar but I can’t quit pick it out. Once my heart rate starts to come down and my focus to my surroundings elevates, the sounds become more clear. It’s a voice, female. I can’t yet tell if it is the sounds of struggle, song, or exactly what I was hearing. Once my clarity continues to increase and what was barely audible resounds, I notice it is the sound of a woman in what is nearing a climax. I look around, rather confused as to how the audibility of this orgasm is so clear, and see there is a car just shy of twenty yards away from us, and it has its very tight shocks swaying back and forth very quickly. Lauren hans’t quite caught onto to what I’ve noticed yet, so I tell her we need to go a bit further down the bike trail.
“Why?” she says, unsure of my insistence of going a bit further.
“Just like a few hundred more yards.”
“What’s wrong with here?” She’s got a point. The river was nice, the breeze was heavy.
“We just have to go a few hundred more yards.” At this point I’m positive to her being oblivious to the moment.
“Lauren, there are people fucking right beside us. I’d appreciate the privacy if I were in there position.” As i see this, I can see the woman’s leg sticking up in the transparency of the rear window.
“What?” Lauren says, more of disbelief of my statement than a lack of understanding.
“There are two people in that car, hard fucking. I wouldn’t want any one where we are if I were hard fucking.” and we get on the bikes and roll on another two hundred yards. This was good, because there was a public restroom there, but was still a funny spot to be, as we had looped around a docking area on the river, bringing us to a view of the hard fuckers and their car. They had no clue of us, and we had no clear view of them, so I think both parties came out ahead. Actually, I know both parties came out ahead. Welcome to Washington!
Once we get off of the Columbia River and press farther and farther away from it the heat grows, and things become more interesting in terms of hardship. Head winds, go figure, and a bit of uncertainty. The uncertainty came from not knowing what to expect as far as convenience stores, food, and the like. This was definitely desert, and judging from the map we had what looked to be thirty or forty miles to a gas station. Once we get on our way, we come to a fork in the road, of sorts. Lauren’s gps has us going one way. My fully charged and trusty smart phone has us going another way. My way appears to be nearly two miles shorter, and for us with the amount of weight we are carrying, two miles is a long way. Lauren, rather uncertain of my navigation, decides to just go with it. I’ve got the reigns and I am ready to lead this horse and buggy safely in the right direction. I mean, let’s get real; I’m a guy.
Once we get a little ways down my path there is a sign that says no outlet. I recheck the gps and it clearly says that this connects to the road we need to be on. This is further strengthened by the string of cars that just went by us, one of them a highway patrol, and we can see a parking lot. We had just passed the Pacific Northwest National Laboratory. “PNNL scientists conduct basic and applied research and development to strengthen U.S. scientific foundations for fundamental research and innovation; prevent and counter acts of terrorism through applied research ininformation analysis, cyber security, and the nonproliferation of weapons of mass destruction; increase the U.S. energy capacity and reduce dependence on imported oil; and reduce the effects of human activity on the environment. PNNL has been operated by Battelle Memorial Institute since 1965.” That’s from Wikipedia. It also says it employs 4,200 people. One thing I noticed about the lot that we passed was that the highway patrolman was not in the lot, nor had he came back passed us, clearly signifying the exit ahead. We proceeded, the pavement started to crack, and we realized that road maintenance was not something that was done here. A little further and we see signs that clearly state things about “not going off of the pavement” and “risk of injury or death” and “trespassers will be punished under federal law”. A few of these different warnings and you will get the heeby-jeebies. Farther still and the road has stop sign erected on what is the barely visible double yellow line. The odd thing about it is that the stop signs are facing both ways, as if you were coming from the other direction, you would encounter the same advisory. These were at the very top of a hill, and from this vantage point I could see the road that we are trying to get to, and also that our road snakes on towards that road. After a short conversation about the situation as it stands, and two middle of the road pee-breaks(how often do you and your girl get to piss on a double yellow?) we continue towards the visible destination. About two hundred yards shy of the main highway the pavement turns into what appears to be some sort of earthquake or explosion aftermath and rubble. I can feel Lauren’s frustration with the given situation, but her reaction is surprisingly light hearted. I had expected a bit more of a reaming, but I can only imagine at this point that we are so over the current situation that this ends up being humorous. I try to pedal as far as I can before I fall over on the jagged black top, and Lauren doesn’t even fuck around with trying to traverse it in her clip-less(that means they clip) shoes. Once we pass the rumble we get to a huge sand bar used to block traffic from coming in. Had this been on the other side we would have known not to come down this way. I am glad that we did, though, as it was a more memorable stretch of road due to the situation and views. It felt like a nuclear test could go at any moment for the entire stretch, and you are certain that government and mafia alike have both disposed of numerous bodies on this road. There is no validity or causality for my previous comments, but the road did invoke those feelings.
On the main road we press on in the heat with nothing to view. Two lane road, wide shoulders, and lots of milage to go, we crank up the tunes and continue on. After twelve or so miles the shoulders disappear and the road just turns into a two lane, relatively flat, wind ridden dessert road. At one point we saw what I would call a dirt devil, but it was comprised of over fifty bunches of tumble weed. We laughed near hysteria as this super intimidating vortex of dust and branches bobbed up and down beside us. It shifted towards us and we somehow made it through without any injury. I was struck in the leg by one of the tumble weeds, and I saw one pass within a foot of my face, and saw one pass inches above Lauren’s head. It was really cool to experience.
