The desert wasn't proving hospitable. Did anyone expect it to?
It was hot (who knew). It was well irrigated. A lot of wheat. A few snakes--Morgan almost ran over a rattle snake. It even struck at him, just missing. And so when we arrived at places like the Tri-cities, it was heavenly. (The tri-cities consist of the cities: Kennewick, Richland, and Pasco. All three are in Washington state).
Andy called a church on Google and asked for a place to stay. The result was a house of 20-somethings who lived in community. The core of the group owned and operated a gourmet wine, cheese, and sandwich shoppe. One just completed a comelier course (basically a master wine taster course). One was the head chef. One owned it. And the others helped out, perhaps more than they originally thought they might. There were 7 in all. They seemed to get along better than other communities I have known in the past. The aura they created was impressive. They were loving. It seemed like living like that wouldn't displease a creator. Or it wouldn't displease me if I created things that could sort-of reason like I could and had to live with each other in one way or another because I forced them to when I was wiring them.
It hadn't always been like that in their lives, though. They hadn't always appeared to be peaceful, kind, and fun-loving. Some of them were coming from quite turbid pasts. Some coming more recently than others. But each of them found the friendship, the peace, and the beauty in the situation they had created in that house and with the shoppe more fulfilling than the lives they had left.
They were lucky. They were blessed. They knew the right people with the right ambition and the right resources to be able to live in a house in a place that provided enough of an income for them to continue to live where peace was attainable. Possible. Easy enough.
We seriously thought about staying another day with them. We wanted to very badly. But we had plans to stay with another family down the road, and it was getting close to the end. We couldn't really spare any extra time.
And so we made our way down into the Columbia River Gorge, another one of the most beautiful places in the country.
Showing posts with label Andy Friedlund. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Andy Friedlund. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Idaho's northern tip: 150 miles of hunger, irritation, and bliss
We had stayed longer than we thought we would in Hamilton. That was OK. It was more than OK. We had three weeks to get somewhere that would only take us a week to ride--if we were going straight there, that is. Nevertheless, there was no doubt that all of us were still a little tired.
So, being tired and all, we decided to ride. From Hamilton, Monday morning, we proceeded to ride 90 miles to Jerry Johnson Hot springs. They were less commercialized than the first hot springs we had stayed at in Southeastern Idaho (remember Challis?), but they weren't as far away enough from the road to make us feel comfortable breaking the rules and pitching tent beside them.
Along the Clearwater river runs rt 12, through the beautiful Northern part of Idaho. It's green forest, clear river, and mountains made for excellent riding, not to mention that everything was at least slightly downhill--it's all river-grade from the top of the Lolo pass to Lewiston, ID on the other side of the state. The wind often made up for the slight downhill, however, and riding wasn't always as easy as it might have been. Welcome to our summer of riding bicycles.
Jerry Johnson Hot springs were a series of ten or more pools formed beside the Clearwater river. The pools that did not connect to the river were between 80 and 100 or more degrees. Others mixed with the river water to make cooler ones. Everyone had their pick. There was also a sign that said "clothing optional." That was a first was a couple of us. Luckily no one else was there.
Later that night our camp-stove ran out of fuel and we, being 50 miles from the nearest town, began to get a little nervous. We salvaged some dinner--cold baked beans and a few pieces of bread--and sprinted to set up our tents as a swarm of mosquitoes started biting us all of a sudden. We were also running short on water. We were beginning to second guess our decision to stop at the hot springs, but we had already pedaled 90 miles. We couldn't really have gone much further, right?
The next day proved that wrong. We made 50 miles in the morning like it was our job. Or like we didn't have any food left. Or like we were going to ride 150 miles that day to meet our friend. Though it would be lying if we said that we weren't a little annoyed at each other during certain parts of the day.
50 miles, or was it 55 miles? to a town in the state park that had a loaf of bread and water that wasn't drinkable. We ate peanut butter and honey--a recent staple in our diets. Morgan was getting tired of peanut butter so he had trail mix. Andy couldn't help but argue about the mix of peanuts he had just paid a high price to eat. It was one of those irritable moments for all:
Andy: "Matt, go tell him he can just buy something down the road. They have a grocery store."
Matt: "haha, is he irritated with you?"
A: "Ya. It's too bad I'm the one who has to give him any good advice. He won't listen when he's tired of me."
M: "That's too bad. You give such good advice."
Morgan walks around the corner carrying Chex-Mix and a peanut based trail mix. No one said anything. We all knew we were a little tired and that spells of irritation came and went. kind of.
Andy waited a while to pick up the bag that he, no doubt, thought Morgan needlessly spent an African village's water money on:
A: "Do you know the main ingredient in this is peanuts? Didn't you say they were making you sick?"
Morgan: "Peanut butter was. There's a difference."
At least their voices were kept low. The argument continued.
Other than the occasional fits of irritation--and they were primarily held in those morning hours--the ride that day was quite pleasant. It was cool. The woods were among the most beautiful we had seen. And after the first 70 miles we had food and water aplenty.
Except for the trucks. Did I tell you about the trucks on rt 12. Everyone told us about them. They didn't really tell us not to ride it. Well, they did. But they also told us that all kinds of others ride it. They just said it was miserable. And they were right. For probably 20 miles along rt 12 there isn't really a shoulder. It's right along the river, so at least if you go over the 20 feet or so of steep hill it's just into the water. The trucks literally came within inches each time at about 60 mph. Matt swears one of the trucks brushed up against him.
