Day 4 - Vale - Unity

Day In Numbers

Miles biked: 64.4

Total feet climbed: 3247

Pounds of bananas consumed: 3

Pounds of green beans consumed: 1

Rattlesnake roadkill: 1

I woke up to find that my neighbors had already departed and that I had somehow slept through three motorcycles leaving from less than 15 feet away. I took some time to write after breakfast which consisted of a big bowl of hot cereal with three lbs. of bananas. I started down the road and stopped within the first four miles for a rattlesnake that lay perfectly intact on the side of the road. The riding that morning was exceptionally easy and I blissfully peddled to Brogan where I stopped for a snack. Brogan, like so many other towns in the area, consisted of several houses, one store, a park, and a church. I stepped into the store where I met a friendly lady who used to work for the park service. She filled me in on the road ahead as I eyed the fig newtons on the shelf. Newtons securely in hand, I paid and was nearly out the door when the couple who owned the shop shared a brief story with me. Apparently, last year a biker was found dead at the top of Brogan hill which was waiting to challenge me a mile down the road. A driver had passed the young man who lay sprawled on the side of the road and (without stopping) called the sheriff. When the sheriff arrived, he found that the young biker had not perished, but had used his helmet to dig a hole in the shoulder of the road and had buried his face in the hole in search of cool air. While this is a bit extreme, three days prior, the desert had fried my brain as well, but I was not sensible enough to dig a hole with the one thing that would provide my head with protection.

Brogan hill turned out to be a beast. At that point, the climb was the largest and longest of the trip and I think temperature was into the triple digits. I started listening to an audio book at the base of the climb, and this has since become my favorite way to climb. Despite the heat, that climb was a highlight of the day. At the top I caught my first glimpse of the mountains I would climb through over the next several days. In the space between lay nothing but desert and the road I'd follow to get to Ironside, a town 18 miles down the road and the first place I could hope to find water. Normally, the slightly downhill ride to Ironside would have been a lovely change of pace, but the headwind was astounding and I had to fight for every foot of asphalt I rolled over. By the time I got to Ironside I needed a good rest and picked a small house with lots of cars and trees around it. There was no answer at the door, so I sat in the shade and had a snack. The young couple arrived just as I was preparing to look elsewhere for water. They were sweet as could be and had an uncanny resemblance to a young couple I know from Parsons, Kansas. They gave me some info about the road ahead as I refilled my water bottles. I still had 18 miles and another 1,000 feet of climbing before Unity, but the wind had died down and the cow food that flanked me on either side made me feel like I might not be in the desert anymore.

I set to work on my second climb of the day and camp to a stop at the top where I found a woman in a BMW with her daughters, and her husband working on a flatbed from the 1960's. You rarely come across a guy as barrel-chested or friendly as this man. He jumped down from the truck and relished in telling me all about the fossil beds and Picture Gorge. He told me exactly where I could find paintings on the wall of the Gorge (though I never did), and a bit about the history. Rejuvenated by the man's energy, I got back on the bike and started downhill. The  walls of a small canyon quickly rose on either side of the road as I entered Unity Forest State Park. Here there were trees in the proper sense of the word. Massive conifers towered over me and a small stream ran downhill parallel to the road. I felt moisture in the air and it felt like the first time I had smelled fresh air. The sight of the trees and the rich, green vegetation around them overwhelmed me and the wind of the descent whisked tears from my eyes before they could find my cheeks.

Just before dropping into the canyon

I rolled into Unity, Oregon around dinner time and was told that I could camp behind the local market. The shopkeeper gave me four corn dogs, a pound of green beans, and a can of ravioli for less than $5.00. The corn dogs disappeared before I made it to the campsite and I soon put away the pound of green beans with half a box of spaghetti. The $10.00 dollars I spent to camp included a shower and laundry. I took advantage of each of these amenities and met a tree frog in the shower before setting up the hammock and crawling into bed.

