50inthefifties.com

State 50: Idaho

Dateline: July 6-16, 2023

Mountain Biking, Hiking, Rafting, Camping, and Hot Springs with Escape Adventures, Cousin Matt and Marty

The Frank Church Wilderness and environs- 18 miles of hiking, 27 miles of gravel and mountain biking, 12 miles of rafting class 2-4 rapids- Phew!

Required reading: The Last Honest Man, by James Risen (Biography of Idaho Senator Frank Church)

It’s a rainy day here in Bernardsville, NJ, meaning I’m faced with limited choices to fill the hours in the day. Plus, I can’t do any yard work- we have ground nesting yellow jackets all over the property, and I have been stung twice. Each time they attack, my reaction is a bit worse.

The house is clean enough. The laundry’s done. I did the Monday crossword in eleven minutes, scored Awesome on Spelling Bee, and failed at Connections, but only because I don’t know enough about TV.

It’s a bit damp for roadside cleanup. I’m ready for the upcoming meetings. No way I’m baking or cooking. And if I don’t get this written, it won’t get written.

It’s complicated. I’m torn. Marty told me there is a book in here, and it should start, as some of the best books do, at the end, with us sitting in a hot spring pool about twenty-five feet above the Boise River. Water cascades over the edge of the rock wall, and tales long untold spill forth.

What has this quest been about? Is it merely a physical feat, or has it brought me to a new place of freedom? Do I want to finish? Will I ever truly finish?

Perhaps if I get started, if I get it all down on paper, I can find out.

Steve drove me to the airport in the predawn hours July 6, even though we knew the plane was delayed. We were both up, so why not get it over with? I had just settled into a seat within the terminal when “Forever in Blue Jeans” wafted from the speakers like Muzak. That song really takes me back.

The flight was fine, and as we approached Portland, someone on the left opened the window shade to reveal Mt. Hood, clad in snow and glacier, bathed in the morning light. Where I was last in Oregon, she had been shy, wrapped in cloud cover. I was finally able to see her in her full glory.

Matt, Megan, and Tessa met me at the airport. We hadn’t been together in seven years, since we conquered Oregon at Waldo Lake in August 2016. My dad was alive then, and Tessa was ten; she’s seventeen now. Barack Obama was our president. It feels like another world. It was.

We spent the next couple days catching up and warming up, with city walks and short hikes in Washington Park and several connected parks. We explored the National Rose Test Garden, the Sacagawea statue, the redwood grove (which was about to be closed for a wedding ceremony), the Lewis and Clark Monument, and a mansion built and occupied by Henry and Georgiana Pittock. They merit a sentence or two here.

The Pittocks arrived in this vicinity in the 1850s via the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon. He became the owner of The Oregonian, and she was the founder of many charitable organizations. They and others transformed Portland into a booming, modern city, connected by rail, telephone, and telegraph to the world. Even better, he worked to create trail networks and joined the local bicycling club. I’m pretty sure we would have been friends. I found myself feeling wistful about the connections linking us all, all over this land, and through time. What a gift my journey over these nine years has proved to be.

After lunch and a nap, Matt and I ventured out for live music. We stood with other passionate rock and roll aficionados and enjoyed a solid opening act and then a truly outstanding main event, Blondshell. The lead female vocalist is already a star. I couldn’t stop thinking about Daisy Jones and the Six, another great read and TV series.

The following morning, we loaded the car at dawn, hugged Megan and Tessa goodbye, and set off on the long drive across the whole of Oregon to Boise, Idaho. We had the constant companionship of the Columbia and Snake Rivers, numerous dismaying dams, stops in two little towns for food truck food and ice cream, and a criterion bike race going on in downtown Boise upon our arrival.

As I had hoped and pretty much expected, Marty and Matt hit it off right away, riffing on music and reading and Greek myths. I hate Greek myths and made my feelings known, in no uncertain terms. Turns out Matt wrote his undergraduate thesis on one myth or another and was rereading the Iliad on this trip. Still, he tolerates me. We had a light dinner at a taco place with guac and salads and hard cider.

The next morning, we met our leaders Zack and Roy, right on time, outside the hotel. Together, we made the long drive to our campsite, following the Boise river, passing lots more dams. We stopped for gas and chatted with a large troop of Boy Scouts who had just spent five days rafting the Middle Fork. Marty has done that trip, overturning in an inflatable kayak and coming close to disaster. She carries the trauma of that moment in her mind.

The drive was lovely, the conversation good. The final thirty-seven miles of the trip were on dirt roads. Zack hails from NoVa and Roy is from Chicagoland. Roy was in flight school in Iowa at one time and was the more outgoing of our two leaders. Zack was quieter, more bookish. Both were interesting young men, doing a job they enjoy.

We arrived at midday at our campsite right on the banks of the Boise, which was itself right next to the hot, medium, and cool springs, elevation: 5,500 feet. After setting our tents and a quick lunch, we shuttled up a really steep hill which may or may not have been Mount Greylock. That’s the name of the highest point in Massachusetts and may not really belong in my trip notes for Idaho. It’s December as I write this, and the trip was six months ago! I only write when it rains… Well, turns out we could have been on or near Mt. Greylock, because there is one in Idaho as well.

Marty atop what may very well be Mount Greylock, or not. We will soon descend that slope to her left, in mortal terror.

Wherever we were, we were at maybe 7,000 feet, and we were going to ride nine miles on trails to get back down. My bike was purple. My heart was racing.

With zero warm up, the trail started STEEP and rocky and washed out, and stayed that way for quite a stretch. Marty and I were terrified at first. Like No Way are we doing this. Accustomed to thin tires and paved roads, we saw serious injury or worse in every rock and eroded channel. Over the course of the first few miles, we learned that these bikes were a different breed. We had left our thoroughbreds at home and were now riding quarter horses, sturdy, balanced, shock absorbing, fearless. As I had done more than thirty years ago in Wyoming at the Bitterroot Ranch, I told myself to trust the horse (or, in this case, Bike). In truth, both Marty and I had to walk some of the trail. Matt was being super nice and was sweeping, though he must have been bored as all get out. Eventually, the ride levelled out and we urged him to leave us to our own devices. After a fashion and in our own fashion, we got to the dirt road and rode an endless, hot mile to Atlanta and felt we deserved a soda.

The guys had waited for us, and we treated ourselves to Dr. Pepper with sugar at the bar, the only going business in Atlanta. That soda was The Best! We felt much better and blamed our fatigue on the altitude. Marty and I went back to camp and lowered ourselves into the hot springs and the bracing current of the Boise. Matt and Roy rode some singletrack to check the trail for our hike planned for the next day. Good thing, too, because there had been a landslide.

Nothing like an ice-cold Dr. Pepper

The day ended with a beer and a scrumptious dinner of roast salmon, potatoes, and asparagus, with s’mores for dessert. Luxury camping is pretty luxe. We all crawled into our tents, lulled by the rush of the river and soothed by the aroma of the campfire settled in our clothes.

July 10- in which a ten-mile hike lasts 9:30-5 and change

Not much sleep, sliding down in the tent and enduring strange dreams brought on by exercise, altitude, and dehydration. I took a solo walk that morning at 5:20. At Escape Adventures, the day is organized by a 7-8-9 plan. 7- Coffee. 8- Breakfast 9- Activity.

So I had some time to kill. Wildflowers everywhere, and they became my focus for the day.

After, coffee, fruit, and french toast (more on that, later), we set out by 9:30. Microclimates, Ferns, yarrow, columbine everywhere. Foamflower, golden ragwort, Agastache in the wild, alpine meadows with sedges, including just one blue-green one.

Water crossings. One was reasonably big. Everyone else crossed on logs. I was, like nope. I did my crossing NOLS style and soaked my boots, but they were dry by the end. And on the way back, I screwed my courage to the sticking place and did a log. There was an avalanche downing of Douglas Fir about 1.5 miles in that was just humongous.

We all squeezed under in an area Matt and Roy had cleared the day before. We got to the high point at 6,000 feet, saying, “F you, Denver!” The Frank Church Wilderness is also mile-high. And no crowds, no cars, no McDonalds. We would not go hungry, however. Zach opened his pack and produced a half loaf of huckleberry french toast left over from breakfast. We all ate it and declared it perfect and christened the spot French Toast Point.

French Toast Point, Post Toast

Refreshed, we continued on about another 1.5 miles to our turnaround spot, Mattingly Creek. On the way back, we saw the only other human we had encountered the entire day, a backpacker who planned to be out two weeks. So many hours had passed by the time we made it back to the treefall that I told Roy that the West is big and so ten miles out here is not the same as ten miles back East. Seriously, how can it take 7.5 hours to hike 10 miles?

Whatever. We were back at camp, and it was time to hit the river and hot springs for our baths and laundry. More campers arrived, and a huge dog party was on. Turned out that all the kids and dogs and families were quiet and a pleasure to camp beside. Tomorrow, we move on. The itinerary will need adjustment, because the road is closed, but whatever we do will be a treat. Whatever.

7/11, with no 7 Elevens for Miles

The morning ride on single track started out very easy but didn’t stay that way. Pedals banging into rocks, ups without momentum, one easy graceful fall and one in the other direction onto the rocks. No harm done. We rode to the tree fall and then turned round, this time, Matt getting to lead and do his thing. I may have tipped once on the return, and I moved one rock off the trail. I was so winded I walked to the top of the hill. Only three miles, and by the end, I was slightly nauseous and needed to eat again, STAT. I didn’t succeed in shifting at all or lowering my seat, but I did figure out how to time my pedaling to avoid the rocks.

Go, Marty, Go!

The guys had thought we would all be bored by the 19-mile ride out on dirt roads, but we had a grand time, Marty and I solidly in our comfort zone. We hugged the Boise River, riding through swarming butterflies. One collided with me and was briefly stuck in my helmet straps. I kept talking to them. There was a bush with flowers so sweetly scented they put me in mind of gardenia and jasmine. Their scent wafted pleasantly along with us. At the end, there was no shade, but there was a hot spring, and Roy and Zack set us a full lunch of pasta salad, sun chips, and melon. We had EL Fudge Cookies for dessert. Keebler. Elves. You know.

Thirsty butterflies

On the long shuttle over the pass from the Boise watershed to the Payette, there was one hair-raising moment when two construction trucks carrying boulders as big as heifers were coming downhill through switchbacks while Roy was coming up, a cliff on the right side. He had to back the rig up. The rig is BIG. Luckily, he also had to stop, so I was able to buckle my seat belt just in time.

Our new campsite at Pine Creek Flats was more crowded, but we had two sites and were able to spread out nicely. The river and hot springs were a solid half mile away. I found Matt down there lifting and placing rocks to create a hot pool.

Zack was reading Moby Dick. I hadn’t read a word since reading The Last Honest Man in NJ. My head still ached.

Dinner was vegan wontons with onions, carrots, and celery in a soft rice wrap. Apple cake for dessert. We want for nothing. Except sleep.

That night, we had a youth group right next door to us, and they were very chatty. I did manage to make it to the outhouse just before all fifteen of them returned from their hike, lustily singing Sweet Caroline. Neil Diamond was the soundtrack of the trip, so far. Three nights here. I didn’t know what our last biking day would bring, but next, we RAFT.

Rafting with Class (4)! Payette River Company

7/12 We raft. Better sleep last night with a pillow borrowed from our fearless leaders and a pair of ear plugs. First song up on the day’s drive was You Can Go Your Own Way (the most poignant break up song in the world). I was sitting next to Matt and worried that he would see me crying but I had a plan to just tell him I had sunscreen in my eyes. Whatever. 50inthefifties is all about going my own way.

Rafting… Sean, the owner, Joe, the guide, whitewater. It comes fast. It’s whitewater. Duh. There was a scary portage around a Class 6 waterfall, the footing precarious, the rocks slick.

By the time we got there, I had already cut myself like a scalpel on a piece of the aptly-named Sawtooths at Matt’s Pool, and I was bleeding. I got into the rafting hot seat front left just after the portage because I was the first to portage. I wanted to be in that seat, anyway. Trigger Warning- next is the injury photo. There will be Blood!

Deep laceration!