The adrenaline that each passing truck forced into your system was enough to make you insane. That sort of energy created from a negative situation makes it hard not to blame the individuals themselves for the situation. I would imagine that years and years of that would make you want to kill all kinds of people. I wondered if wars and mass killings weren't more than just the killers' faults. Often we don't fix situations we have the power to do something about.
Eventually we would ride in the middle of the road and put our hands up when we saw truckers coming. They slowed down, and were often quite unhappy. They gave us more room, though.
We stopped at a subway with 40 miles to go. At this point we had realized that if we got our friend to pick us up in Lewiston, and if we were going to go to Portland after his place, that we would be coming back down south anyway--so getting a ride straight north wasn't technically cheating. That was pretty exciting. And with that good news, a stomach full of subway--both of which contributed to a high morale we set out to Lewiston.
We arrived at midnight, or close to it. We had just pedaled 150 miles on bikes that weighed 80 pounds. We were pleased with ourselves. We were pleased with Jon. We were pleased with life.
So, being tired and all, we decided to ride. From Hamilton, Monday morning, we proceeded to ride 90 miles to Jerry Johnson Hot springs. They were less commercialized than the first hot springs we had stayed at in Southeastern Idaho (remember Challis?), but they weren't as far away enough from the road to make us feel comfortable breaking the rules and pitching tent beside them.
Along the Clearwater river runs rt 12, through the beautiful Northern part of Idaho. It's green forest, clear river, and mountains made for excellent riding, not to mention that everything was at least slightly downhill--it's all river-grade from the top of the Lolo pass to Lewiston, ID on the other side of the state. The wind often made up for the slight downhill, however, and riding wasn't always as easy as it might have been. Welcome to our summer of riding bicycles.
Jerry Johnson Hot springs were a series of ten or more pools formed beside the Clearwater river. The pools that did not connect to the river were between 80 and 100 or more degrees. Others mixed with the river water to make cooler ones. Everyone had their pick. There was also a sign that said "clothing optional." That was a first was a couple of us. Luckily no one else was there.
Later that night our camp-stove ran out of fuel and we, being 50 miles from the nearest town, began to get a little nervous. We salvaged some dinner--cold baked beans and a few pieces of bread--and sprinted to set up our tents as a swarm of mosquitoes started biting us all of a sudden. We were also running short on water. We were beginning to second guess our decision to stop at the hot springs, but we had already pedaled 90 miles. We couldn't really have gone much further, right?
The next day proved that wrong. We made 50 miles in the morning like it was our job. Or like we didn't have any food left. Or like we were going to ride 150 miles that day to meet our friend. Though it would be lying if we said that we weren't a little annoyed at each other during certain parts of the day.
50 miles, or was it 55 miles? to a town in the state park that had a loaf of bread and water that wasn't drinkable. We ate peanut butter and honey--a recent staple in our diets. Morgan was getting tired of peanut butter so he had trail mix. Andy couldn't help but argue about the mix of peanuts he had just paid a high price to eat. It was one of those irritable moments for all:
Andy: "Matt, go tell him he can just buy something down the road. They have a grocery store."
Matt: "haha, is he irritated with you?"
A: "Ya. It's too bad I'm the one who has to give him any good advice. He won't listen when he's tired of me."
M: "That's too bad. You give such good advice."
Morgan walks around the corner carrying Chex-Mix and a peanut based trail mix. No one said anything. We all knew we were a little tired and that spells of irritation came and went. kind of.
Andy waited a while to pick up the bag that he, no doubt, thought Morgan needlessly spent an African village's water money on:
A: "Do you know the main ingredient in this is peanuts? Didn't you say they were making you sick?"
Morgan: "Peanut butter was. There's a difference."
At least their voices were kept low. The argument continued.
Other than the occasional fits of irritation--and they were primarily held in those morning hours--the ride that day was quite pleasant. It was cool. The woods were among the most beautiful we had seen. And after the first 70 miles we had food and water aplenty.
Except for the trucks. Did I tell you about the trucks on rt 12. Everyone told us about them. They didn't really tell us not to ride it. Well, they did. But they also told us that all kinds of others ride it. They just said it was miserable. And they were right. For probably 20 miles along rt 12 there isn't really a shoulder. It's right along the river, so at least if you go over the 20 feet or so of steep hill it's just into the water. The trucks literally came within inches each time at about 60 mph. Matt swears one of the trucks brushed up against him.
The adrenaline that each passing truck forced into your system was enough to make you insane. That sort of energy created from a negative situation makes it hard not to blame the individuals themselves for the situation. I would imagine that years and years of that would make you want to kill all kinds of people. I wondered if wars and mass killings weren't more than just the killers' faults. Often we don't fix situations we have the power to do something about.
Eventually we would ride in the middle of the road and put our hands up when we saw truckers coming. They slowed down, and were often quite unhappy. They gave us more room, though.
We stopped at a subway with 40 miles to go. At this point we had realized that if we got our friend to pick us up in Lewiston, and if we were going to go to Portland after his place, that we would be coming back down south anyway--so getting a ride straight north wasn't technically cheating. That was pretty exciting. And with that good news, a stomach full of subway--both of which contributed to a high morale we set out to Lewiston.
We arrived at midnight, or close to it. We had just pedaled 150 miles on bikes that weighed 80 pounds. We were pleased with ourselves. We were pleased with Jon. We were pleased with life.
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