Day 69: On the run from dogs and mountains (Akron to Beaver Creek State Park)

The morning with Gary and Marilyn was peppered with friendly conversation, black coffeee, eggs and English muffins (toasters: just one of those things you don't realize you'll miss). We set off at 9:30 and almost immediately entered the Cuyahoga Valley National Park, tree trunks thin, lithe and healthy, every bit of dirt right up to the asphalt a bright, deep green. 

The tow path ran ten miles and dropped us straight into downtown Akron. Rachel had tried to remind me earlier, but I'd forgotten how proximal your mortality becomes riding through a city. Right there: with the semis banging to your left, the curb to your right, a four-inch pot hole straight in front. 

Picked up groceries and chocolate granola. Dinner: black beans, tofu, coconut milk, peanut butter, cayenne pepper.

We finally escaped the city/subsequent suburbs after fifteen some-odd miles, took lunch on the raised stone bed of a church sign. The stones were not cemented together. I fell off.

I detoured for a quick gatorade, and then Google freaked out and took me on this wiggly route through the middle of Ohioan farmland, all short, steep hills, absent the Midwest flat. And then, just passed this big historic barn, the first two: a deep throaty bark and then I'm being chased by two dogs up an absurd grade. This is followed five more times by five more sets or single dogs, barkin' and growlin' me off public roads.

By the time I arrived at the base of the hill that would take me up to the campground, my adrenaline glands were drained of every bit of flight (turns out I'm not a fighter). And that hill, I don't know what it was except for straight up and for the first time on the whole trip, I had to dismount and walk my bike up. That was rough -- even after 2800 miles, I didn't have enough built, enough left, to pedal up to the top. 

When I arrived at the campground though, there were two bikes at the picnic table where Rachel was setting up camp. Two bikes! Sandra had arrived just before her. She's traveling solo from Chicago to New York, but the kicker's that she's going via DC. We'll be on the same route for a while. A third!

Day 67: Chased by Storms (working book title) (Napoleon to Crystal Rock Campground)

Ohio has 88 of these stylin' courthouses

MWe left the soft grass of Napoleon to the French and Frosty Boy, on a mission to ID Rachel. Birth certificate in hand, we headed for Bowling Green, for coffee and for a post office with a visa counter. 

We intended to take county road P in, were rerouted by more construction (as on every other useful road in Ohio), but the riding was good and easy, on roads that were mostly empty. I'm listening to Garden of the Beasts, an account of the lives of the American ambassador to Berlin and his daughter Martha during Hitler's rise to power. So most of my memories of the ride, addled by decaffeination, have overtones of 1930s Nazi Germany. The road took us 27 miles straight into Bowling Green though, a decidedly more docile town. 

Newwwttt

I hunkered down at Grounds for Thought, a coffee shop with great coffee, decent lemonade, and no outlets. It is also a used book store.  Because I have no self control, I picked out two more (a Gibson; an account of the early Iraq war); in the process discovering a sci fi novel by Newt Gingrich.

I also dove deep into the Warm Showers listings for Pittsburgh, and stumbled upon Ellis', who I did the AAAS mass media fellowship with. He's no longer in Pittsburgh, but he reached out to some friends and came through 250%, I say, prescient since I'm writing this in the future.

Once the passport application was filled out in black (not blue) ink, signed, stamped and submitted to the U.S. Government, we took off toward a private campground in eastern Ohio. Only we found that it's closed on Mondays, so we turned our wheels north toward Sandusky Bay and headed to Crystal Rock. Highway 6 turned into this mega busy road being repaved and otherwise improved in 17 different spots. Maybe 5 miles in, Rachel stops and says something about getting off the road and I thought it was because of all the road work. But she motions for me to turn around and there's this grey, immense cloud bank racing behind us, literally a wall of darkness, rain visible as it blurs the countryside. We decide to pull over to the gas station ahead to wait out the storm, though it's still so hot and humid I'm in my token Hawaiian shirt. In fifteen minutes, after a Kit Kat bar, it's clear the storm is going to pass by on the west side without even touching the blue sky above us. 

We stop in Fremont for groceries, Fremont, Ohio, also the home of President Hayes' presidential library. It is fenced off. For the last hour to the campgrounds, I listen to Sarah Vowell try to find some family history in a five-day road trip on the Trail of Tears. 

The campground is pretty, you know, commercial. Mowed grass. A few RVs. Close to the scenery, but not close enough to see the scenery. Whatever it's 8:30 pm and I'm hungry so we binge on an entire family can of baked beans, accompanied by corn and pre-cooked wild rice. We also take some very long, hot showers. 