Joe said, “Who wants to surf?” Marty said, “Not me.” She had surfed before, on the Salmon. I didn’t even know what it was. We had to attempt it twice before we managed to tip me out of the boat and into the whirlpool. I was, like, “Ok. So. This could be a way to drown…” but no panic. I eventually came up. It was reportedly a couple seconds but of course seemed way longer. Assumed the position for descending a rapid without a boat, but then Joe yelled, “No! Swim like you mean it!” So I did. With a paddle.

As Joe and one of the other guys hauled me into the boat, dripping and breathless, and Matt held his injured shoulder in the socket with his other hand, Marty said, “Which is better, marching Selma to Montgomery or THIS?”

I said, “Give me a minute… I’m not entirely sure…”

Matt had had enough of me in the hot seat. I got relegated to the stern. Oh, well. It was super fun while it lasted.

Later, I jumped off a 20-foot rock, after climbing up, peering over, saying, “No,” and then making Matt go first. Which he did, even though he was only up there for me. What a guy. Like he said many times, we would do “all the things.”

That night, the campground was nearly deserted except for the 50-foot camper right next to our tents. I hoped they wouldn’t turn the generator on, but at least I had earplugs. Like, they could park anywhere. (They ended up with motion detector lights, which were an issue when it came to late night pee breaks, but they moved on the next morning.)

7/13 8 mile out and back hike on double track. Easy hike, easy conversation. Next up, the hot springs at Kirkham, which were really impressive, with warm showers cascading into cool pools right on the raging river. I managed to stub my toe on another of those Sawtooths and it was bleeding, as was my left ring finger, which sported a tiny cut that was spurting blood all over the rocks like a horror movie or the aftermath of Thelma and Louise. Luckily, I had my bathing suit in hand to apply direct pressure, except, of course, for when I was retying my boots.

I have a rash on my ankle, am battered and bruised, have a butterfly bandage holding my right leg together, and I’m very happy. Roy takes care of my worst injury, the cut on my leg. No urgent care or emergency room available out here.

Next, we checked out the only establishment in Lowman, Idaho, the Lowman Mercantile. They had everything a camper could want, and a really friendly woman behind the counter who sold Marty and me a frozen gin melon cocktail and a honeydew popsicle which she said was indescribably delicious. She was right. Matt treated us all to frozen treats. Back at camp, we had leftover brownies, and then it was time for guac and homemade chips. That night, because of a corona ejection, which is not beer but something to do with the sun, we stayed up very late, hoping to witness the northern lights.

No northern lights. But the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia through midnight were worth it. The folks with red lights or no lights, all up late and hopeful and quiet. Silently sharing the moment, separately.

7/16

Sunday morning. I’m in a bind and I’m way behind. All my bags are packed. I’m ready to go. I’m in the basement in Portland. 50inthefifties is done. On the final day in the final state, we had a perfect oh say eight- mile ride at the Sno Park with some climbs that proved impossible at altitude and some that didn’t and a descent that revealed more confidence than terror and a final mud puddle to soak us and a final salad and a final beer and a final sausage and a walk through a town with wooden sidewalks and a conversation with a sheriff sitting on a bench with a cigarette dangling from his lip. A long drive. Matt and I singing Bob Seger together. What song? Against the Wind: Like the ride on the dirt road. Like the drive west that caused the rattle at 80 miles an hour. Heading for the purple mountain, in its majesty, despite the bugs on the windshield.

And on our last day, we went to the movies and saw Indiana Jones together. Sharing his adventure, after one of our own. He’s old, I’m old. But Tessa is young, and she reached for my hand. And we walked, together.

If it wasn’t for Megan, Matt, Tessa, and Marty, this epic conclusion to a middle-aged woman’s personal quest would never have been possible. My deepest thanks to all of them, and to everyone who accompanied me, or cheered me on state after state after state.

At the airport, over the PA system, Paul Simon reminded me that we’ve all come to look for America. I, for one, have found some snippet of her in each of her fifty states. Together, they have gifted me a scrapbook of memories. Closing the book on the blog, I’ll leave you with Johnny Cash…

What’s next? If we get another rainy day, perhaps I’ll open the book on the Book.

Thanks to a truly rainy day as we traversed Wisconsin on our epic summer drive of ’21, and a wildfire in Idaho that was only one mile from the road we planned to ride, I finished 2021 with these two states left on my list. I felt that both were best explored in the warmer months, and I granted myself an extension on my self-imposed deadline. We weren’t yet ready to brave the airport and the enclosed space of an airplane cabin, but we wanted to celebrate my 60th in a big way. Whatever would we do?

Credit Kip for the suggestion: a drive to Cumberland Island National Seashore, off the coast of southern Georgia. On the way south, we would stop in Alexandria and Savannah, and on the way north, Charleston beckoned. So, off we went, into the teeth of a bomb cyclone, on March 12, my birthday!

First stop, a visit to my friend Medium Jackie, whom I met in Alaska on my National Outdoor Leadership School women’s backpacking trip. We later explored the Boundary Waters of Minnesota on snowshoes. These (occasionally) near-death experiences have made us fast friends. It was snowing as we arrived, but we shared a birthday lunch, then Kip and I continued south, all the way to Fayetteville, NC. We found a huge room at the Days Inn and then headed into the historic downtown, where we found a Greek restaurant with excellent hummus and olives, accompanied by a nice Greek wine.

We had four more hours to drive over the savannahs to reach Savannah. Wet and flat, nary a hill in sight. Our air bnb was in a beautiful house owned by a family named Starbuck. They used to hunt whales on Nantucket. We walked all over the place and had poke bowls near the house. This city of 150,000 people has been abandoned to the short-term rental craze, at least within the historic district. Words cannot express how charming and gorgeous it all is, with the twenty-one squares and the parks and the old homes. Just outside the District, however, surroundings suddenly turn rough. We were staying on the edge of all that. We listened to Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, and that was a terrific choice for an immersive Savannah experience.

Next stop, St. Mary’s, Georgia, which is the jumping off place for Cumberland Island. There is one hotel on the island, but it is a Carnegie mansion, with Carnegie prices. We stayed just steps from the ferry landing in a big old Bed and Breakfast with a huge wraparound porch. We saw mockingbirds and butterbutts and bottlenose dolphins in the harbor. Not only that, but the Amazon driver rammed the bookstore across the street with his truck, and every police officer and ambulance driver in the area responded, and we had a front row seat to the action. The next morning, we boarded the ferry for the 45-minute ride through the salt marches to Cumberland.

Cumberland Island has been on my bucket list ever since I read Encounters with the Archdruid, many years ago. This collection of three longer essays, penned by the master of the form, John McPhee, details his conversations and travels with the founder of the Sierra Club Foundation, David Brower. Cumberland Island was on its way to becoming another Hilton Head Island, crowded with golf courses and condominiums, when at the eleventh hour, it was preserved, though the efforts of the National Parks Foundation, with the support and cooperation of the Carnegie family. This island, larger than Manhattan, feels like Jurassic Park. Carnegie descendants still live out there, and they have the only cars on island. Otherwise, it is bike and foot traffic.

We spent three full days exploring the island, which teems with bird life. We saw piping plovers on the beach and heard warblers of all kinds in the trees. We biked on the beach before learning that is forbidden. We biked 8 miles in a raging thunderstorm on the single sand road to make it to an 11 am tour of a Carnegie home, now a museum. We arrived, soaked through, at 10:59. I saw a curtain move, and I started rapping on the windows. I felt like Oliver Twist, begging for more…

Another of the Carnegie estate homes (Dungeness) burned to the ground some time ago, and one can explore the ruins, as can the wild horses. Right near there is a more modest house. It was built by Revolutionary War General Nathaniel Greene’s wife. It survives, circa 1820. History overlaps here, and everywhere.

We saw wild horses and armadillos so tame that they nearly walk over your feet.

We hiked and biked and explored to our heart’s content. And on our last morning, we left before breakfast. It seemed that the young man in charge overslept. He was probably overserved for St. Patrick’s Day.

Ok, so I forgot this draft. It’s getting drafty in my head. Now it’s September, 2023, and I am not going to have time to regale my readers with tales of our time in Charleston. I am in a bind, way behind, and have to finish this blog!

State 49: Wisconsin, with a subsequent New York Addendum

Dateline: June 22-26, 2022: Kayaking the Apostle Islands National Seashore, Lake Superior, with Wilderness Inquiry; Kayaking, 25 miles. Hiking 5.5 miles

Way back in 2018, I met a new friend, Jackie Vail, aka Medium Jackie, while backpacking the Talkeetna Mountains in Alaska. We hit it off right away, especially after determining that we both were soccer players and moms. The beautiful game, and procreation, can spark fast friendships. So, we arranged to get together and adventure again in 2019. We met up in Minnesota and snowshoed our way across a portion of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, sans canoe, but with pulk sleds and winter camping gear. Despite all the effort and close quarters, we planned yet another getaway: kayaking the Apostle Islands of Wisconsin, for June, 2020.

We all know what happened next: right after I returned from Detroit and the American Lung Association Fight for Air Climb in March, Covid 19 hit, and stuck around through 2021… and 2. Our flights were canceled, our trip was canceled, and we set about waiting for another chance. We waited for a vaccine and a new President, and we saw the Capitol overrun, and we got shots, and people continued to die, and we checked our schedules… but we could not make it work. That meant I set off, solo, on a PLANE for Minneapolis- my first flight since February, 2020, on June 21, 2022. Two long and difficult years had passed, but I never lost sight of this trip.

Wilderness Inquiry is a special outfitter. I don’t know of any others that can do what they do. They are a non-profit, and their mission is to make wilderness accessible for Everyone, regardless of their differing abilities. On their website, www.wildernessinquiry.org, I saw people in wheelchairs portaging canoes over rough ground. In response to a question from a member of our group, one of our leaders confirmed that they would be happy to take her father, blind from birth, on a kayak trip in the Apostles, just like ours. How can you not admire, support, and celebrate that attitude?

Ok, so, here’s the scoop. Wilderness Inquiry picked me up in Minneapolis at my hotel Erik’s Place (a very unique hotel concept- do check them out if you are heading to the North Country). We donned our masks and shuttled to Base Camp, which is at Little Sand Bay on Lake Superior. I met the rest of our group (Just six of us, with 3 guides!), and we sorted our gear and were issued wetsuits. It was time for the Wet Entry.

Down by the bay, where the watermelons grow…, no just kidding, but down by the bay, all six of us screwed our courage to the sticking place and tipped our double kayaks over, ON PURPOSE. Upside down in the very chill waters of the largest freshwater lake on the planet, we were to knock three times on the side of the boat and then extricate ourselves from our predicament.

I had spent one sleepless night worrying about this test, but I have to say, I have been in colder water on many occasions. Nothing will ever top the shock of diving into the Godfrey’s pool at my third-grade swim party.

I knocked, ratatatatat, very quickly and rather feebly, and sputtered to the surface, water streaming from my burning nose. Lesson learned: if somehow I tip, I can get out in like no time flat, even with a spray skirt. All six of us were all smiles, having gained a measure of confidence from this early success. And after a dinner of burgers and dogs, some of us watched our first Superior sunset hard by the place where we had passed the first test.

The next day’s reveille was at 4:36, courtesy of a black capped chickadee and a barred owl, followed by the extended dawn song of a robin, and the clarion call of my bladder. I stayed outside in extra layers, listening to warblers and overbirds, but by 6:07 was back in my tent, chased by marauding mosquitoes. Without a doubt, this trip has gifted me a new definition of “buggy.” Never have I seen the likes of it. Pack netting for your face and plenty of Deep Woods Off. It really works wonders. I had not a single bite, but I did a lot of running from swarms.

We had to pack our gear into dry bags and ferry the gear and boats down by the bay, again. This proved a recurring theme. The weather was perfect- near cloudless skies, ripple to flat water.