Day 3 - Boise, ID - Vale, Or

Day In Numbers 

Miles biked 73.2

The day began at Dani and Troy's home where I thanked my hosts and was on my way. While my packing job on this particular day had reached a whole new level of weight distribution, and my body was rested and ready for the road, I didn't get out the door until 10:00. I located the nearest grocery store, a Fred Meyer just down the street. I walked around in search of food for the next several days, and made my way over to the self-checkout. I had just started typing in the PLU code for my cereal when a young, loquacious gal walked over and said, "HI!" I had my front panniers on either shoulder, so at first I assumed she had been charged with secret shopper duty. I asked her how her day was going, and again came a very enthusiastic, "OH, MY DAY HAS BEEN GREAT! You're doing a really good job with that." I thanked her and told her that self-checkout technology has come a long way. She quickly agreed before asking if I had a Fred Meyers Rewards card. I said no and paused for a moment before asking if Fred Meyer stocked Kroger foods suggesting that I use my phone number which is registered at Dillons. She bent over to get a better view as I typed in the number, and when it went through she let out the least inhibited laughter I had heard in a long while. Without a moment's pause she yelled, "that's great, HIGH FIVE!" This was to be the first of many friendly interactions as I found my way out of Boise that morning. I must have exchanged greetings with over 20 strangers on the Green Belt. 

The previous night, Troy had gone above and beyond in helping me fixing my bike for me. After half and hour in his garage, I peddled down the street and everything felt so solid; the bike road like a dream! Among his many tools, Troy did not happen to own a device which could repair abused rubber, so a decided to stop by George's Cycles for a second opinion. When I walked through the door I felt like I had entered a bicycle hospital. The place was immaculately ordered without dust, grime, or grease anywhere. Additionally, three of the four employees in the sales area (the repairs are all done in a private room...weird) remained completely silent and regarded me a look of suspicion. Ben, a young guy behind the counter made up for all of this. We discussed the tire, and in the end, decided that it wasn't worth risking a blowout going 30 miles/hour with a fully-loaded bike. He called another store to insure they had the proper tire and then drew me a detailed map of the most bike-friendly route to get there. He happened to be from Oregon and told me all about the route I would be taking. The conversation was personal and sincere from the start and he gave me a great boost of confidence before hitting the road. The visit to the next bike shop was largely uneventful aside from meeting the store manager who was the male equivalent of a Stepford wife. His manner and dealings were polished and refined to a fault, the opposite of authentic - I still think the guy is a robot.

My body felt ready for the ride ahead, after all, today I would be entering Oregon! My mind, however, seemed to be searching for ways to keep me in Boise. Next on the list of distractions: I had given much needed attention to the bike, but I needed fuel. I pulled to the side of the road and had a snack halfway in my mouth when Troy happened to drive by. He got out of the car and his look said it all, "what the heck are you still doing in Boise?" Troy is the best sort of guy so I was glad to run into him again for a final farewell. At this point I focused all of my energy on getting the heck out of Boise. And I did it. I had just escaped the gravitational pull of the city and entered the land of industrial agriculture when I saw a sign that said, among other things, "Watermelon!!!"
I pulled off at Wagner Farms and inquired about a slice of watermelon. The market was full of fresh produce ranging from cherries to potatoes and everything in between, but slices of watermelon where not for sale. The lady who had greeted me said she would give me a slice anyway and proceeded to cut a wedge the size of my face. As I relished the wonderful treat, she told me all about her experiences in Portland and Seattle saying that she, "miss(es) Seattle every minute!" After a little more conversation, I purchased a bag of cherries and proceeded out of the parking lot (where three different people said, "now that is a great way to travel!" 

This time I hit the road in earnest and biked westward until I hit the interstate. I stopped at a gas station to refill my water bottles and to ask a sheriff about the interstate mystery. Having biked out
into the center of nowhere in an effort not to break the law, I remained curious about whether bikes were indeed restricted from interstate travel. The officer gave the dispatch center a call, and like me, he was put on indefinite hold. He seemed equally amused by the persistence of the mystery and wished me well on my trip.

I nearly made it to the Oregon border before anything else of note occurred (I don't presume that any of this is noteworthy.) Without warning my right knee started aching to the extent that, for a mile, I only used it to pull rather than push. I kept thinking of all the climbing that lay ahead and how there would be no way to do it while favoring one leg. Coming to terms with my self-delusion, I pulled aside and did a number of stretches trying to focus on the major groups in my legs, hips, and lower back. The stretching did the trick and before I knew it I was biking parallel to the Snake River. 