The whole northern US is supposed to be able to see the aurora that night. A Slate article declares that most of those states expect clear skies. Ohio's is almost completely clouded over. We bike down to the Bay but can't tell if the flashes we see are lightning or electrical storms. After failing to uncork the wine, then dropping it on the ground, we give up and head back to the campground. 

It rains all night. 

Day 66: Dairy or not, here we come (Cottonwood to Napoleon)

We woke up on a water bed. Not in water but there was like inch of water between the tarp and the bottom of the tent. It was good on the back, but less so on the psyche: wet tents are icky. 

We've brushed our teeth in the creepy bathrooms, stomped through some mud, tried to hang the tent to dry and then it started sprinkling so we just toweled it off and packed it in. I took off toward Ligonier for some gas station coffee. I recommend the dark roast. With three of those fake milk caramel-macchiato-flavored packs. 

After an hour at the gas station - the longest I've ever spent at a gas station - on the hot pavement making uncomfortable but cheery eye contact with the seven families that pulled up in minivans or pickups,

I decided I should probably start actually bicycling. 

I made it like 16 miles before I found a Walmart and wandered inside. Ostensibly I was there to by a slightly more fashionable pair of sunglasses, an eye mask to block out the lightning-to-come but then I spent another hour trying to find dinner, namely baked beans, which were in the frozen meat section. Please explain. 

Fortunately for me, today was one of those rare tailwind days and for the first time since leaving the great, empty states of the west, I stuck to highway 6 the whole way. We ended up going 90 miles to Napoleon, a town that's small but not thatttt small, just like its namesake. 

Ice cream + sunsets yum yum  

I met Rachel at Frosty Boy's, where she'd already chatted up the owners and was chowin' down on some dairy because she is a good American. I can't eat dairy and always kind of feel like I can't contribute to the economic recovery. Lucky for our nation, they had Dole, a dairy-free orange creamsicle inside a swirly machine, so I stood behind a bunch of dads and then delighted in the glory of its cold, granular imitation. They're getting there with these ice cream facsimiles. 

Speaking of dad's, shoutout to ours! Thanks for kicking my toches in the 25-mile rides and also the one 60 mile ride we took before this trip. Without you, I would not be here in Napoleon, celebrating French history on American soil. 

The owners of the Frosty Boy let us camp on their property, right behind the store, right next to the graveyard. We invited some ghosts to star gaze and they boohed and ahhed. (jajajaja)

There were actually stars, and for the very first time on this entire trip, we didn't have to use the rain fly. Momentous. The fireworks should've been set off early to celebrate such a rare confluence of luck and weather. It was warm and a little breezy and smelled like fresh cut grass and pavement and that was enough for me to slip off to sleep. 

Day 65: East Coast

Two or three topped-off cups of coffee peeled open my eyelids enough for me to actually see while riding my bicycle in the exotic sunshine. We set out from Faith and Kevin's east out some country roads and onto Hwy 6. The routes out here lining the cornfields are ideal: slightly rolling, green pouring out ether side, stands of trees every two hundred feet, wide lanes, no cars. 

Not 15 miles in, we crossed into the eastern time zone! We're officially on the east coast, less than a thousand miles from New York.

Give me such shows -- give me the streets of Manhattan! 

- a quote by Walt Whitman I looked up online by searching "quotes about New York City" because I'm not really that well read

We've reached an area of the country with deep history, classic downtowns, old stately houses, their Queen Anne and Prairie architecture beautifully kept up over the years. Towns here are like the towns in my head, although the downtowns are doing about as well as they were back in Wyoming and South Dakota, that is, not so well. A lot of shuttered businesses among the saloons and grocery and hardware stores. 

Buggies and bikes unite for wide shoulder rights  

We passed through our first bit of Amish country. I was on the phone with Rachel and rode past a lady in a tight blue bonnet wielding a weed whacker, and a 10-year-old boy with a golden bowl cut and brown coveralls mowing beside his family's orchards. One or two black buggies, with their big wheels and bright orange cation signs tacked to the back, were parked at every farmhouse (which are all painted white, instead of the traditional red, anyone know why?). Shortly down the road, I passed  through Amish Acres, in Neppanee, but didn't have time to stop. Anyone know any more history about the area?

One neat plus: shoulders wide enough for a horse and buggy are wide enough for a bicycle. Superb riding for.. three miles or something.

Out of town, after buying threes banana for 50 cents, I talked to a lady in a bonnet on a bicycle outside the Rite Choice, Carol Helmuth, about our trip. "Wow you really have come a ways!" she said, accent emphasizing and rounding the w's. I wish I could have asked her more, but I am shy and kind of awkward and also I was really hungry.