With the expert help of our guides, Trevor, Claire, and Michaela, we shoved all our personal items, a huge camp stove, 7 tents, and all our food and initial water into the hidey holes of our boats. Thus packed, our sleek, light, deepwater kayaks weighed a ton. We all got in, which is an awkward proposition, but we got better and better at it over the next four days. With guides in the rear of the kayak and guests in front, we made our way a couple of miles to our first stop, Sand Island, were we beached the kayaks and unloaded the vast amount of gear and set up our tents and had lunch. This campsite was close to the landing site. I didn’t know at that time how lucky we were. Notably, it was in the open, not in the woods, which was also important; the bugs are in the woods. I was pretty tired after the set up, and my right hand was cramping a bit while paddling.

But the day had hardly started. We climbed back into our once- again sleek craft and paddled the short distance to the hot ticket of the Apostles, the sandstone sea caves, carved over millennia by wind and water. When you enter them, the temperature drops fifteen degrees, and they drip like landlocked caves: enchanting. The vividness of the color palette simply cannot be described or captured on film. Just go and see for yourself. If you can tear your eyes from the rock formations, you could be rewarded with views of many bald eagles and loons. And if you keep your eyes open on the way to the latrine, you can spot wild pink lady’s slippers everywhere.

After the paddle, we had a brief, chill but not frigid, swim, followed for some of us by a buggy four-mile hike to a lighthouse. We arrived just at sunset, and the light was indescribable. The rocks were devoid of algae. We hopped around on them freely and watched the sun descend into the lake, returning to our hushed camp by the light of our headlamps.

The night was hot, breathless, and humid. I had all my stuff with me in the tent as the thunder threatened.

But wait a minute, what about the titular mules of this story? I’ve written a whole lot and made no mention of them. While there are some rusted hulks of cars on Sand Island, there are no mules out there anymore.

Except me. On any trip, if you are lucky, people will reveal their strengths and find the way that they can contribute to the good of the group. Celeste and Katie were our firestarters. Give them a fire ring and a bit of wood, and they can get a roaring blaze going. As for me, I am a pack mule. Always ready early, having bolted my food, needing no time to transition from one activity to another, I move the bags. I am not very good at packing the boats, but I can get the gear to the beach or dock, or up to the campsite, so others can take it from there. Chris was my partner in the traces, and Margaret and Liz could find a place in the kayak for every item, large or small. Our leaders can do it all, of course, including taking over all the paddling if a client wishes to rest and watch the world go by in the bow.

The mules did not have to work very hard loading up at Sand Island, but the following day featured ten miles of paddling and stops on three different islands. The day dawned clear and free after the rain overnight. Because the weather on Lake Superior is among the most difficult to forecast anywhere, we made our crossings piecemeal, one island at a time. I was paddling with Michaela, and we saved two dragonflies on the day, who had become exhausted on crossings and hit the water. We watched their wings dry up on our bow, and off they flew to give it another try.

The first stop was just a pit stop, but the second was on Raspberry Island. We hiked up to a lighthouse for our lunch and scored a tour from the resident volunteer. After a lovely break and a hike of 1.5 miles total, we set off for our final destination for the day: Oak Island. It was pack mule territory. We arrived to find no beach, a dock, and a 150-yard uphill hike to our campsite, Campsite B, which is centered by the largest white birch I have ever seen and home to the largest mosquitoes on the planet. Thank goodness for the wet suits, protecting the majority of our bodies, but as soon as I got the first load up the hill, I slathered on the Off.

The day had been forecast to suck, but it was beautiful. The next day was forecast to be rainy. We figured we might get stuck on Oak. We could do some hiking if so. We can’t paddle if there is a small craft warning.

Saturday…

Ok, so we planned to leave Oak Island at like 5 am, but these plans were scrapped when the forecasted storms backed off in timing. Flexibility is key here- gotta have a Plan B. No sooner do you digest a forecast and convey instructions than the forecast changes, and the plan is worthless.

This pack mule made six trips down the hill to the dock and back up again, and then, since there was no beach, we determined that we would have to load the boats one at a time from the dock. So I stood in the water holding the first loaded boat and fending it off the rocks for forty-five minutes.

When we finally set off, we encountered a strong following wind that was threatening to swamp us from behind. As we reached the sand spit at the very tip of Oak, the water was over the gunwales and on the spray skirts. The lake was in a bit of a tizzy. We got ready to hunker down just as the rain started. We found a campsite out of the chill wind, and Celeste somehow made a fire. That is her superpower.

Meanwhile, not content to just have us sit around, our leaders unloaded the stove and made hot cocoa for everyone and laid out the snacks. They took exceptional care of us. In just an hour, the water was dead calm, and we all brought out the sunscreen. Unreal.

We arrived at our next island after about 7 total miles of paddling and numerous eagle sightings. The advance party reported the worst bugs ever and an uphill hike to camp involving switchbacks. Again, I did my thing, hauling the bags for 250 yards up the hill. After setting up, several of us indulged in long swims, no need for wetsuits, and blessedly out of the range of the bugs. The rain returned periodically but didn’t dampen the fun. We had some wonderful views of a cooperative yellow-bellied sapsucker right in camp.

The clang of the bear bin door served as our alarm clock the following morning. I heard a cuckoo bird at 5:46. Everyone was still in the tents. I watched the mosquitoes and caterpillars mostly outside, but also inside mine. So many seeds and caterpillars had fallen from the oak trees that it sounded like occasional rain. Toasted bagels and coffee, and I was back to my pack mule duties.

The wind was fairly howling, and the spray was kicking up in our faces. Trevor started the day with an authoritative “Paddle Left!” and I was jolted with the realization that he must be talking to me.

The work of the crossing was hard, but so were my abs. I was thankful for my sit- up routine. We changed course two or three times as the conditions changed, calms followed by gusts. We abandoned our plan to visit a shipwreck so as not to become one, and pulled in behind a breakwater, easing onto the beach to meet the waiting van. One last unload and load and pull, and heft and haul, and it was all over, and on to hot showers and clean-ish clothes.

After the shuttle back to my door at Erik’s Retreat, I met my cousins and their families for a lovely dinner and a walk at a Minneapolis park. Everyone was out enjoying a sunny late afternoon.

On the plane home, I had some time to think about what I have learned:

1. how to put up a 3-person tent solo
2. that my tent is a rectangle. This took me 3 nights.
3. that there are more bugs in Wisconsin than Alaska
4. that everybody can contribute in some way
5. that backcountry kayak trips are hardest out of the boats
6. that it is wise to keep some toilet paper by your headlamp in the tent
7. that it’s much more relaxing to leave the phone and wallet behind: My teammates who had their phones were fretting about them and misplacing their chargers, etc. I have fewer photos, but I was able to unplug. and I owe a debt to Celeste, for letting me use some of her excellent photos.

Just sayin: this was a very worthy challenge for Wisconsin. It was a tough trip, and we had a strong group. All the women who did not have their partners with them were saying that the menfolk would have absolutely hated this trip. My darling husband is very game and super on the water, but the bugs would ruin it for him full stop. I started thinking how lucky I am that it was raining when we hit Wisconsin on last summer’s pilgrimage to parts West. A little bike ride of a few hours cannot compare to the wonder of this trip.

Wisconsin was a great 49th state.

Addendum New York: July 8-17, Cycle the Erie Canal, 400 Miles, 8 days, 750 people, tent #61

Almost eight years into this challenge, and only one state left to capture: Idaho. But while I look at options there and decide what I really want to do in my final state, no sense ignoring states I have visited before. Especially when a challenge arises that combines my love of cycling with my brain’s encyclopedic compendium of song lyrics.

I got a mule, her name is Sal, fifteen miles on the Erie Canal! (I know the full song, but won’t torture you…Rest assured, I sang it many times over the week.)

Or, how about 400 ish miles? With three friends and 747 potential friends to share it with!

Each summer, New York Parks and Trails sponsors the Cycle the Erie Canal Ride. Over eight days and nights, they shepherd a friendly cadre of cyclists, ranging in age from single digits to octogenarians, along an almost entirely flat course, from Buffalo to Albany. The surface is mostly paved or quarry dust, and the majority of the ride is on protected bicycle and pedestrian paths, often right on the towpath of the original Erie Canal. There is so much history to absorb. There are also two terrific meals a day in camp, two rest stops every day, and live entertainment, suggestions of things to do outside camp, and beer gardens. What’s not to like?

This year’s edition saw perfect weather. Cool nights and mornings gave way to warm to hot afternoons. Swimming pools were on offer three or four days, and hot showers every night. A four-day option, from Buffalo to Syracuse, is also available.

Back in the day, mules were the overwhelming choice over horses for towing the barges up and down the canal. They needed half the food and water, were smaller, so as to fit on the canal boats in between their shifts, and unlike horses, would not work themselves to death. At the fifteen-mile mark, they just stopped. Nothing could persuade them to continue.

I got a mule- Her name is Trish. She is my first adult bike, a thirty-four-year-old steel trek 830. She had some issues early on in the trip, but she rose to the challenge and got me through the 400 miles. Rather than regale my readers with too many details, I will post the mileage, the start and end points, and one photo of a highlight from each of the eight wonderful days.

Albany, pre-trip

Saturday, a night in Buffalo:

Day 1, Buffalo to Medina, 47 miles

Day 2: Medina to Fairport, 62 Miles

Day 3: Fairport to Seneca Falls, 46 miles

Day 4: Seneca Falls to Syracuse, 41 miles

Day 5: Syracuse to Rome, 48 miles

Day 6: Rome to Canajoharie, 61 miles

Day 7: Canajoharie to Niskayuna, 46 miles

Day 8, Niskayuna to Albany, the Home Stretch, 28 miles

Kip and I rode the last 28 together. Each day, we would ride 20 or so, to the first rest stop, then split up and catch up with each other later. But it was important to both of us to finish together.

Like the mule she is, Trish did the job, exactly 28 miles on the final day, 400-ish miles altogether, and she let me know in no uncertain terms that she was DONE. Her rear wheel fell off just yards from the finish line.

She’s a good old worker and a good old pal. And we know every inch of the way, from Albany to Buffalo… and back again.

Kip tested positive for Covid the following day. He did the 400, sick much of the time. Another mule. Thank you, Bob and Jeff and Kip and Trish, for an excellent adventure.

 

South Dakota suffered through and chalked up in the DONE column, KNK reversed course, and rather than heading east to New Jersey, set their GPS and compass southwesterly. Destination: Crested Butte, Colorado, by way of Cheyenne, Wyoming. That was where we last left KNK.

Having determined that we still had six and a half hours of driving time to reach Crested Butte from Cheyenne, we did not pause to do anything fun in Cheyenne. Goodbye, Old Paint…

It was Friday., or maybe Thursday. There were people on the road with us. Lots of them. And there was traffic, three full lanes of it.

Kip was driving, and we planned assiduously to get gas and change drivers before reaching the mountain pass, but suddenly, the pass was there, and so were we, and he drove us up to 8,200 feet. But he did fine. The meds were working. Still, the next pass was mine, and we traded places and topped off the tank. Then we did the real pass, the highest, at 12,000 plus feet. At the bottom was a large lake, formed by the damming of the Taylor River. There were numerous cyclists heading up to the pass, fully loaded. Kudos to them!

We made it to Crested Butte and were greeted with hugs and kisses by Laura and Joe.

The next few days were filled with walks and hikes and bike rides and trips to the Farmer’s Market and dinners out and quiet dinners at home and long conversations under the aspens. I was able fit in a 25 mile ride toward Gunnison, but the high point was definitely my first attempt at technical mountain biking.

Laura and I did one of the green trails down Mount Crested Butte. Ok, it was a green trail, but I was plenty scared. I tried to stand the entire way as Laura had instructed me to do, but it was utterly exhausting. So, I sat my butt down on the very low seat and negotiated the banked turns and avoided the huge rocks. I didn’t walk, and I didn’t fall, so I would call that a success. The bar is as low as the seat, apparently.

Though I had counted Colorado among my states years before on a solo snowshoe outing, I added a bit more challenge that Saturday, or Sunday, or Whatever day… who knows. Anyone who has ever set out in a car to explore over a long period will understand.

On our final night, Sunday, I didn’t sleep well, and had trouble finding the door in the middle of the night in the absolute pitch dark of the Rocky Mountains. I emerged in my stupor to find that Laura n Joe had run out of Taster’s Choice, but luckily, I had my travel stash. We trundled out the door fairly early to head for Nebraska, where I had no idea what amazing feat I would accomplish. I hoped it would find me.