Ever since seeing the iconic photos of Ansel Adams, which so beautifully capture the Snake at some of it's more picturesque moments, I've wanted to experience the river from the same vantage point. This moment of glory will have to wait. I crossed the Snake on highway 26 at Nyssa, Oregon. Though I was excited to finally be in Oregon, my excitement had to be redirected to what was down the road... much further down the road. This section of the Snake resembles the mighty Kaw. Mighty banks of dirt soar 15 feet above the muddy river below. A factory to my left and a row of homes with their possessions spilling onto the lawn added to the ambiance of my first moments in Oregon. I pressed west through Nyssa's lovely main street and back into the country side. Surrounded by buttes and cow food, I called my sisters to hear about their first days of school, a conversation which carried me nearly the remainder to Vale. 

First stop: grocery store. I asked if there were any alternatives to staying at the RV park and bought, among other things, three pounds of severely discounted bananas ($.75). After cruising around town, I concluded that there were not any ninja-camping spots which suited me. In the end I forked over the fee to stay at the RV park where I found a hot shower, and company among three motorcyclists (not in the shower). They hit the hay early, but as I cooked dinner, I was joined by Jonathan, a young Mormon who was helping to build a geothermal-power plant just down the road. (This was fascinating! Apparently hot water is drawn up from the earth and passes through radiator-like tubes where it heats freon, which in turn expands and drives the turbines. The water is then returned to the earth unaltered except for a three to four degree drop in temperature.) We hit it off and spent the next hour talking in the parking lot. A bit later than I had hoped for, I finally found myself in my hammock gazing at the stars as I recounted the events of the day (this usually lasts for about a minute.)

Day two on the road - I should have taken the interstate

The Day In Numbers

Liters of water consumed: 14

Helpful, bearded women: 1

Military weapons ranges discovered: 1
Penitentiaries passed: 2

Miles biked: ?

The stream that ran beneath me drowned out all other noises, and it wasn't until the sun breached the top of the canyon that I woke. I busied myself with my morning tasks, but all I could think of was the climb out of the canyon and the pass that lay just beyond it. After a big breakfast of warm cereal I reconfigured some of my luggage and hit the road.

I passed some engineers working on on the dam and joked with them about giving me a lift out of the canyon. Since the canyon wasn't actually on my route I had secretly made a deal with myself that, if someone offered to give me a lift back to the highway, I might gladly take it. Packed dirt from the season of tourists gave me a route up the hill, and the climb passed much more easily than I had dared hope for. I turned on to the highway and the climb over the pass came and went. As I cleared the top I let out a loud whoop and a grin spread from ear to ear.

Looking back at Anderson Ranch Reservoir

The descent went on for miles as I passed Devil's Dive, the site of numerous stagecoach robberies, and dropped into a valley with prairie on one side and a scorched hillside on the other. As the grade leveled out I reached Rattlesnake Station, the historic site of Mountain Home, Idaho. Here I stopped to look at my map and realized I had missed a turn. I had not noticed any paved turnoffs and, considering I had just descended over a thousand feet, I wasn't eager to go back and investigate.

I had been using Google's new bicycle mapping feature, and it was here that I discovered they don't exclude dirt roads. I picked a new route that would take me north as soon as possible and started off towards Mountain Home.

Wagon wheels outside a water stop. (This section of my route followed the Oregon Trail)

I skirted the north end of town and stopped to talk to several locals along the way. I was curious if there were paved route to Boise other than the interstate. Not entirely convinced by any of the directions I received, I stopped at a gas station to contact the sheriff's office. I asked if it were legal to bike on the interstate and I was put on indefinite hold. Google maps gave me a route which matched the route several the locals had suggested. I filled up on water, refueled, and headed out into the desert.