Post-nap, mid-dinner chompin

I made it to the Cottonwood campground by 6:30, pretty long after Rachel. She was napping in the tent. No hammockable trees sadly, but it was so pleasant to arrive before dark, to have a few hours to tootle around and write and eat and clean before the sun set. Earlier that week, I had ordered a new sleeping pad to be delivered to La Porte. Unfortunately, it arrived late - five hours after we left the farmhouse. Kevin drove it over even though it was already 8 pm and we were an hour a way. So write him thank you's, shower him with flowers, mail him bottles of artisan balsamic vinegar!

I did not take a shower because I do not like reenacting the Saw series

Like every night we camp, the weather report predicted thunderstorms. And it stormed and stormed, starting around midnight, big, blinding flashes of lightning and uncooperative cramps in my right calf keeping me awake. But it's neat to be outside and still dry in weather like that, like you're there in a dream and it's only half real. Eventually I ate a banana, plugged in some ear plugs, threw my pants over my face as a sleep mask, and drifted off. 

Day 61: Uh where was that park? (Rock Island to Coal Hollow)

We awoke to weather straight out of a Disney movie, little bird squawking on our window sill to cerulean skies dotted with puffs of white. It was also five AM so I shut the window on the little bigger, closed the blinds, and went back sleep for a few hours. 

Steve made us giant, thick pancakes with fresh fruit, syrup (yes Log Cabin and yes I do still love it's divinely manufactured sweetness), and a side of farm fresh eggs. Our bikes stayed at the shop last night so we hopped in the truck to go pick'em up (this ain't no walk for science after all). 

Steve loaded us up with some free hats, socks and shorts, so freshly attired, we set off for.. somewhere between the Mississippi and the Indiana state border. 

You can't see the ducks swimming down the trail but they're there. Also leeches and dead worms.  

Of course, a blue-sky day would be replete without a vigorous headwind and bike trails literally flooded by a river. (Illinois please ship some of this H2O to your brethren out west, thank you). After the Cedar River Trail, we had been looking forward to the Grand Illinois Trail as respite from the traffic and pavement, but the record rains pretty much assured we'd be slogging through mud and gravel. So we hung out on hwy 6, the forever uphill of westerly winds leaving me high and dry. After two nights of minimal sleep and with our detour making the route longer than planned, I had to call it - no way was I going to make it 85 some miles to Peru. We decided to end our day 10 miles early at the Myer Woods Nature Preserve, which was a good call I think given it was already dusk when we got there.

Wait got where? The nature preserve was just that - all nature, no trails or even cut brush to allow us to pull out bikes in and set up camp. Luckily, a guy named Brian was cleaning his pool out, his the only home within 2 miles of us at that point. He offered to let us camp in his yard, and introduced us to his wife and two kids. We're really lucky, and really, really thankful. (Turns out there is another Myers Park down the road where camping is allowed, so when I'd googled places we could stay, info about that one came up. Woops.)

We made curry and actually saw some stars (!! for the second or third time on this trip? We're getting aced by the weather, always cloudy with rain on the horizon. Rain was on the horizon but we were forgiven for an hour or so). My sleeping pad is kaputt but this family had the best grass I've ever slept on, and I turned in before Rachel, and dozed. 

Day 59: Cedar Rapids to Wildcat Den State Park

A couple of things about Iowa: 

1. Every Iowan checks to make sure other Iowans have been nice to you like, "Hey where are you going?" <explain etc> "Well that's just great! You've liked Iowa right? The people you've met have been great, right?" Verbatim x 12. Like there is peer pressure to be a Good Samaritan because there is going to be massive collective Iowan shame if you aren't. But hey, everyone's truly been unfailingly kind so I never know what to say other than "Yes everyone here seems like they'd pull out their own kidney if I needed it, please, no need to fret about your brethren."The niceness is kind of freaky but let us all strive to more like Iowans and hold our fellow citizens accountable for immense generosity of heart and home.
2. Despite it being the most bike-enthusiastic state we've been in: no roads have paved shoulders; county roads are fabulous; city road suck.
3. There might not be sports but there is RAGBRAI.

Anyways, this morning, we ate a fabulous, nerdy pancake breakfast with our couchsurfing host Sarah, big thick pancakes browned on the griddle. Her Log Cabin syrup brought me back to my bottling days in the UCLA cafeteria. Actually I really never need to go back there again.

Post apocalypse industry in Cedar Rapids 

Going into detail about our route today since Google kept trying to put us on gravel so read on if you're interested, or feel free to skip ahead if you're not.