Monday: Another three-mountain pass day saw me at the wheel to start. It was 50 degrees when we left the Butte and 95 degrees in Denver as we went through. Hard to wrap one’s head around that. Later, Kip did 2.5 hours, and we crossed the plains of Colorado to arrive at the plains of Nebraska. At one point, we saw a cop standing in the middle of route 80 watching a young Black man change a tire, making sure he didn’t get clipped by the onrushing traffic. This is the sort of interaction with police that we all wish for, but don’t all experience.

We found ourselves back in interstate country for the first time in a while. The plains extended around us, but we had the sense in both Colorado and Nebraska that there were people nearby. They didn’t feel as empty as the plains of North Dakota and Montana.

Consulting the map upon arrival at our chosen overnight stop, Oglalla, Nebraska, I confirmed we were near the southeastern end of the Sand Hills, of Sand Hill Crane fame and name. Once we had checked into the Americinn (which has become a favorite motel chain, and surely is pronounced American, not Ameri sin), I went to check out Route 30, the Lincoln Highway, for a possible bike ride.

I found a two-lane road, broad shouldered as a Nebraska farm girl, lined with historical markers and tall yellow flowers on scraggly stalks, not quite black-eyed Susans. Having spent much time over the past seven years seeking out and exploring our nation’s historic roadways, such as the American Road in Ohio and Route 66 in Oklahoma, and, recently, the Oregon Trail ruts in Wyoming, I knew Route 30 was for me.

But…

It had a rumble strip and a 65 mph speed limit. The Nebraska contact for info on the Lincoln Highway emailed me to say that they do not encourage cycling on the Lincoln Highway, since it has a rumble strip, and a 65 mph speed limit…

I was determined to try.

August 31, 2021:Cycling 26.4 miles

On a Tuesday, I woke early to tackle thirty miles of Route 30, the Old Lincoln Highway, the first road across the U.S. This path, or trace, was used before its official founding by the Pony Express, The Oregon Trail, the Mormon Trail, and the transcontinental railroad. Vestiges of its past remain.

Freight trains run regularly along its length and keep cyclists company. It parallels Route 80, and yes, it does boast a 65 mph speed limit, which might have intimidated me, but since there were no cars, the speed limit didn’t matter. The road is aptly named First Street for a goodly portion of its length. It was truly the first street!

Native Americans tried several times to hold their ground in this vicinity but were lied to and pushed around and pushed back and corralled onto reservations. We all know the story, but it bears repeating. Always.

The weather was coastal, foggy and cool, with a strong wind out of the east, occasioned by the tailings of Hurricane Ida. I got off to a good start on First Street, rolling along just outside of the rumble strip, cooled by the fog, enjoying the experience of tracing history backwards.

By the time Kip caught up with me sometime after the twenty-mile point at Paxton, we agreed on Sutherland as an end point, at mile 32. A little while later, I saw a sign that said Route 30 rather than the usual Alternate Route 80 East signs. I slowed to think about taking a photo but decided against it.

I stood on the pedals to get my momentum back, and the rear tire slipped out from under me. I thought, “oh, was that gravel, or maybe I should shift my weight back, or… maybe I have a flat…” Sure nuff. I found a tiny, and by tiny, I mean TINY, thorn in my tire. Miniscule, yet mighty. I had read of the legendary thorns of Nebraska in some biking blogs: I had hoped to avoid making their acquaintance.

For many miles, I had been keeping my rhythm singing, “Gonna take my horse to the old town road, gonna ride til I can’t no more.” I thought that would be when I tired, not when my horse quit on me.

Later, curled up with my map and my thoughts, I realized that the flat occurred in the exact location where the time zone changed from Mountain to Central. I was on the oldest of old town roads, traveling forwards at the speed of time, losing an hour, and Bam! my ride was over. It felt otherworldly, like an episode of The Twilight Zone. Don’t say it: I know I am dating myself, here.

We loaded up the bike, Nebraska challenge in the bag. Then, we drove on and on, stopping in Omaha to walk the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge, locally known as Bob. Having gained the other side, we were in Council Bluffs, Iowa.

The wide Missouri rolled by. And we rolled on, all the way to Stuart, somewhere west of Des Moines. We settled into an Americinn which had the exact same floorplan as the one we had stayed in in North Dakota. This time, we had the room that GNB had had before, occasioning weird feelings of deja vu and disconnect.

So that was Nebraska. We came, we found a special stretch of road, and I rode it, with pleasure, into the wind. But I couldn’t escape the sense that easterly was an evil omen, and strange forces were afoot (obviously!). We began to feel the magnetic pull of home.

Morning dawned. It was another day. It may have been Wednesday. We planned to drive the remaining width of Iowa and stop in Davenport and ride the bikes along the other big river, the Mississippi, for a spell. We were 1,123 miles from home, over 17 hours driving time. Three driving days, I reckoned, since I was a’ reckoning.

I had been in Iowa back in 2020 for the Democratic Caucus, and snow had covered much of the terrain. Now that I wasn’t doing all the driving, I was free to notice that it was way hillier than the other states of the Great Plains, and far more treed. It was the first place I saw more than a smattering of windmills. They were everywhere in western Iowa, and they looked like dancers or gymnasts in the golden hour, pirouetting above the corn.

We drifted into Davenport midday. This is where I had met Transportation Secretary Pete Buttegieg and saw the first of many bald eagles on that trip. We took a break from driving, unloaded the bikes, and pedaled the short distance to Credit Island, mid Mississippi, which was featured in a War of 1812 battle and was a place for trading with Native Americans, hence the name. The park was a bit downtrodden and there was some flooding, but the birds loved it, and we had a pleasant break from our long haul. After, we drove on into Illinois. Traffic was bad outside Chicago. No surprise there. Then came Indiana, which featured lots of trees right up against the highway. We made it past Gary and stopped someplace, checking into a Wyndham Group hotel.

Kip didn’t want dinner, so I bought a Pepsi out of the vending machine and mixed it with Jameson’s for dinner. This seemed an opportune time for some high jinks, so Kip created this stunning photo montage. We thought we were hilarious.

We were punchy, but the world’s problems and issues hadn’t been on vacation. Flags were flying at half-staff; the war in Afghanistan was over. The fires in California were forcing evacuation of South Lake Tahoe. Texas had vigilantes who will be paid $10,000 to hunt down any doctors who perform abortions past six weeks of gestation. And the remnants of Hurricane Ida, which had turned the winds around back in Nebraska, were bringing massive flooding to New York and New Jersey. A quick check online revealed that a friend from Somerville had lost his home when the house next door flooded, then blew up. Tragic, sobering, and super motivating- we needed to get home.

So we did. Three days’ drive, I had reckoned, condensed into two. We listened to Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska in Indiana, or maybe Ohio. We listened to Janis Joplin and Rod Stewart in Pennsylvania, and Born in the USA on repeat. It still resonates 37 years later.

We rolled in the drive just past dark on some day of the week on September 2 to find the house stuffy and the fridge making an ungodly racket. But the basement was not too wet. We were, we ARE lucky, in oh so many ways.

7,159 miles. Five states captured for 50 in the Fifties. Two remain.

Six national parks. 27 days. 14 states. One Subaru. When I got it to the car wash the next day, I told the owner that she had driven cross country. He said, “Looks like she drove cross country three times.”

Must have been the grasshoppers in the grille.

So that was Summer 2021. We made it. I owe thanks to Kip, Graham, Betsy, Laura, Joe, and the Subaru. What an epic ride!

Come January, I put in a call to Dr. Fauci. He said that since I lost ten months of 2020 and seven months of 2021 to covid 19, then the Delta variant, I am allowed to take a mulligan into 2022. He agreed with me that to push it now, with the Omicron variant surging, I would be doing the nation a disservice. I also want to make sure these last two states are special. I don’t want 50 in the Fifties to end with a whimper, my tail between my legs. I want to take the time to learn about Wisconsin and Idaho, to learn about myself, and to savor the sense of accomplishment I will doubtless feel upon completion.

As of this writing, January 2022, I’m starting to make my plans.

Saturday dawned foggy, suboptimal. But it rapidly improved, and for once, everyone was ready; we set off for Grand Teton National Park around 7:30, planning to hike and bike and capture the great State of Wyoming.

The parking area at our chosen hike was already full, but not to be dissuaded, we parked on the shoulder and set off for Taggert Lake. Graham and I separated from Betsy and Kip along the way and added an extra mile onto our effort. We all glimpsed a fox at the end of the trail.

We prepped for the ride. Kip announced that it was going to start raining in twenty minutes. Sometimes, having instantaneous weather info is disheartening. Luckily, sometimes it is also wrong. Graham and I mounted our metal steeds and rode 34 dry miles on the bike trail system, from Taggert Lake to the town of Wilson and beyond, through neighborhoods, keeping an eye on the sky, but riding in partial sunshine, perfect temps, into the wind and trading off the lead.

We stopped for a quick snack at a school parking lot and took another look at the peaks and the sky, and we hot-footed it for home. We only got a little bit wet… An excellent hike and ride and a great day for 50 in the Fifties. Wyoming solidly in the books!

State 46, Wyoming 46 miles cycling, 4-mile hike at Taggert Lake, Grand Teton National Park

Tomorrow we drive again…destination: Rapid City, South Dakota.

It was often difficult to remember where we were on a given morning, where we had been, and where we were heading. Every once in a while, I would review in my journal:

States Captured: North Dakota, Montana, Wyoming

States Missed: Wisconsin (rain), Idaho (fire)

States to try for: South Dakota, Nebraska

Hail was expected overnight and 40-50 mph winds…

We met up with Sunday as she arrived, and we drove and drove and DROVE. Up and over the Continental Divide again, temps at 37 degrees. Fresh snows on the tops of the Tetons and wet roads through the pass. Descending, we passed through Dubois, which we had not seen since 1988 when we were on a ranch vacation as newlyweds. There were red rock cliffs, and the Dubois River was running red with mud.

We stopped for gas in a town called Midwest, which is as puzzling as Jersey Shore, Pennsylvania.

Kip took the wheel for a couple of hours and was fine as we traversed the northwest corner of the Black Hills National Forest. We stopped briefly to gaze at the Devil’s Tower National Monument. Smoke still hung in the air…

We were over 4,000 miles into the trip, no beginners, us. Our place in Rapid City was lovely, with a garden and a large outdoor seating area. We looked forward to using it as a base for three nights as we explored Badlands National Park and the many wonders of this area. We saw almost no motorcycles. We had successfully avoided Sturgis!

Ahh, but…

Monday came. I woke up at 4:20 because I was not at all happy with the plan. We had too much on our plates for this day: a drive to Badlands National Park and a hike and a very tough ride on the tour road. But with everyone having just arrived in Rapid City, we did not get off to the super early start which would have made this possible. We did get out at 8:30, but by that time, the temperature, which had been a cool desert 55 degrees at sunup, was starting to climb…

We drove for ninety minutes, dropped off our support Subaru, and KNK climbed into the minivan with GNB. Twenty-four scenic miles later, at the foot of a badland, stopped by a traffic flag for 15 minutes, Graham said, “Uh oh…”

We were running out of gas. Let me repeat that- running out of GAS. In Badlands National Park. To me, this was quintessentially BAD. I wanted to turn around immediately and go back to the gas station which the flag man said was two miles away, by the visitor center. Nonetheless, we stayed in line and eventually summited the badland, on a road so steep that I thought we might run out of gas simply because the car was on such a drastic incline. Against all odds (in my anxious mind), we made it to the hike parking lot, and we walked among the Badlands and picked our way over small crevasses and stayed safely back from the edge of supremely harsh drop offs.

And the sun beat down on all of us, and this bighorn sheep. He, and we, sought shade in vain.

Upon our return to the car, we rode on fumes down to the gas station. I noted the thermometer read 95 degrees. It was high noon.