Proceeding down the two lane I start to take note of how the license plates have almost all shifted to Washington State tags. Again, this is comforting to me for some reason. Like anything that is good, though, someone can ruin it. As this thought of comfort and happiness passes through my head a couple jerks pull beside us shouting some obscenities before howling down the road. I’ll never understand it. I just don’t know how too. I don’t even think I could be taught how to understand it.
We, after much aggravation from the elements and the distance, reach what we had hoped to be the junction where there had to be some sort of gas station. Not the case. It was an entry gate for what is known as the Hanford Site. “The Hanford Site is a mostly decommissioned nuclear production complex operated by the United States federal government on the Columbia River in the U.S. state of Washington. The site has been known by many names, including: Hanford Project, Hanford Works, Hanford Engineer Works or HEW and Hanford Nuclear Reservation or HNR. Established in 1943 as part of the Manhattan Project in the town of Hanford in south-central Washington, the site was home to the B Reactor, the first full-scale plutonium production reactor in the world.[1] Plutonium manufactured at the site was used in the first nuclear bomb, tested at the Trinity site, and in Fat Man, the bomb detonated over Nagasaki, Japan.” More Wikipedia. We were running beyond low on water at this point, and Lauren was showing signs of heat issues. She has had a history of having various issues arise as a result of prolonged heat and sun exposure. These issues were beginning to express. I go up to the gate and chat with a nice soldier for a minute. He was almost as clueless about the area as I was, but was able to hook us up some pretty cold H2O.
We keep heading towards Priest Rapids Damn, have another pretty neat and long down hill to the Columbia River. There is a rest stop. We both have our fingers crossed for a ride. After spending some time there we realize it is not going to work. I chat with a nice Hispanic guy in a moving truck. He had made the mistake of tellin’ me he was going the same direction as we were, but immediately switched his story as it was clear he did not feel comfortable toting us down the right way. We start to pedal on, the sun gets low, and the landscape becomes another spectacle. On the left, anywhere from 2,500-3,000foot mountain and cliff faces drop into the river. On the right, flat, ground. After a few miles the flat ground turned into what became the most impressive tree farm I’ve ever seen, in terms of size.
There was an odd occurrence here, one that still has no explanation and nothing that I have figured out. Bugs; millions of them. Huge, hard, black bugs that could jump up to the handle bars. We were unsure if they could hurt us or not; they never did, but stopping to see if they could aim better if we weren’t moving at twelve or thirteen miles an hour was not on our to do list. It reminded me of the shitty Kevin Bacon movie, Tremors, but for nearly two miles we were pedaling more intently than we had the entire day. “Just don’t let on of those lil’ fuckers get ya.” was all I could think. Millions and millions of the jumpy, clicky sounding things. That’s all I know.
Once we get to the campsite, after having navigated miles of tree farms and asking seasonal migrant workers who had just got there the same week and had no clue what we were talking about, we realize that we are in a really sweet spot. Three nice chaps are in the first campsite, and they invite us back for some beer and food, as they have the full set up. Campers, grills, fridges, stand up jet skis; you name it. They had actually came down to do some stand up jet-skiing. They usually go to the lake further north, but some excavation crew had came across some human remains that dated thousands of years back, so since it was on an Indian Reservation, the reservation was in a legal bout about who the bones belonged to. Of course the reservation wanted them for historical value and some testing to see what sort of tales these old bones could conjure up, and for whatever dumb fuckin’ reason(perhaps I don’t know the entire story) the state wanted to claim the rights to them. Regardless, they, both parties, had agreed to and drained the entire lake to look for more remains, forcing our new friends to come further down the river to where we currently will rest our heads.
As the night went on it was good times. Two of the guys were great; some chaps I could totally see myself hanging with on a normal basis. They were a good bit older, nearing their late forties, but I am well old enough no to 1, know that age has no discrimination on a good time, and 2, enjoy myself in almost every situation. The other one of the three; well he was a bit more awkward. He fell in love with Lauren at first site and it was pretty entertaining to watch him try to cater to and go above and beyond what may have been necessary to help her/us out. He was a computer geek. His friends often referred to his quirkiness, also referring to how he was one of the originals in Silicon Valley, and he had made a fortune working for Microsoft at the right time. This was amplified by the fact that he had a freakish resemblence to Bill Gates, and if I didn’t know any better, it might have well been him. One of the guys sold yachts, and the other; hell, I’d be a liar to pretend that I could remember. Either way, all in all we had a great time hanging with these guys. They were heading the next day to Idaho to a lake to do more stand up jet skiing. Idaho was beautiful, and from what information these dudes had to offer, we went through the ugliest part of the state, and the farther north you went in the state, the better it got. I will definitely be going back someday.
After a few beers, some chicken wings hooked up by our new pals, and a pretty amazing amount of wind through out the night to keep us cradled to sleep in our tent. It was rather enjoyable. Next step; figure out how to get to Seattle and get Lauren fitted to end the recurring knee pain.
It is my job to tell you the story as it happened, and not to deprive you of any instances that you may find amusing or beneficial. This means this is not a children’s memo, or for anyone easily offended. My family, I know you’ll still love me. My friends, the same. Future followers, don’t pass judgment, just enjoy the ride, as I know I will. Friends, family, and future followers; feel free to pray for me. God knows I’ll need everything I can get.
Young, Dumb, and full of Freedom 