We didn't leave 'til late and it's hot every day now. We were able to take the Cedar River Trail out about 10 miles to Ely before ending up on some classic no-shoulder Iowa highways (Ely Road/W6E/hwy #?). Pro-tip: stay on that road and follow it to Solon. We stopped at the Big Grove Brewery for a sip and some lunch for Rachel and spent like an hour and a half there. We took 1 down to the turnoff to Morse, and then took Morse road into town. We couldn't find a way to get to West Branch without gravel but maybe you can. At least it's hard packed and short (2 miles, maybe 3). The Herbert Hoover trail is this great, overgrown crushed limestone trail that is surprisingly easy to ride. Take F40/290th to 38, then bear left and follow 38 over 80 until you get to Hwy 6 or 155th street. Google's good from there, except definitely ride down to New Era road, which is paved and pleasant, if a little hilly. 

Herbert Hoover's trail; he might get someone to mow it

We didn't get into Wildcat State Park until it was almost dark. We've just started to get into firefly territory, and they'd float up out of the grass and out of the cornfields in the hazy dusk, lighting our way to the park. The camping area was one of the strange-ish open ones where all tent sites are right next to each other on the same meadow of lawn grass. They had fresh water, though, and good picnic tables, and fees were only $9 which seems like kind of a steal when you're from California. I tried to go tootlin' off to find Pine Creek but realized I'd have to go down a big hill to get there (aka I would have to climb it on the way back) and the skeeters were out in force so I turned back. I made a really mediocre tofu stir fry for dinner and prepped the tent for the predicted thunderstorms by hooking the tarp grommets onto the tent poles and tying the rest of it up via a couple pieces of cord.

We didn't go to bed 'til late but the thunderstorm came even later and it was a heavy metal kind of rain, endlessly pounding the tent and trees around us. My Big Agnes Air Core has been leaky for a while, but it totally gave out last night, so I slept-woke on the ground (soft, muddy, grassy ground, not bad) and ate a granola bar at 3 am to reflate my deflated spirits/reality.

I'd hoped to leave early to beat the heat a little and run some errands in Davenport but it poured like hell from 7 til 9 am, so much so it didn't make sense to leave. Eventually, though, the rain let up enough for it to get hot and sticky inside the tent and I couldn't take the claustrophobia anymore. I talked to Vince for a while, who's doing his own east-to-west trek (Chefs Fore Vets). He's averaging 35 miles a day and has 'til December and is trying to get on Jimmy Kimmel Live on December 7, so go forth, and tweet about and for(e) him.

Day 51: Teach a (wo)man to fish

Number one goal for the trip accomplished today! I learned out to filet a fish. Steve, the guy from the thoroughbred motel in white River, took me out to the Gavin's dam and I caught a bass and a blue gill. Two points for the foot-long collapsible Spider-Man fishing rod made for a theee-year old. 

Let the bass drop (Steve made me kiss it before we threw it back in) 

I was kind of surprised the blood didn't bother me at all. There wasn't much of it, to be sure, but yup, felt nothing except that I wish I'd had a lemon and some hot coals to cook it on.

It's hot in South Dakota, or its hot now that it's June. Finished up The Ghost Brigades by John Scalzi splayed out on the rent-a-towel in temperamental shade at the KOA while Rachel hit up the town (hair cut + froyo). Yeah the whole world is good - post-humans get off this planet and find intelligent species and need an army to defend the race from the Galaxy. Most of the soldiers are old people who volunteer for the army and get their minds transferred to younger, suppler bodies in exchange. An interesting way to get around war destroying a generation of young men/women eh. Anyways some good ethics debated in this and the previous one. Whaddya think, real space travel in our lifetimes? A girl can dream.

And we finally got out ribs this evening and shit they were good. If you're planning on a cross-country road trip, I highly recommend you planning it around barbecue. We stood in line for the first place winners and devoured juicy ribs lathered in sauce, I coulda drank that. I kind of did. 

We ended with deep fried cookie dough of course, and then booked it back to the campgrounds even though Rachel had a flat cause thunderstorm and tornado warnings started appearing in our inboxes. We were going to sleep in the laundry room but eh it's 11 and looks like the storm has passed. Tent is still standing and we stand by it.

Day 50: Take us to the ribfest (Missouri to Yankton)

Woke up and still had the whole Missouri to ourselves. I made it through the night curled easy in my hammock.

They promised us flatlands! South Dakota isn't flat. Spent the day endlessly pedaling up and riding down the hills of the Yankton reservation. We have a lot of miscellaneous food from when my mom was here so we didn't really eat whole lunches so much as snack. 

This week ended up housing both Rachel and my hardest ride - you heard about mine but today was hers, because she didn't sleep much and because we didn't eat much the night before. Lesson learned. Man and some days your shorts rub and by the end of it I was feeling rawww. 