Graham and I prepped the bikes and ate what I was thinking might be our last meal of peanut butter sandwiches and Gatorade. The desert winds were building out of the west, gusting around 30 miles per hour, filling the space as the heat rose to the sky. As we set off to the WEST (of course), it was 100 degrees.

We were eager and felt strong at the start. I was leading on the flats, trying to keep the wind off Graham and his very heavy recumbent. We had about twenty two miles to go to get to the place where KNB had left the minivan and grabbed the previously-dropped off Subaru. Logistics, logistics, logistics…

We arrived at the base of the first hill. I was doing okay until about 100 yards from the top.

Graham said he knew when he passed me that I was in trouble. Remember, under normal circumstances, I climb faster than Graham does, with a lighter rig.

I had forgotten my meds for overactive bladder that morning, with predictable results, especially under such a physical and mental strain. Yet I continued to pull us along the flats for a time, until Graham mercifully switched out and took the lead. Unfortunately, that didn’t help, and I slowed, and s l o w e d. The wind was knocking me backward, and the heat enveloped me in a womb of misery. Every breath I took dried my teeth and nasal passages with the effect of opening an oven door on Thanksgiving Day. I was in the place where altitude puts Kip, incapable of happiness. I pulled into the next pull-out, and there, overlooking the brutal badlands of South Dakota, I pulled out.

Graham locked my bike while I sat, miserable, on the curb. He asked a family of three in a large SUV if they could spare some cold water for me. My own was hot to the lip. And in an act that demonstrates the kindness of strangers, our new acquaintances held a family meeting and decided that they would take a detour from their own plans and drive me to the rendezvous with the minivan some 10 miles up the road. They said they just could not leave me there.

As soon as I sat in their back seat, I recovered completely. I wasn’t sick, I was just Done. Or more accurately, Cooked. We chatted about their hometown, Pittsburgh, and about the golden rule. And as we climbed the last hill in air-conditioned comfort, I knew I had made the right decision. It was now 105 degrees. And the hill was one that would have been a major challenge at 60 degrees. There was no way I would have made it. I could done myself permanent harm. I feared for Graham, who was cycling on…

I owe an unpayable debt to that family from Steeltown.

So I retrieved the car and drove back to Graham as fast as safety would permit. I saw him fighting the wind under the blazing sun and directed him into the next pullout so I could turn the car and meet him there. When I arrived, I found him standing in the scant shade of the only tree in the entire park.

We loaded his bike, and then I drove back to get my bike while Graham worked on his own recovery. We headed out of the park and to Wall, SD, home of the famous Wall Drug, but we didn’t fall into that tourist trap. We got sodas and agreed that we had made a good effort under impossible conditions. I felt deflated, but not defeated. On a different day, at a reasonable hour and temperature, I think I would have had a good chance. Someday, maybe, I will pass this way again. But Badlands went badly. Nuff said.

We had two more full days to explore the region, and there was plenty to do.

On a certain Tuesday, Kip and I ventured alone to the Crazy Horse Monument early in the day, arriving just as it opened to visitors. This monument was conceived by the Lakota (probably) and entrusted to a Polish sculptor. He devoted his life and the lives of his wife and ten (!) children to it. He was a brutal taskmaster. Once, his son fell with a bulldozer seventy feet. When he found him unharmed, he said, You got the dozer there; you get it out.”

During construction, one of the best decisions was his wife’s. She made the call that the work would commence with the man, not the horse. Otherwise, we would have nothing to look at except a horse for forty years.

For this truly monumental undertaking, they set themselves up for the long haul. They built a workshop and living space and filled it with European antiques and a Steinway baby grand. Their home is now part of the museum, and you can see it all right there, but you can’t tickle the ivories. I would have been tempted to play Dust in the Wind.

The other fascinating work was a gate hammered in iron and ( copper?) featuring intricate likenesses of Black Hills animals. It was completed in 1982 and must have been among his last works. No repeats. Every animal unique. I found it very special, especially since we had seen many of the animals on our trip.

Afterward, we went shopping for food for our farewell barbecue and for Kip’s foster family in Wounded Knee, deep in the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, southern South Dakota. This sojourn to meet the teenaged boy he is fostering from a distance is something Kip has been looking forward to for many months. We bought sweets and fresh veggies and fruits and dried meats for N and his grandmother, E.

The drive through the South Unit of Badlands National Park, mostly within Pine Ridge, subjected us to a stop by Native American Tribal officials to check our COVID status. They asked where we were going and our names. They said we needed to wear masks if we left the car. Local radio the whole way down was talking Covid, all accurate and detailed. Precise numbers of the vaccinated by vaccine and by sex. only 33 percent vaccinated… It was a stark reminder that we were entering another country, with its own laws and customs. I was reminded of my trip through an INS checkpoint between El Paso, Texas and Guadalupe Mountains National Park, though there was no sense of a veiled threat here. and the officials did not check our back seat and trunk for immigrants…

We stopped at the Wounded Knee Memorial site to find a confusing and informal sign and a man who swooped in like an eagle and sold us a dreamcatcher for an exorbitant price. It was a sad point in the trip, seeing that nothing of substance marks the place where so many people died.

Just up the road a piece, it was easy enough to find N’s house and yard. It was filled with Res dogs and two little girls, and a new swing set and a trampoline. Another little girl and a neighbor showed up to watch. The food was tramped into the house, and N asked if they could keep the coolers. They have so little…

E was very happy to get a large supply of Depends and even and especially the reusable shopping bags. The whole family was on hand to greet us, and it really felt good to get a chance to meet each other after solely phone conversations from the beginning of the relationship.

Life is rough. The kids are barefoot. A puppy named Lucky with his eyes barely open is pushed down slides and lands on skateboards. The young here have to grow up fast, and basic survival is an achievement. But N is attending high school and doing very well in class. He and Kip share an interest in strategy video games.

The trip was 3.5 hours, round-trip, and eye opening for us, if not for Lucky.

Back at the house, after GNB returned from their day at Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse, our final dinner as a foursome was a resounding success. The time for us to part ways and head in separate directions was upon us. Destination GNB: Green Bay, Wisconsin. Destination KNK: Crested Butte, Colorado.

Epic trip. Excellent friends. Enormous country. And it was far from over!

Early on a Wednesday, KNK set off for Colorado to visit Laura and Joe in their native surrounds. Along the way, I hoped to add a bit more challenge to my 50 in the Fifties list for South Dakota, so we planned a stop at Wind Cave National Park for some hiking and a cave tour.

As luck would have it, this particular Wednesday was the 105th anniversary of the founding of the National Park Service. Cave tours were FREE! Kip and I set off on a one mile hike highlighting some of the above ground beauty of the park. Most folks see the cave interior only, so the trails are lightly traveled and lovely.

We saw the sacred Natural Entrance to the cave, which is about 12-15 inches in diameter.

Underneath it all, the most complex cave system in the world. It is still under active exploration. Our female ranger was a caver in her younger days, so she was the ideal guide for the trip. She explained the intricacies of boxwork, lace, and popcorn. It almost sounds as if she were opening a UPS package from Harry and David, but she was describing cave formations. There was one little boy who was very curious and active, monopolizing the tour and completely uncontrolled by his parents. We figured they were really eager for the school year to start.

Afterward, we drove the prairies of Wyoming into Cheyenne, singing “Goodbye, Old Paint.” Or at least I was singing. Kip was enduring, like that little boy’s parents. We were hot on the trail… the Oregon Trail! We found the ruts to prove it, in little known Guernsey, Wyoming:

We are travelers taking our place in a long tradition, laying our tire tracks near those of our forefather- and mothers, who I noted were never mentioned on the sign… : homesteaders under the Homestead Act, Mormons seeking salvation, ordinary people risking it all in hopes of striking it rich, and, later, cattle barons and railroad tycoons. All of us occupying and claiming for our own purposes land that had been cherished for generations by its original inhabitants.

Guernsey was, somehow, both on and off the beaten track, and proved one of the most thought-provoking spots on the trip for me.

Our Air BNB was a 1920s era house that was only marginally clean and had spoiled milk in the fridge. But it also had fresh almond milk and a quiet neighborhood, and a bike brigade went by just as we arrived. I would have like to join, but my bike was locked up.

So there you have it. We came to South Dakota, we saw it, and we tried to conquer it. With Betsy, Kip, and Graham’s support, I took on the challenge of riding the tour road in Badlands National Park. I only covered 12 miles, but they were the toughest twelve I ever rode. I hiked an extra coupla miles. I spent time on a Reservation and met some new friends there. I didn’t accomplish all I had hoped for, but I did everything I could.

South Dakota puts me in mind of Vermont as far as 50 in the Fifties is concerned. Short, but incredibly hard.

STATE 47: South Dakota- Badlands National Park: 12 miles cycling, 1-mile hike; Wind Cave National Park, 2-mile hike

(Apologies to Horace Greeley)

Part One…

States 44, 45, 46, 47 and 48:

North Dakota: Theodore Roosevelt National Park ( Land of many cultures and tribes, but primarily the Mandan and Hidatsa): Cycling 34 miles, hiking 5.4 miles

Montana: Glacier National Park (Blackfeet, Salish, Pend d’Oreille and Kootenai tribes): Cycling the Going to the Sun Road, 34 miles, Hiking the John Lake Loop, 2 miles, Avalanche Lake, 4 miles, Running Eagle Falls, 2 miles

Wyoming: Yellowstone National Park (A battleground for the Crows, the Blackfeet, the Bannocks, and the Shoshones): various short hikes, and 5 mile loop at Beaver Ponds; Grand Teton National Park (Shoshone, Bannock, Blackfoot, Crow, Flathead, Gros Ventre, and Nez Perce): Cycling 12.6 miles on the bike trail solo, 33.5 miles with Graham, hiking 4 miles

South Dakota: Badlands National Park (Mammoth hunters were here early, then nomadic tribes of bison hunters, the last of whom were the Lakota, who still reside here): Cycling 12 miles on the Park Loop in extremely challenging conditions, Hiking 1 mile; Wind Cave National Park: Hiking 2 miles

Nebraska: The Lincoln Highway: Cycling 26.4 miles

Plus various hikes and cycling adventures in Crested Butte, Colorado and vicinity

PLUS, we drove. And Drove. and DROVE. Total miles: 7,159: In an enclosed space. With our respective spouses. And no one got divorced. And no one got strangled. Kip passed out a couple times, but I swear, I didn’t do it!

Many adventures awaited us as we loaded up the Subaru on August 7, 2020. Oh wait, 2021. Lost a year in there somehow.

I packed light, but I did bring two bicycles. Ostensibly, one was for Kip, but it was also my reserve ride. Kip brought an entire duffel filled with shoes. Graham and Betsy packed their minivan with pretty much everything they owned. I was super grateful that Graham brought a bike rack that could accommodate his recumbent ride and my road bike.

We departed in tenuous times: our route led directly to the raging wildfires in Idaho and Montana, and Covid was stalking the unvaccinated and spreading rapidly in all the states we planned to visit beyond Minnesota. But we four agreed that times are always tenuous, in one way or another. We had reserves of pent-up energy from our sixteen months at home, and having been vaccinated, we believed that if we didn’t fly and we remained vigilant, we could mimimize the risk. Additionally, driving opened up the possibility of visiting family and friends along the way, which proved to be a joy. Some trips just have to be taken at ground level.

Day One, we drove to Chagrin Falls, Ohio to have dinner with three friends from Kip, Graham, and Betsy’s days at Kenyon College a decade ago… just kidding! Their graduation day is now forty (40!) years in the rearview mirror. Along the way, Kip’s aging Iphone earned a name- Fred, short for Fred Noonan, hapless navigator for Amelia Earhart. We learned early not to rely on Fred for anything. That would have been a good decision for Amelia, but too late to change that, now.

With the help of my Android, we arrived in town to find that our hotel room had been canceled. Not only that, we learned that it was a major holiday in Chagrin Falls: Twins Day. On this auspicious day, annually, twins descend on Chagrin Falls from all over the world to be in the company of other twins. Through the kindness of Townplace Suites’ manager, Dolly, Kip and I were able to get a room (a really big expensive room with a separate room for our bikes), and she took pity on us and gave us a $100 discount. Graham and Betsy (GNB) just stayed with our friends. Crisis averted. Dinner enjoyed by all.