The scenery I enjoyed for the better(?) part of the day

The first road follow the interstate as it curved north towards Boise. To the to the east, the land between myself and the interstate has been ravished by wildfires, and to the west there was only desert as far as I could see. I was looking for Cinder Butte road which had been labeled as Main Butte road. I passed it and road 2 miles on until my road terminated for seemingly no reason. Doubling back, I found Cinder Butte road to be unpaved, but passable, so I took a drink of water and headed west. During the next 2 miles I was passed by two semi trucks labeled "water". Each roared past me as water literally sloshed out the top of their tanks. I pulled my bandanna over my face to avoid inhaling their dust through my already dry mouth. I saw a ranch in the distance and decided to finish my last water bottle. My current route took me straight to the entrance of the ranch which had two "no trespassing" signs posted on either side of the road. I was hot, tired, and thirsty and decided to pass on through the ranch rather than go around. Though, still very much in the desert, I was now surrounded by large irrigated fields. All I wanted was to refill my water bottles, while around me hundreds of gallons of water flew through the desert air. Acres and acres of alfalfa. Cow food. I came to the ranch home and it looked as inhospitable as the entrance to the land, so I reluctantly pressed on. Half mile down the road I saw asphalt, but when I approached the new paved road I saw that it was only pulverized volcanic cinders. Without a thought I continued with the hopes that Range Road would be paved. After a while of being on the cinder it occurred to me that it might not be the best thing for my tires. (During the first hundred miles of our drive to Idaho, my front tire was hanging in front of the exhaust pipe of Marcie's Mini. The rubber, already weakened by the heat of exhaust, had succumb to the cinders and the second layer of the tire was exposed.) I decided to walk the remaining mile to Range Road. As I longed for asphalt, Range Road came into view as the pulverized cinder turned to course gravel. I saw a large home down the road and continued to walk towards it thinking only of water. 15 minutes later I saw a humvee followed by three other large military vehicles roar down an intersecting road and on into the desert. I didn't have to get to the "house" before I thought of several reasons for the naming of "Range Road". Indeed, the large home with it's promise of water was not a house at all, but a military facility used for joint forces urban combat training. Range Road was named for the military weapons range I now found myself on. I briefly considered approaching the compound to search for water, but thought better of it after reading a sign with some combination of the words, "death, lasers, munitions, live, etc." I had started the day at the top of the world. After my first long climb I had been rewarded with a massive stretch of downhill. Not five hours later, I found myself at rock bottom considering a ten mile walk across the desert to the interstate. Luckily(!) a pick up approached and after a second thought I waved it down. The driver was an ex-Marine who currently leads a team of firefighters in a constant battle against brush fires started by explosive munitions (30-40 fires/day). I filled him in on my situation and without hesitation he told me to get in. As we drove down the road he explained that this was range 11 of 11. These ranges were used for all sorts of live-fire exercises. In fact that night there were to be rocket exercises. I told him how stupid I felt for ending up in the predicament I had. He assured me I just listened to the wrong advice and that Google maps had in fact pointed people in that direction before. The other day they had picked up a woman who had actually driven her SUV out onto the range. The man was happy to talk and I happy to listen as he drove me all 25 miles to pavement. (Throughout the ordeal, I had kept the interstate in sight and thought that I could have walked back to any number of ranches for water, but there's no doubt that this man saved my ass.)

I must have thanked the man twenty times before I got out of the truck. After attaching my packs to my bike, I rode to the nearest house and drank all the water I could stomach. The owner of the home was a man wearing cut off jeans that left very little to the imagination. He told me we were only about 12 miles from Boise. After 5 to 10 minutes of chitchat I thanked him and I eagerly hit the road. Half an hour later I found myself at the home of Dani and Troy who would prove to be the best hosts I could had hoped for. After a shower I joined them the table. Though eager to get to know my new friends, my exhaustion from the day hit me like a wave and I had to excuse myself for bed. I don't remember much from that evening other than feeling incredibly happy to be exactly where I was (most importantly, not in the desert...)

Day One on the Road

The day in numbers

Combined weight of bike, bags, food, water, and gear: 115lbs 

Homes being moved by flatbed trailer: 5 

Liters of water consumed:10 

Deer resting permanently on the road: 6 

Historical markers stopped for: 4 

Start time: 9:40 am 

End time: 6:10 pm 

Miles biked: 78 

I departed from Silver Creek Convenience Store in Picabo, Idaho and pedaled a mile to Ganite Road where I stopped for some pre-ride stretching. I only mention this, because the first leg of my ride was largely uneventful. The bike road perfectly, the riding was a joy, and thick smoke limited the scenery. There was little to do, but listen to the sounds of the road and get lost in my thoughts. 