The whole day we were excited about the Yankron ribfest. No better way to celebrate halfway than stuffing our stomachs full of Porky. We rolled into the KOA at 7:15 or whenever and showers and set up camp and we're halfway to passing out by the time we showed up at the park, we were so hungry. But the lights were all dark and the streets empty and the food smells week and it turns out they were setting up..  for tomorrow. 

Um yeah so we ended up at the yesterday cafe - themed 50s diner - and I got a bud light before my meatloaf arrived and anyways never felt like that after a bud before.

Steve showed up and we went to Walmart which I have been to more times on this trip than ever in my life. And just for now I'm allowing myself to ignore their worker compensation problems and local-business displacement ethics and say that that place is kind of a wonderland for us. I got a child-sized (me-sized) collapsible spiderman fishing rod cause I've been trying to find someone to teach me how to clean a fish this whole trip but s'pose I need to catch one first. 

Day 49: Million Dollar View (Colome to the Missouri)

Well houses are a blessing mostly but a little cursed because we had unpacked everything. So it took us three hours to make breakfast and sort it all and get it in the car and we left right as the rain hit. 

Unlike most days, the rain was fantastic cause we had a tailwind! Which blew the water away from our faces and made the going easy... for the first ten minutes. Then the storm passed and we had headwinds the entire next 74 miles to the Missouri. 

We stopped at a little cafe to have a last lunch with my mom. They had good coffee but had run out of pickles. It's been so good having her here. My mom's my rock and my springboard, keeping me grounded, encouraging me to fly. We said our final goodbyes outside a grocery store in Bonesteel. It took a little while.

The rest of the way, we just had South Dakota's tell-tale rolling hills. Coming up on the river was magnificent. The water appears to your left and we hit it just as the sun was setting below the bucolic hills and it's always nice to end a ride on a mile of downhill. We pulled into the south shore camping area just before Fort Randall dam and found out we had the entire place to ourselves.

Million dollar view from our hammocks, baby. We finished off our beers from the night before and ate our leftovers cold cause it was so warm out. Half a book later, I slept restlessly but cozy in the parachute fabric, prepping for an early start the next morning. 

Listening to: Strangers 

Day 26: Butts back on the bicycle (Cambridge to Payette)

This morning hurt. Too little sleep. Coffee couldn't come quick enough. Padded into the kitchen already in bike clothes, and bagged dried food from the dehydrator. 

Five minutes turned to fifty and we were late again, cramming bags, bikes and boxes into the back of the charger. My helmet sat in the hallway forgotten; didn't realize that until we were down the mountains and too far gone.

We just stopped at the school to drop off some supplies for the technology class and shave out the holes for the wheels, so they could spin freely. The scissors on the Swiss Army knife work best. Sherrie, the teacher, is one  of those moms who thinks their kid is above it all. But in a school where we heard few parents are around and concerned, she stood out as a champion for her boy. 

Becca had her eighth grade class see us off. I couldn't believe we were leaving Cambridge. That's been a pivot for our trip, the first stop we planned. With each visit, we have fewer and fewer certain plans. After Yellowstone, we have nothing until Iowa or later.

We ran into the old science teacher at the post office, and then finally rode this gorgeous rocky canyon out of the town. No shoulder though. 

At the bottom, I stopped to adjust my brakes and true my front wheel, which has been too dynamic of late. Rachel realized she had Becca's car keys in her jersey pocket and rode back to return them. I've never trued a wheel before. Disc brakes make it extra tough, because it's hard to tell which spoke corresponds to where the disc starts rubbing. But it was also meditative, except for loud interruptions from motorized vehicles, large trucks, and the jar of Nutella.  

After Rachel returned, we headed on down to Ontario. Well. We ended in Payette. An easy ride down 95 through farmland that soaked up yesterday's sprinkling. Every blade of grass looked a little bit greener. I sung loudly to Taj Mahal's love in my lady's  eyes. Singing on your bike going downhill is better than the car than karaoke. The wind whips the song right out of your lungs and disperses it across the earth. 

We made it to Payette easy and stopped at the Hideaway grill. Dinner was alright. This guy who lived across the street tried to sell us another bike. We didn't bite. He left. 

We sat down at the booth and ordered spicy pasta and then he shows up at our table and invites himself to join dinner. That's fine, I guess, but Rachel and I were both looking forward to inhaling our food and being content in silence and exhaustion.