Day Two we headed towards Madison, Wisconsin, where we didn’t know anybody but we thought eight hours of driving would be enough for one day. We were wrong. Before we left Cleveland, I took Kip to a park so he could catch his first glimpse of a Great lake, specifically, Erie. He was suitably impressed, or at least he was happy to take an extra bathroom break, as was I. Then we hit the road with aplomb. There were numerous signs in the area asking us to be prepared to stop. We were. We did.

Ninety minute dead stop on Interstate… yup, 90. Kids were getting out of their parents’ cars and running on the roadbed across the barriers. Next, we had to get through the Windy City. I don’t know how windy it was this day but there sure were a lot of cars. It was a slog to log the miles.

So we didn’t get to the Madison area until 7:30 pm, and that left no time for a bike or a hike or even a run. We set our sights on the following day to try to wrangle Wisconsin for 50 in the Fifties. We grabbed burgers at a brewpub next to the Americinn in Menona, Wisconsin. My burger was topped with peanut butter, which proved surprisingly tasty, but just maybe I should not have chosen a burger called the Edmund Fitzgerald. That was a hard luck ship, probably would have made Whitefish Bay if she’d put fifteen more miles behind her…

Predictably, by seven the net morning, the rain was sheeting down. Just loading the bikes back onto their racks left us drenched. I do not ride in downpours.

We proceeded to Plan B. It was a great day for a visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s home, Taliesen. It was either that, or the National Mustard Museum.

We took a two-hour tour of the house, studio, and grounds, which was fascinating, even macabre. Almost all the furnishings are original. There are two women in their late nineties still living there who were among the apprentices working under FLW in their youth. One was FLW’s personal secretary. You can feel their presence behind the red walls. What stories they could tell… But by far the spookiest story is not theirs, but Frank’s.

FLW was a philandering egotist who had a wife and six children when he up and left them for a mistress and spent some years in Paris. When he returned, he settled into Taliesen with the new wife. A few years later, when FLW was out of town, the butler opened a gas can and poured gasoline all around the house, locked all the doors and windows except one, then set fire to the house. He then stood under the single open window and hacked everyone to death as they emerged, including FLW’s wife, a child or two, and the whole staff.

It is difficult to segue from this tale, and it was tough for FLW to quiet his demons, but he did marry again and spent the rest of his life rebuilding and improving Taliesen to please this third spouse.

The tour ended and the rain abated, but we had a five hour drive ahead of us to Minneapolis, where we were all going to reunite with family we haven’t seen in ages. So when it comes to 50 in the Fifties, Wisconsin edition, it’s back to the drawing board.

Though Betsy tried to convince me to count a museum tour and a scenic drive through farmland as a noteworthy challenge, I reminded her that just visiting a state doesn’t qualify. Yes, my back and feet hurt, but not enough.

We piled into the cars and struck out across the remainder of Wisconsin. Next stop, just over the Mississippi River in Minneapolis, Minnesota, leaving Madison and Minona in our rear-view mirror and Medora, North Dakota and Missoula, Montana beckoning in the distance. Hmm, that’s a lot of Mms.

The drive was scenic and farmy. There are retention ponds huddled right up against the highway. and they draw waterfowl. We saw two pairs of sandhill cranes. We stopped in Reedsburg, Wisconsin at a bar called Beast and Barley and treated ourselves to scrumptious vegan barley burgers and mulligatawny soup. And in the late afternoon, we rolled into the driveway of Rhys and Li-Hua MacPherson. I have family in Minneapolis!

We spent the remains of the day and the evening with my Aunt Pat and my second cousins, Rhys and Kyle, and their beautiful families. I haven’t seen these three in decades, and I had never met their spouses and children, until now.

We had dinner and drinks right along the Mississippi, and then took a brief tour of just a couple of the buildings that Rhys has worked on in his long career in architecture here. He shares my interest in adaptive reuse, most notably this residential and retail adaptation of the ruins of a flour mill:

I come from a small family. My mom is an only child, and my dad had one brother. I have but two first cousins, plus Rhys and Kyle. We were close as young children, but Aunt Pat and Uncle Bruce moved away to Oklahoma and then to Indonesia. We didn’t see each other, and we drifted apart. Now we are reunited through this brief visit and have pledged to stay in touch.

I would love to experience more of Minneapolis. It is renowned for its walkability and a bike-friendly culture. We caught just a glimpse of it in our evening stroll. Everyone was out walking, rollerblading, cycling, and there were street performers and families out to enjoy the sunset over the river.

We parted with fist bumps and smiles, Kip and I and GNB ready to cross the whole of Minnesota and North Dakota on the morrow.

It was nine hours of driving time, but we got an early start, and after fighting construction traffic in Minneapolis, the driving flowed. At the instant we crossed the Red River of the North into Fargo, North Dakota, the plains began.

For a long way, it’s flat: hay, corn, soybeans, and even a few sunflower fields. Wind, wind, WIND. Enormous trucks carrying unfathomably large loads of roller bales take up all the pavement at 75 miles per hour. At one point, I exited the highway in a futile search for gas, and when I climbed the entrance ramp, I nearly collided with one. Note to those who may follow in my tire tracks- there are many exits which have no services. Most are marked as such, but word to the wise; you could run out of gas here, even though you are in the bakken oil fields. After this day, I never let my tank get below half full.

Just as you think you will never see a hill again, North Dakota’s badlands begin to rear up out of the plains, and you trace the Little Missouri River which formed them into Medora, North Dakota, base camp for Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Kip and I checked into the hotel and hot footed it over to the Visitors’ Center. We learned that the full loop road cannot be completed because it washed out in 2019, but we were free to drive to the turnaround point. We headed for an area called Peaceful Valley. Along the way, we saw our first prairie dog colony and a bison in a wallow, sending up a cloud of dust. Just after we parked the car, two bison sauntered across the parking lot twenty feet from us. We held our ground and waited until they got well past.

We were so happy to be out of the car and on a hike at this amazing and undervisited national park. A ranger told us that they were having a busy year, but that the parking lots are never full. That was our experience as well. We saw four other hikers that first day on the CCC trail.

A little later, GNB rolled in, and we met for cheese and cocktails in their balcony room overlooking the bison, antelope, and wolf trophies that festooned the lobby of the Americinn, Medora. We definitely were in Teddy Roosevelt country.

Graham and I planned to ride out at 7 the next morning to capture North Dakota for 50 in the Fifties, and to see what we could see.

STATE 44: North Dakota, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, sunrise ride, 34 miles, hiking, 5.4 miles

Graham and I were among the first folks to enter the park the morning of August 11, 2021. It was so early that the rangers had not yet manned the gate. Our ride began with a steady but manageable climb to a badlands ridge. We were right together, but as I started to huff n puff, I noticed Graham was gone. I turned round and saw him stopped hard by the side of the road. He was fumbling for his phone and casually stated, “I think it’s an eagle.”

He was right. An adult bald eagle perched on a prominent rock outcropping at the beginning of the climb. We weren’t able to get a photo, but we did get to witness it spread its wings and lift its talons, riding the first updraft of the day as the sun peeked past the distant ridge.

We felt like the eagle was welcoming us to the first national park of our trip.

Pedaling on, we came upon a the large prairie dog colony that Kip and I had noted the day before. In the cool of the dawn, the dogs were much more active, burrowing, tussling, and squeaking their warning cries. Graham said, “Hold on!” I like to read the informational signage.”

“I do, too, but look, so do the bison!”

There was a herd of bison standing atop the prairie dog colony, and one was just ten feet from the sign. Though they look placid, and lumber around like cows, they are “udderly” wild and unpredictable. We cycled on, leaving the sign for later in the day, when we would have vehicle support.

Miles down the road, we got our chance to dismount and spend time with the residents of another colony, this one sans bison. We watched them take turns standing guard.

Next up, a big UP. A major climb, and it turned out to be one of my favorite moments in the whole trip. Graham and I had the park to ourselves, and the only sounds I heard as we cranked the pedals were the whoosh of our bike tires and the yipping of the prairie dogs.

As we finished the descent from the heights and rounded a curve, we found ourselves 25 to 30 yards from a big herd of bison working on crossing the road. There was an enormous bull who was grunting, as were others. It was obvious that they were upset by us bipeds astride our strange contraptions. We stood frozen, waiting perhaps twenty minutes for them all to get across.

The big bull kept his eye on us the entire time. At one point, we saw him swing his head in exasperation, exclaiming to a female with grunts and body language, “Hey, you! Ugh! Get across right now!” A second big bull was fifty yards back, and he obviously had to keep his distance. He was hoping for a chance to steal one of the cows.

Once the lead bull was solidly across the road, we edged quickly past, pretending to be cars. Bison pay no mind to cars. Several more lovely miles up the road, we turned around and headed back to Kip and Betsy, who were waiting for us to collect them to explore the park together. When we got back to the area where we had seen the herd, we found they were still hanging around, and we cycled by at speed quite close to some calves and females. What a wild ride! It turned out to be 34 miles, give or take, with several significant hills.

Next we four drove into the park, and Graham got to read all the signs he had missed, and we all hiked, clocking about 3.4 miles total. The prairie dogs were resting, escaping the midday sun, proving me right in my endless refrain that dawn assaults are worth the loss of sleep. At 12:30 pm, the only genus of wildlife we saw up close were grasshoppers. They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, but come they do. With every step we took, hundreds would jump and fly off from the path, the sage, and the mesquite. It was very hot, powderkeg dry, and buzzy with the wings of locusts.

After a lovely explore afoot, we were all hungry, and we headed back to Medora to eat at Boots n Brew, feasting on creamy jalapeno mac n cheese. Later on, we returned to the park for some stargazing. The Perseid meteor shower was in town for its annual show. On the morrow, we faced a long drive to Glacier National Park.

I wish we had more time to explore Teddy Roosevelt, and really, all the parks on our itinerary. I feel like we are getting a graduate degree in driving, and only taking a brief survey course on the western Parks. Still, I wouldn’t delete this course from my schedule for all the oil in the Bakken deposit. And even the driving is interesting, often challenging, especially when you are on a shoulderless two lane road with a 75 mph speed limit, buffeted by cross winds and shared with the occasional massive RV. One note, however: out here, people do not speed.

If you are looking for some reading to give you a deeper sense of North Dakota, I recommend The Language of Cottonwoods: Essays on the Future of North Dakota, by Clay Jenkinson. I usually like to read about every state I visit. So far, I have only managed one book for this trip, but it is recently published and a worthwhile read.

August 12, Driving Montana

After a long but pleasant day of rock n roll and country music on the radio, we started to climb into the foothills of the Rockies and drove along swiftly flowing streams down deep crevasses. Eager to begin our explorations, Kip and I ignored the pleas of the GPS and headed for East, rather than West, Glacier. We hiked the short but sweet Running Eagle Falls Trail and met a local: Two Guns White Calf, and his family.

Further research taught us that Two Guns White Calf (1872-1934) was a Chief of the Piegan Blackfeet in Montana. He became famous for his work promoting the Glacier National Park for the Great Northern Railway. He claimed to be the model for the profile on the Indian head nickel, but this is disputed. In any case, how wonderful to meet a namesake, possible descendant, on our first Glacier trail.

After our short hike, we continued on to West Glacier and then Coram, where we had rented a two bedroom cabin with a grill and a deck and incredibly loud and unbelievably close freight trains, doubtless running on the Great Northern Railway tracks. We were treated to sunset and moonrise.

STATE 45: Montana, August 13-14, Glacier National Park, hiking the John Lake Loop and Avalanche Lake trails, totaling six miles, and cycling the Going-to-the-Sun-Road, 33 miles, 3,400 feet of climbing

Our group had widely divergent morning routines and desired paces, but on the first full day at Glacier, we managed to get out the door somewhere in the vicinity of 9 am and proceed into the park without much difficulty. Parking was already getting tight, but we squeezed into a spot at the John Lake trail, and we meandered through silent, stately woods to a small lake.