I've spent the majority of my life in Kansas, a place I would never have thought to describe as particularly dry. This summer, however, has been incredibly dry. A journey through Colorado offered a brief reprieve from the dry heat, but now I found myself surrounded by true desert. Aside from the occasional grouping of trees thriving near a spring or stream, everywhere you look there is desert vegetation clinging for life. This setting is that last place I would ever think to attempt growing crops, yet along the road, the vast desert is punctuated by large farms growing alfalfa (cow food) or barley (beer).My uncle had asked me to report back to him regarding the visibility along the road. He suspected that the haze, caused by numerous fires in the area, would dissipate by Fairfield. In fact, fires were burning as far west as Boise which was apparent by the lack of view from the road. 

I stopped in Fairfield to make a sandwich. I picked a spot next to an old wagon with a wooden man steering imitation oxen. Glad for the company, I surveyed the town around where I sat. A combination inn, restaurant, and saloon sat 50 yards away and seemed to be a local favorite for the lunch hour. I set to work on my lunch keeping an eye on folks all the while, because the look I got from them was invariably one reserved for the bizarre. The game became to see how long folks would stare at me before attempting a wave or showing any other sign of recognition. One man, who was using a riding mower for transportation, drove nearly 100 yards, eyes glued to me, before he finally responded to my wave and greeting. 

I think this experience brought the reality of my unique position into focus. I spent a good part of the afternoon with a smile on my face, thinking of how lucky I was to be here on the road with reaching my campsite as my big goal for the day. Being so single minded has become a rarity for me and does a fantastic job of sweeping away mental clutter. The afternoon also held several other highlights in store. After my first big climb I was rewarded with a two mile drop at a %6.00 grade. I'm glad that I'll never again see the pilots of those oncoming vehicles, because the expression on my face probably bordered on lunacy. Another high point was quality time spent reacquainting myself with Mr. Bowie and a few hits from The Doors. This excellent listening experience was followed by a couple of hours listening to, "The Price of Inequality" by Joseph E. Stiglitz. I'm not yet finished with it, but I already feel comfortable recommending the book to anybody who would like an in depth look at specials interests' influence on policy and the growing gap between the incredibly wealthy and the rest of us. 

As evening crept nearer I caught my first glimpse of the valley where I would stay for the evening. Though the area was breathtaking, so was the drop into the valley and thus my climb back to the highway in the morning. I dropped into an open-range cow pasture where the looks of the confounded cattle resembled those of the folks of Fairfield. I turned a bend and had my first view of an impressively deep canyon that stretched further than I could see in each direction. It was here that the drop grew increasingly steep and the paved road faded into dirt. The road then took to winding around the bends in the cliff side with an unguarded, precipitous drop on my left. After a sizable decent into the canyon, I biked across the top of a large dam which held back the water of Anderson Ranch Reservoir. 

I arrived at the base of a large draw only to find that the site I had selected had a "Day Use Only" sign on display. I looked at the draw, which was brimming with tall trees and featured a crystal clear stream, and decided I needed to bend the rules for the evening. I bushwhacked 20 or 30 yards into the woods and found a perfect spot for a kitchen and a great place for my hammock another 10 yards in. I found my second wind as I eagerly set myself to the evening's tasks. First on the agenda was the pumping/filtering of large quantities of water followed by the preparation of dinner and laundry. (A friend suggested that I throw my clothes from the day in a zip-lock with a little soap and water which worked perfectly.) Dinner consisted of half a box of pasta and a crown of broccoli covered in olive oil with sauteed garlic. Bread, that I had baked with Uncle Bill, served as a perfect tool to finish off the olive oil. After dinner I hung up my laundry and set up my hammock. The only two trees without vegetation between them sat on opposite sides of the babbling brook. It was in this way that I found myself transferred from the dry heat of the desert to the cool, moist air of the miniature valley with water flowing beneath and the stars above as I drifted off to sleep. 

For more pictures of the trip you can visit this link.