You slide so fast on these bad boys  

The folks at the restaurant directed us to their city park to camp, a big reservoir of trees and grass I didn't expect here. All the old play ground equipment is still intact, metal slides slick and fast and falling over as they should be. There's a carnival in town, we shared the grass with them, setting up under hundred foot trees for a little bit of cover from the imminent rain. Our bikes were sealed under a tarp and we were sequestered away under the rain fly, rolled into sleeping bags, before it really started to pour. 

Day 21: Hello headwind (Vale to Weiser)

We had this great idea the night before to leave the oatmeal for the birds in the morning and make a run for the diner in Vale for a big, real breakfast. We thought we'd just sail down the hill into town and fill up on eggs and coffee. 

We packed up on empty stomachs and we did sail down the hill into a massive and brutal crosswind/headwind combination that just about bowled us back to Burns. And the farmers are out there prepping their fields for sowing so dust is blowing in every direction and the semis gotta make their runs so their whipping past us regardless of the lack of shoulder on the road and blowing us forward if their going our way and slamming us back if they're headed west. Those 10 miles took us like 90 minutes if not more, and I'm an addict so my knuckles are gripping the tape and white cause I haven't had my coffee and I've been awake for three hours now. I'll take a mountain over a headwind any day.  

When we finally reached the cafe it was basically time to eat lunch so now we're two meals behind and my blood sugar has dropped below zero. Thankfully, our beanstalk server immediately poured us coffee and water. The food was actually pretty good: four slices of French toast, a plate of hashbrowns, two eggs. Real syrup on the toast and a lot of butter. Yes a fourth topoff on the coffee, thank you. We ordered caramel pecan apple pie too, desert after breakfast an important staple on this trip after all. 

We left the diner at 2 ( I literally have no idea how time passes on this trip, we show up one minute and and show ourselves out three and and a half hours later). Outside Vale, we start picking out onions on the side of the road, little golden snitches fallen off the truck. I tested some but mine were all kinda squishy. We must have been a couple of days late.

Rode over the Snake River and into Idaho at just about the same time as Hallie Jackson's NBC special on us aired. A million texts and tweets later we were famous or whatever. I don't think I like having my face on television but schools and other programs have been reaching out ever since so for that, put me on the national news whenever you want. Hallie did a fine job, I just wish she (or whoever chose it) hadn't started with my quote about this trip being like a marriage. Whatever, I know what it's like to have sources gripe about the quotes you choose to use.

We stayed at our second warm showers host: Kelley Orchards. Kimmy made a thick and fabulous split pea soup, accompanied by olive bread fresh from the market. They have three kids, between preschool and fourth, a trampoline in the front yard and baby chicks in the basement. Also an adhoc gymnastics room - some mattresses, a hanging bar, a rope. Aaron, the youngest, showed us his moves. Kid can move! Flips on bars and he's just four adorable years old. 

We stayed up to talk to the Kelleys for a while. Ron biked across Canada when he was in college (this year marks 30 years since). And they fed us apple chips, dried from the fruit of their orchard, and eight layer bars, a glory of calories, decadence. Sleep came easy. 

Our tour of the fruit dehydrator with Ron. Order their apple chips but order twice as many as you think you'll eat cause those babies go fast

Day 20: Oh the people you'll meet (Juntura hot springs to the top of Vale)

We'd stayed up with Tom later than we'd stayed up the whole trip, so we slept in until 9 and woke up to his van driving down the dirt road. He left his business card tucked into the bungee on my solar panel. 

We couldn't leave without at least trying to get to the hot springs. We walked around the hill on a dirt road that led to the bank of the Malheur on the other side. Only between us and the "island" with the hot springs was a good twenty feet of mild rapids, a water temperature around 40 degrees. We aimlessly kind of stared at the river for a while before I decided that the good things in life don't come easy and we took the plunge. The water came up to out waists in the middle, and the downstream rush tried to carry us off with each step. But we made it across, hand-in-hand. And it's a perfect hot spring in that island there.  Dug out a little so it's deep enough to  sit and submerge but still a little wild. We watched the cows graze and the hills stand still and the sky change color until finally we figured we'd better wade back. Plus we were hungry. The way back was easier and not as cold as I remembered.