Halfway through the hike, we crossed the main park road, and there was a cataract (the good kind) and a bridge over a glacial stream. This part of the hike was very crowded, as folks are drawn to water like children to an ice cream truck. A mule deer was just a few feet from us, browsing unconcernedly.

We tried to have lunch at the Lake McDonald Lodge, but after the line to get in didn’t budge an inch for twenty minutes, we went to a tiny store nearby, and Kip got chicken salad sandwiches he was inordinately excited about. They turned out to be inedible. Each weighed a ton.

Betsy was cooked, done, finished for the day, and she and Graham headed for home. I wanted to hike more. Kip wanted to go home, but he didn’t want to leave me to hike alone in bear country. I was pretty sure the trail would be crowded enough for safety, but he insisted, so we set off for Avalanche Lake.

After a two-mile climb, we made it. But Kip was silent the entire hike, refused to drink or shed a layer, had no opinion on the pace. He was the definition of apathy. When exercise induced asthma collides with altitude, well, it’s suboptimal. Time for another call to the doctor. We were going to need more medication. And, predictably, Kip passed out once we reached the car.

It’s important to learn from experience, so while Kip slept in the car, I bought sandwiches for the next day’s lunch. No more interminable lunch lines for us. That night, Betsy treated us all to a spaghetti dinner, and Graham and I prepped and packed for the big challenge on the morrow, our attempt to cycle the Going-to-the-Sun-Road.

The Sun Road is the only road that traverses the park. crossing the Continental Divide through Logan Pass at an elevation of 6,646 feet. Construction began in 1921 and was completed in 1932, during the depths of the Depression. It is an Historic Civil Engineering Landmark, among other accolades. And it is a bucket list challenge for cyclists everywhere. Notably, it was constructed with both bicycles and cars in mind, and the grade, while constant, is manageable on two human-powered wheels.

Our plan was to leave the house on a certain Saturday at 6:15. We made it by about 7:00. Kip drove to the start point, and once we had unloaded our bikes, slathered on sunscreen, and set our clothing layers for the start, we were off : 7:35 am. The morning dawned cool, and there was blessedly little traffic. Graham and I stopped early on to snap photos of a distant glacier; with global warming and a record heat summer, we weren’t sure we would see any more.

Graham’s bike is heavy, and he proceeds more slowly on climbs than I do, so he waved me on ahead, saying, “Go have your ride. I will see you at the summit.” We separated, and I just kept rolling along, climbing but not pushing the pace, comfortably in my zone, enjoying the views. Compared to photos we have all seen of Glacier National Park, it was impossible not to notice the smoke which occluded the distant scenery. Fires were raging elsewhere in Montana, in Wyoming, and in California. But this was the day we were granted, and it was there to be enjoyed.

At one scenic pullout, I met a guy named Dan, fully loaded on a touring bike. He was wending his way from the Portland, Oregon to Acadia National Park, on a route called the Northern Tier, solo, and self-supported. He was raising money for Homeless Solutions. Before I continued on, I told him if he happened to see a guy on a recumbent bike with a rainbow flag, he should stay away, or he would never make it to the east coast. Graham shares Dan’s passion for helping the homeless, working with Habitat for Humanity on builds worldwide. Those two would never stop talking if they started.

When I negotiated the final switchback and reached the sign marking the summit of Logan Pass, I shed a few tears of joy and gratitude. Of all the plans for this journey, cycling the Sun Road was the challenge I looked forward to the most.

Graham did eventually catch up to Dan, but he couldn’t stay with him, because… turns out Graham has an overwhelming fear of heights. While I was relishing my ride, he was terrified and doing his best to hold it together for most of the fifteen mile climb to the summit. Conquering his fear was much more of a challenge than turning the pedals against gravity.

We were relieved (Graham), and elated (me) to have gained the summit, but we were only half done. The descent loomed. We rode together, hugging the center line, down to St. Mary’s Lake., a huge body of water. This area had recently burned, and we were reminded at every pedal stroke of the wildfires that were raging not too far away.

Then, just a mile from the St. Mary’s entrance to the park and the end of our ride, GNB’s minivan loomed in our rearview mirrors. Kip and Betsy had arrived with perfect timing! After a wash up and a change of clothes, we wandered down to St. Mary’s town in search of a shady place to enjoy our picnic. We found the Park Cafe and treated ourselves to huckleberry milkshakes and huckleberry pie to top off the sandwiches we had brought along. Heavenly. So good, in fact, that we bought a pie to take home. For $45. Yup, you read that right, a forty-five dollar pie.

Kip had succeeded in driving over the pass at 6,600 feet, but white-knuckled Graham took the wheel for the drive back, and good thing… Kip passed out in the backseat, a victim of altitude and lunch. We returned to Coram via the Sun Road, which is by far the shortest route, and the most scenic. Up, up, up, then down the other side. At about 3500 feet, Kip yelled out in a childlike voice, almost as if he had inhaled helium from a balloon, “Kip! Kip’s back!” And indeed, he was.

We would be at altitude for the next several days and thousands of miles. Kip would not be driving any of them. Montana captured, we were headed to MIssoula, the projected start point for our foray into Idaho, once again over the Continental Divide, to the lovely Lochsa Lodge for the night. After one more night in Coram, we waved goodbye to Glacier National Park. Hope to return one day for some back country hiking.

A Sunday dawned, pure and clear. As we packed up our stuff to head for Missoula, Graham and I made the wrenching but obviously correct decision to abandon our plan to cycle to the Lochsa Lodge. Route 12, the only road in or out, was still open, but the fire was within a mile of the pass. Drivers were being instructed not to stop their cars along the route. If cars can’t safely stop, we shouldn’t be out there without a car, breathing the smoke. Hiking out of Lochsa would be out of the question, and at any moment, the road could close, and we would be hard pressed to continue our itinerary. We stayed with our plan to stop in Missoula, but we secured another night near the North Entrance of Yellowstone, in lieu of crossing over into Idaho. We would try for Idaho further south, near Grand Teton National Park. There’s no shortage of routes over the Continental Divide. And we now could plan to enjoy Yellowstone for an extra day.

The drive was on smoky back roads, partially through the Flathead Indian Reservation. Flathead Lake is enormous, but the water and the sky were both white, due to the smoke, so we couldn’t revel in any views. The highlight of the drive was the intersection of two major roads. There was a small pond to our left, and in it, a small flock of trumpeter swans! A life bird for me.

Our house in Missoula was in a double wide trailer, quiet neighborhood. There was little going on in town on a Sunday, but we found a place to sit outdoors and eat middling fish tacos and mushy tater tots. Kip was able to pick up a scrip and to text with his physician, getting new instructions for his asthma meds. I bought lip balm. The sun and the altitude had opened my lower lip. Took weeks to close it. We met up with the Robbs, caught dinner at a brewpub, and retired to our digs. While my companions descended into a heavy conversation about Afghanistan, I curled up in bed with a book about Yellowstone. When Kip finally came to bed, he woke me up to shove me over onto the left side of the bed. I was groggy, but after a fashion, I woke up enough to remind him that he had told me to sleep on the right side hours before… we had a little stifled laugh over that.

Missoula could be called Give It A Miss Oula, though the historic schoolhouse across the street did put me in mind of both my own school, Harding Township School, and the elementary school in Topeka, Kansas which houses the Brown v Board of Education National Historic Site.

A Monday: Missoula, Montana, to Gardiner, Montana, and Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming

STATE 46, Wyoming: Two Hikes at Yellowstone National Park totaling 9 miles, 46 Miles of cycling at Grand Teton National Park, plus a 4 mile hike.

I drove and Kip took his meds as we made the four hour drive from red zone to orange zone for air quality. No visibility. Smoke omnipresent. Not too much remarkable about the trip, though I confess, it’s easier to remark upon the trip if I’m not driving, and that is simply not going to be happening anytime soon. We arrived at the Comfort Inn, Gardiner, MT an hour early for check in, so we decided to check out Yellowstone National Park, a 2.1 million acre wonderland. We drove in the North Entrance as far as Sheepeater Cliff and took a walkabout. I got a chance to wade in my Keens in the pleasantly cool water of the Gardiner River. We saw a few thermal features, including the top side of Mammoth Hot Springs. The road moved well, and the parking lots were not filled, despite so many warnings to the contrary as folks venture out from under Covid-19. Kip was back to his old self, decent energy and feeling fine. GNB arrived eventually, and we had dinner and a local beer at the hotel restaurant. Ready to explore on the morrow!

Betsy has zero interest in dawn assaults, so Kip and I hit the trail on our own on a Tuesday, driving right up to the Mammoth area and then hung a left to head out to Roosevelt at 7 am sharp. Our explorations began inauspiciously, with a coyote darting out almost under the wheels of the Subaru. Thank goodness I didn’t hit it.

Next, at about sunrise, an enormous bison passed us, walking in the opposing direction, right along the road., his head bobbing side to side, his body swaying along to the rhythm of his gait. Kip could have run his hand along the entire length of his spine as he walked by, but he didn’t, of course! We drove as far as the Roosevelt Hotel, which was a rustic, log cabin affair. It seemed closed. But horsepacking and day trips are running out of this location, and people were able to ride right up among the bison. So. Many. Bison.

and a good deal of birds, including one with a yellow chest on a reed, possibly a meadowlark but behaving like a red-winged blackbird. Ducks with white bills, just making little noises.

We went back to Mammoth and had zero problem parking at 9:30 or 10 am. We got our second cuppa in the Map Room of the Hot Springs Hotel, which was very Frank Lloyd Wright in style, and was built in the 1930s.

Three and a half hours after the day began for us, GNB were heading into the park. We met at Mammoth Hot Springs boardwalks and toured them together. As one might expect, they were mammoth.

I am not sure what GNB did after that, but I think they headed to the Roosevelt area for a hike. KNK got back in the Subaru with a cooler and peanut butter sandwiches and headed for the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone and points beyond.

After a picnic on the Virginia Cascade Road, we explored the canyon at two different vantage points. Yes, it was crowded, and the cars backed up for a brief second, but we found a spot, and there was no issue at all.

The only trouble we had with other park guests was watching some Yahoo lose patience with bison in the road and pull out in anger to pass in the oncoming lane. Just as he was about to pass the car in front of us at speed, a bison took one more step and was almost decapitated by the onrushing car. What an ass. We are the guests here; the bison call the park Home.

Next, we were heading towards Yellowstone Lake (This park is too huge to describe!), stopping at a turnout to check out some birds. They were ravens, favorites of Kip’s. They walked right up to me and we had a good conversation. They were checking out the grill work on cars. They have learned that grills are filled with “grilled” grasshoppers.

On the road ahead, we could see that bison were crossing, and the traffic was stopped, so at 3 p.m., we made a day of it, and turned around. Kip passed out, his blood oxygen at 90%. Mine was also at 90%, but it just doesn’t affect me like it does him.

We did the shopping and headed to our digs for the next three nights, down a rough as that raven dirt road. We had a river, a barbecue, a horse who gladly accepted our extra carrots, and this sunset view:

I was feeling fortunate for the extra day at Yellowstone, because rain was forecast for the next several days. While I was enjoying the touring, I needed to get my heart rate up to garnish the great state of Wyoming for 50 in the Fifties.

GNB and KNK shared a delicious sausage dinner on the covered porch as the rain began. The bikes were stored on the porch, as filthy and bored as our adopted horse, having endured dust and smoke and the muddy, rutted ride up to our digs. They will have to await better weather. But the rain is a godsend for the firefighters and residents of the parched mountain west, so it is impossible to complain.

That Wednesday was a rainy day, but a good day. GNB drove their van, and KNK took the Subaru, and we got a late start. Sort of a planned late start if I recall correctly. This is a better late start than an unplanned one, jmho. Our shared focus was thermal features. They helped to keep us warm, and improved our skin. We saw the eruption of Old Faithful, right on time, and the Grand Prismatic Spring, and many other things. And we stayed on the boardwalks and lived, albeit damply, to explore another day.