We heated up some Quaker Oats then packed up and headed out to the road. We didn't have a specific destination in mind. Juntura is kind of the entrance to the Oregon canyon lands on highway 20, so we spent most of our day with these touring walls squeezing and flowing the road around broad curves. ​

We agreed to meet at various mile signs, with Rachel going ahead. ​In he morning, I was stopped by a guy in a red pick up who had seen us riding the previous day. I had stopped to pump some water from the creek, since we were running low, but he had a bunch of bottles in the back and gave us 4 liters. Then, ten miles before our meeting point after lunch, I earned the first flat tire of the trip. I pulled off to the side of the road (butted up against the canyon wall) and had just unloaded the bike when an outback pulled up, piled with bikes and other gear. Turns out, the lady was a bike mechanic from West Yellowstone. She fixed my flat in two minutes flat. Unbelievable timing. I pedaled on to Rachel, but hit road construction pretty soon after. One of the guys in charge, Scott, pulled up with his flatbed and said I'd better get on since I was moving too slow (ouch). He ended up driving me all the way to Rachel, since I'd lost so much time earlier. And about a half hour later, he honked at us from behind in his jeep and gave us extra lights to use for our trip. How de-light-ful!

We toyed with the idea of asking a homestead if we could camp on their property, but neither of us felt much like socializing. We ended up on this magnificent ridge overlooking Vale, and into Idaho. Dinner was tough to cook in the wind, but the sunset was worth every frustrated flame, and the wind died down soon after. 

Day 17: Desert for dessert (Lakeview to somewhere in the desert)

Never thought we'd spend so long in Lakeview but we ended up staying in this tiny town for four days. We tried to hitchhike out on Saturday so we could save a few days and try to meet up with the Trans America adventure cycling route, but couldn't find a truck willing to take us in.

This turned out to be an incredible fortune: the "barren" ride we had been warned about was one of the most spectacular of the trip. The ride to Valley Falls was cool and easy through a pine forest. Liz saw a majestic old fox run across the road, and we followed a little creek down to a solitary gas station, the last stop before two days in the desert. 

We first passed Lake Abert, 18 miles of cerulean water bordered by a shoreline of salt flats. The reflection of the clouds on the dry mountains looked like the Sierras. 

At the end of the lake, we were faced with a big climb to the rim, but even with 35 miles under our wheels by then, it wasn't even noon and we were still feeling good. It was a beast of a climb, but we were rewarded with a little shade and incredible views of the lake as we munched on a lunch of jam, almond butter, jerky and dried mango.

The ride down the hill was even better. I was expecting a Mojave-like landscape, but instead on either side, cliffs erupted from the earth and dark green shrubs flooded the landscape. We saw a swirl of dust in the distanced that looked like a tornado, but a guy named Alan at the rest stop assured us it was just a bit of wind, nothing to worry about. For the rest of the day, the desert and the full quiet that comes with it went on and on. The roads were smooth and empty. After 75 miles, we found a little dirt road that was probably someone's private property, rode down it a little ways, and camped with the ants. 

Listening to: Love and Radio

Day 11: What we don't know won't hurt us (Susanville to Madeline)

After yesterday, we needed a better day. Just a day with distance; on this trip, when you're not moving, it feels like you're losing space. Where would you be if you had moved? Not in Susanville.

If they're not busy, highways are the safeways: guaranteed to be paved and with a greater chance you'll find towns and/or water along the way. We rode passed the Walmart and out onto 36, toward 395, taking the long way around (not directly passed the state prison, as Google suggested). The first bit was busy and for a while after we merged onto 395, we had little-to-no shoulder. But the high mountain farmland was verdant, the mountains austere in their distance, the birds content with the bugs in the ground.

Our last stop for water for 50-some miles was the Lichtfield general store. It was too early but we had hot dogs for lunch. Moving on, a dead donkey stank by the side of the ride. Pretty much as soon as we summited the first hill, leaving Susanville and the valley behind, we entered high desert. 

And for miles and miles and miles that's all it was: high desert. Kind of like the bits of Mojave you drive through to get to Joshua Tree from the Bay Area. Flat and shrubby, with more life than you'd assume, with grey rocks pouring upwards out of the earth in the distance. 

I love the desert. Despite my best attempts to claim the forest or the mountains as my favorite ecosystem, I feel most at peace in the flat dusty vague sands of the high desert. Mmm. A kind of quiet and balance you don't find elsewhere.

We made it to the rest stop with a fountain of non-potable water just in time, just as we were running low. We filtered and refilled, then pushed on. We didn't think we would make it to Madeline, 72 miles from the Diamond View Motel. In the final few miles, two quarters of a circular rainbow framed the sun. We made it by dusk. Madeline, pop: 22.

We knocked on one of the.. five houses in town and Stan, balding, red-faced, in a ripped orange shirt, answered. He acted like a startled bear: wary, confused, ready to attack. But we're pretty harmless. He warned us we should be carrying shot guns. He let us sleep in the yard across the street from the house, under two big trees. He told us he'd rather live out there, poor, than in New York City, rich.

Rarely have I been graced with a prettier sunset.