Kip was able to pull an all-dayer with the help of numerous Arnold Palmers, and we had a birthday dinner for Graham on the patio. Graham had wrenched his back, and Kip was not able to drive or do any strenuous hike, and Betsy was ready for a day off, so I made plans to hike the following day on my own. I hope I don’t meet the same fate as this hapless hiker at the Grand Prismatic Spring:

On a Thursday, I got to the gate at 7 am with a plan to hike Bunsen Peak as part of 50 in the Fifties for Wyoming. But I was solo, and the peaked were utterly socked in with fog. I would never be able to see the grizzly bears before they smelled me. Not safe. I descended. I thought I’d try Beaver Ponds. I was alone, and singing lustily, If I Only Had a Brain… Just as the hike was going to level out and get really far from all the facilities at Mammoth and the People they entail, discretion took the better part of valor, and I turned. I was thinking I really needed to find some new friends for the day when a couple emerged on the trail ahead of me. They were thinking…”Oh, she’s ALONE. Must not be very smart…”

I asked if they were doing the five mile loop and could I follow along. They said YES! and we were off.

They are Linda and Tom, from Bend, Oregon, both teachers, avid hikers. They have been everywhere five times over. Linda has run marathons and is a cyclist. She climbed Kili. Now Kili is their license plate. They asked me what I did for various states for 50 in the Fifties, and while Linda and I chatted, Tom scanned for wildlife. We saw a badger up close and a herd of elk, including a huge buck. We saw Mountain or Western Bluebirds. Overall, we were a good fit for pace, and we had a really nice time together, lots of fun. Linda gulps coffee… and wine. Me, too!

Back at the car, I couldn’t find my keys and panicked. Betsy and Graham and Kip were about to bring the second set when I found them in one of those pockets you simply cannot find on your backpack even though you are staring at the zipper. So thankful we brought the extra set, and so thankful I didn’t have to try to find two more friends and walk the whole trail again. It seems the altitude does affect me some. I remember driving on the wrong side of the road at Yosemite and blaring my horn at the other driver, thinking for sure HE was on the wrong side of the road!

Kip was not doing very well on the day. Apparently, he dropped all his meds, cold turkey, which wasn’t the best decision. Graham began planning to do some riding as we all traveled the following day to Grand Teton, but I won’t be able join him.

Meanwhile, plans were simmering for Idaho. Graham found another route over the Continental Divide, between Wilson, Wyoming, and Driggs, Idaho. It would be ridiculously hard, and we would have to rely on Betsy to pick us up. And it would take up a lot of the scant time we have available for Grand Teton. So I was getting anxious about all of the above.

Ok, so a Friday dawned. Kip and I got out of the cabin early and did the recycling. The Robbs did the garbage. There was a herd of elk visiting with our horse and sneaking bites of her hay. The weather remained in the iffy realm, but it was improved. We had a long drive to the South exit of the park, so we headed toward Yellowstone Lake, visiting various thermal features along the way, with a quick stop planned at the canyon brink for GNB to take a peek. Rain.

We went over the Fishing Bridge, which was No Big Deal as far as I could see, then we had a thirty minute bathroom break, and we were antsy. Meaning Kip was antsy and I was close to incandescent. Our hike at Yellowstone Lake was called Storm Point, and we all enjoyed it, but the day started at 7:30 am and it was now 1 pm. I was bouncing out of my shoes and jumping out of my very thin skin.

We saw our first sun in three days on the hike. I was dying to ride to Grand Teton but could not. I was losing patience with the pace and just plain in a burgeoning bad mood. As we neared the South Entrance, there was a stupendously deep cavern on the east side of the road which doesn’t really seem to have a name.

Anyway, we said goodbye to Yellowstone, and hello to Grand Teton. They are close together and joined by a Rockefeller Highway at 45-55 miles per hour. We did a couple of pull-outs and stopped at Moose Junction for maps. Then, things started to devolve in the Subaru.

We ended up on the Park road, an especially narrow part that leads to some seldom visited Rockefeller Preserve. Right after that, there is a section of dirt road. We thought, hey, no problem. We have a Subaru. But it turned out to be a muddy and nearly impassible moonscape, cratered and axle-threatening. Other cars, including sports cars and sedans, were also there, misled by GPS. All I could think of was getting on the bike trail. I desperately needed a break. We only had one full day for the park! But with Kip unable to drive and Betsy limited in movement and Graham with back and Achilles issues, what good would another day do us? I was slipping into despair and being really short with Kip. He needed a drug refill, and I just plain didn’t want to do it that day. I know I should have, but I was ready to bitch and I did, and cried, too. I felt the bad stretch of road was my comeuppance for my shitty expedition behavior.

After we checked into our condo at Wilson, Wyoming, I left Kip to get his own scrip. He didn’t want to be around me anyway and said as much. I went out on the bike trail for twelve solo miles to clear my head and try to regain my humanity. Kip got the scrip and did the shopping, which left him all out of breath. This was scary, and I was at my absolute low point for the trip.

I couldn’t relax. I was afraid Graham really wanted to do the Teton Pass and I did NOT. I wanted to be less dependent on others for 50 in the Fifties. I told him I just didn’t want to do it, just to check off Idaho. That felt better. But it does make it very much harder to get that state than it would be on this trip. No way I’m driving to Idaho anytime soon…

I tried to drag myself out of my funk. We had a beautiful condo. We had Grand Teton National Park just outside the front door. I pushed for an early departure for Saturday. No surprise, there. The plan was to hike in the morning, ride in the afternoon, and to try to beat the rain. AGAIN.

S

It’s On!

It’s August, 2021. The Delta variant of Covid 19 is wreaking havoc across the land, especially in the Southeast, where the fully vaccinated governors are hemming and hawing about whether their constituents should get vaccinated. Somehow, they don’t want the vaccination campaign to succeed, since that would chalk up a hashmark in the WIN column for Joe Biden, the nation’s avuncular uncle. It’s absolute chaos out there right now. Mask mandates get pulled, then reinstated, and folks get whipsawed back and forth along with the mandates. Now we are in the “suggested” mode. Masks are strongly recommended. What does that even mean? It means I have my mask back on. Kids are going back into the classroom full time this fall in NJ. At least that’s the way it is today. Tomorrow, things could be different.

Kip and I got our vaccines this spring, back when everyone was scrambling to find a shot and driving hours to get one when offered. Now you have to pay folks to roll up their sleeves. Ugh, what is so hard to understand? There is a dangerous and unpredictable disease that has infected 200 million people worldwide and killed over 600,000 Americans. Just do it!

Once protected, we made plans to get in the car and tackle the seven states that I still need for my challenge- Wisconsin, The Dakotas, Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, and Nebraska. How else could we get to all those places in the seven months remaining before my next birthday, especially since sharing air with a couple hundred strangers in a airplane holds little appeal. We are bringing bikes and hiking boots, masks and rescue inhalers, pills for my overactive bladder, my journal, cell phones that will only work as cameras because we will be off the grid, positive attitudes, and FRIENDS!

Betsy, whom you surely remember from our epic 2016 trip to Nevada and Utah, is game for another go. We will add to our National Park total from that trip (Grand Canyon, North Rim, Zion, Bryce Canyon, and Grand Escalante National Recreation Area). She, along with her husband Graham, also a very old friend of ours, will be by our sides as we explore the Northern tier. Parks we plan to pounce upon: Theodore Roosevelt, Glacier, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Badlands, and Wind Cave. We will be in a crazy rush, since we also want to see the Crazy Horse Monument and Mount Rushmore. Come to think of it, that’s surely how these two sites got their names.

Luckily, no one else in the country has thought to visit the national parks. I’m sure we will have them to ourselves…

After we explore the area around Rapid City, Betsy and Graham will head back to Wisconsin for a wedding, and Kip and I will backtrack to Colorado to see Laura and Joe in Crested Butte before staggering home through Nebraska and finding a challenge there. We figure we will be gone about a month. Plans are pretty loose. There is so much uncertainty that we are ready to pivot any time. The fire season is horrendous this year, and between the smoke and the altitude, Kip is going to be facing some challenges of his own. But he has never driven cross country, and he doesn’t want to miss the chance. He is hoping it will be more fulfilling than his three day trip from LA to NYC in the back of a Greyhound bus in 1980… with no money. This time, he probably will not have to ask for a bite of a stranger’s hamburger. These days, no one shares food.

Luckily, no one else in the country has thought to visit the national parks. I’m sure we will have them to ourselves…

I realize I have not said anything about January 6. Let the nausea in my gut be my only remark. In preparation for this trip through deep red country, I removed my Biden-Harris and Facts Matter bumper stickers from the back of the Subaru. Whether hiking, biking, or driving, it is never wise to poke the bear.

Barely Breathing
With a Broken Heart
That’s Still Beating
In the Pain
There is Healing
I’m Holding On
I’m Still Holding on to You

In Memory of Morgan, 2009-ish – December 10, 2020

Like we said every day, you’re always gonna be my dog. My dog, my dog, my dog. I am so grateful we found each other. Thank you for choosing me.

He will never be in the past tense for me. He will always be Present. Perfect.

I don’t do much. My family gives me room to grieve. And it’s winter, and it’s snowy, and it’s cold, and I’m hurt, falling apart in other ways. Tennis elbow. Morton’s neuroma, plantar faciitis. I’ve spent all these years staying fit, knowing it’s so much harder to get fit than to stay that way. But I can’t shovel snow. I can’t cut back invasive species. I miss my walks with Morgan. I know I shouldn’t run too much, hike too hard. So I do the bare minimum, when I want to. I strap on snowshoes, or I stumble through knee deep drifts. I’m taking a break. I’m watching the impeachment. I’m waiting my turn on the vaccine. I’m in the waiting place.

We sold the Maine house. I think we should take a road trip. No planes. Still seven states. One year left, give or take. I can see me driving out to visit Laura in Colorado, bringing a mountain bike and a tent and just exploring. I don’t have to worry about leaving Morgan behind. He will be standing beside me, on the console, riding shotgun, looking ahead, wondering what wonderful thing we will do next.

Ok so the pandemic’s not over

It’s been 8 months and we’re still not in clover

My quest is curtailed, my travel on hold

I’m eager, I’m ready, but not quite so bold

As I’d need to be to head off to Montana

Nebraska, Wisconsin, or North-South Dakota

Or Idaho or to lovely Wyoming

Because right now thats where the COVID is roaming.

/

I keep hearing trump say that we’re rounding the bend

The illness and death will miraculously end.

Lucky for us, I can say with no hesitancy

the one thing that’s sure to end soon is his presidency.

/

I could write a whole poem about the election we had,

And how through it all trump’s behavior’s been bad

And how the Republicans aid and abet as he tries

To undermine faith in the system with lies

But so far his lawsuits and whines and his boasts

Have gotten him nowhere; this loser is toast.

I eagerly sit here and await the day

When he ceases to matter and just goes away.

So while I could write that poem, I just won’t

If you feel like writing that poem, well, just don’t.

/

So back to the fact that I spend all my days

At home in my bubble,. I can’t get away

To work on my 50 in Fifty, and so

I will tell you how my days tend to go.

To keep my self sane, I ride on my bike

go for countless dog walks and I frequently hike.

I signed up for boot camp, a most intense class

The sprints and sleds gave me a kick in the ass.

/

At home I painted the trim super white

I cut down the trees with the lanternfly blight.

I painted the tin on the carriage house ceiling

And painted it red on the side that was peeling.

I went up to Maine when my mom had a scare

But she’s strong and she barely needed me there.

With clipper I attacked privet and stiltgrass and thorn

A tough job for which I was practically born

I did this at home and I did it away

Knotgrass at the pond, Olive at RHA.

I went to three handfuls of meetings, all Zooms

We couldn’t have met in the conference rooms.

/

And lately I’m focused on my biggest dream

I’m building a strategy and creating a team

To convince several mayors and Somerset County

That building a new trail will bring with it a bounty-

Connected communities, happier, healthier peeps

Who get to know each other, and together they reap

The harvest of sharing in virtues, not vices

And also we get higher real estate prices.

/

These things all of my time have been taking

And one things for sure; I’m not gonna start baking.

I leave it to others to take up this craze

To fold and to mix, to whisk and to glaze

So go ahead, please, breads and pastries, go bake.

I’m stopping by Cocoluxe and buying a cake.