Listening to: Steady Rollin' by Two Gallants

Day 9: An introduction to E. Clampus Vitus (Potato Patch Campground to Chester)

I slept okay in the rain, but woke up early to the fresh damp good weather like that brings. Everything was soaked, including the bottom of the tent and the tennis shoes I'd left under the rain fly. Rachel stayed knocked out, so I boiled some water and ate oatmeal on a log by the river.

The sun wasn't quite warm enough to make it comfortable, but it was enough to slowly evaporate the water out of my shoes and socks. I sang When I Go Down to the River and Pray over and over again because what a pretty tune to a complement a pretty view. Anyways, only the ants could hear me. They tried to carry off my right wool sock. 

Since she hadn't slept almost at all the night before, Rach slept in real late; we knew we had a pretty easy ride anyways, less than 30 miles to Chester where we planned a lush night in the local motel.

Another gorgeous ride in the mountains, god it's pretty up here. Through Lassen National Forest, and there are golden cows and big tree trunks and stately cabins when there's anything..

Chester's a small town but worth visiting for one reason: the Buttlake Dinky.

The dinky, claimed to be insignificant and much like many other dinkies, was our first introduction to the huge trolling E. Clampus Vitus is playing on western America. They're a fraternal organization whose name is Dog Latin and doesn't translate to anything. Their motto is I believe it because it is absurd. Where do I sign up.

(Note since I'm writing this later: we tried so hard to find any representatives of the society, but nothing. Nowhere. They are mythic.)

Like I said, we had a lush night at the Antler's Motel, a cute little thing in the middle of town. The hamburger's down the street were food, if not savory ("that's what ya get for a $6 burger", admitted the waiter), the laundromat was so fresh (Rachel got a quick little history lesson from a lady also doing laundry and learned about the eerie burning of village which was flooded to make Lake Almador), and the night was well spent tuning up the bikes we'd just hauled through the rain. 

Day 8: Rainy days and weird dudes (Chico to the Potato Patch Campground)

We actually woke up early to start our climb into the Sierras. For me, the climb started slow -- Rachel and Spencer biked ahead and stopped every mile or so to wait for me to catch up. I studied the geometry of the power lines. I thought we’d be able to see more mountains looming in front of us, but highway 32 really is just a gradual, relentless upward climb with lush, green canyons dropping off on either side, the town of Paradise at the edge of the next ridge over.

We stopped for lunch at 2000 feet at the one-stop shop of Forest Ranch, bought some snickers, tried to convince Haggen Daz to sponsor us.

Spencer turned around after 20 miles and not too long after, we were rewarded with the first downhill of the day.

This was the first moment on the trip I really understood why I was out here. The pine forests ran by and the wind was cold and sweet. We saw the first fellow bike tourist, a lone guy all bundled up who hollered “What are you crazy people doing out here?”

The storm caught up with us shortly after, and we took too long to put on our rain clothes. Once you’re wet, you’re wet, and we were still headed uphill at this point, no service, no signs for the campground we’d decided ahead of time to stay at.

5,000 feet up, we found a little oasis of cell service around this big bend in the road.. and realized we’d passed our campground four miles ago. The next camp spot was 8.2 miles away and the mountain kept coming. My legs were exhausted, muscles barely responsive, body only moving because movement promised warmth and food.

But every time we’re this tired, the journey keeps us going. We topped the mountain and I saw a sign -- which has become my favorite -- warning trucks of a downhill grade for the next six miles. Still raining, the drops hit hard and cold going 30 miles an hour downhill but I’ve rarely felt so satisfied. A gap in the trees next to a turn off opened a curtain to the whole valley below us, fog rolling in and the mountains fading to blue-grey outlines in the distance. Four miles to-go: our destination, Potato Patch campground.

If you haven’t been out in the upper Sierras, you’ve got plans for the weekend. Especially now, before it gets too warm.

After we set up the tent, started the water boiling for dinner, changed into dry clothes, covered our bikes, a big red pickup truck pulled into the parking spot for our campsite. There were maybe 6 or 7 campsites occupied; 10-15 open. It was weird, unsettling. For twenty minutes, old-time music played loudly over the natural din, and Rachel and I sat together and wondered whether we should pack up and leave.

Finally this middle-aged guy comes out of the front and walked over. He stammered something along the lines of him “not being weird” and just sleeping in his truck that night while it rained so he could fish in the morning. And while we aim to give the people we met the benefit of the doubt, this was uncomfortable. With so many open parking spots, with dark falling, and us camped out for at least an hour before he arrived, I was frustrated by the interruption of solitude and kind of creeped out.

Eventually we decided he was strange but harmless. We slept with mace and all three of our knives, tucked into the pockets of the tent, just in case.