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Over the past six days we have cycled some 250 miles in Iowa and experienced all kinds of extremes including the terrain and the trails.  Iowa takes bicycling seriously (it is the birthplace of the annual RAGBRAI, the Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa), now in its) and the state has invested heavily in creating some very fine trails.

Most of which we have travelled have been paved, unlike almost every other state, but during our ride from Woodward, we began on a lovely concrete trail which turned to crushed limestone which turned into a grassy trail with a foot path.

And then there are the roads. We have thoroughly enjoyed some beautiful paved roads, where we have made good time and also suffered through some miserable gravel roads where the loose stone has forced us to unclip our shoes and, in some cases, forced a dismounting from our bicycles. Unlike the gravel roads in other states, where small stone is spread over the road surface, Iowa spreads one-inch stone diameter stone, which is problematic for bicycles. After encountering another one of these roads again today, we quickly found the nearest paved road, did a detour, and have sworn off any more gravel roads in Iowa.

We cycled on the High Trestle Trail, the Heart of Iowa Nature Trail, the 30/330 Trail and the Linn Creek Trail, all of which are on the Great American Rail Trail. The main attraction of the High Trestle Trail is a 13-story high bridge that traverses the Des Moines River just east of Woodward. This trestle is the icon of Iowa’s bicycle trail system. Originally built by the Union Pacific Railroad, when they moved their tracks further north, they pulled the trestle, leaving the piers but no way across the river. After years of raising funds and state appropriations, the $15 million-dollar trestle pays specific tribute to Des Moines coal miners, as the sculptures within the bridge represent the tunnels coal miners traveled through and the blue lights which appear at nightfall represent the coal miners’ lights.  Crossing that bridge was certainly a high point of our journey!

Yesterday, we travelled 65 miles, from Woodward to Marshalltown, a city of 27,000 people. It was a darn good thing that out legs held up as there was virtually nothing for services between those two towns. We visited downtown Marshalltown, which has the look of a very traditional USA downtown that all of us baby boomers experienced as kids. It also has a very stately City Hall, with a high clock tower that is undergoing renovations. And then planning on a short 25-mile ride to Wolf Creek Recreation Area, things changed. As we were studying our Iowa map, to make sure we were following paved roads, a friendly couple stopped their car to ask if we needed help.

They informed us that the Wolf Creek Recreation Area was located on a gravel road, and if we wanted to head north on a paved road, we needed to go to Gladbrook. We looked at each other and agreed “not another damned gravel road.”  Gladbrook certainly seemed pleasant and welcoming with large maple and oak trees lining the streets. We decided to gamble and try and find a place to set up our tent.  Shevonne set off on foot to scope out the local town park and eventually ran into Sheila Lundt, who was working in her front yard. Sheila attempted to find out whether camping is allowed in the park and when there wasn’t really a solid answer, she help us she graciously offered us her back yard that is also full of peonies, a pear tree and a pussy willow tree and as she says if you dig far enough down you will find prairie grass. Thanks very much to Sheila for your generosity.

Stopping in Gladbrook turned out to be an unexpected “blessing in disguise.” Once again, we bumped into the same couple who had directed us toward paved roads earlier and they suggested we walk to the local 4H fair which we did.  And unbelievably, in a town that once saw better times, we discovered Matchstick Marvels, an exhibition featuring models built completely out of matchsticks. Pat Acton, has been creating replicas the Iowa Governor’s Mansion, the US Capitol, Notre Dame de Paris, spaceships, Navy ships and several animals, for over 40 years. A former career counselor, many of his creations are now part of the Ripley Believe It or Not Museums. Shevonne pointed out that he also built a replica of the Challenger. 

Yes indeed, it was a very good thing that Wolf Creek Recreation Area is on a gravel road!

Pat and Shevonne

Follow us as we spin our wheels

When we arrived in Lorah a few days ago yesterday after a significantly challenging day on relentless Iowa hills and gravel roads, my rear tire had a psi of 27. And a few hours later, it was down to 8 psi. Obviously, it was time to face the music and replace the tube.

Last April, I spent a week with David Morganwalp, my brother-in-law in Virginia, doing some cycling trips, attending his class on tire changing and learning about Green Goop. David has been providing significant guidance to us for over a year as he, too, is in the process of cycling the USA but he is doing so on the Transamerica Trail on the Five-Year Plan rather than our 80 Day Plan.

Turns out that April was a really long time ago; thus, we put in three life line calls to David early in the morning while in the process of getting the inner tube changed. With his expertise, we were able to change the inner tube successfully. THANK YOU, David and thanks for conversing with us earlier on this trip from your canoe in New York. With your assistance, I know we can pull this off.

The day of bicycle mishaps wasn’t over. We put our wheels to the T-Bone trail (a paved trail christened as such because once upon a time the farmers rode with their steers to market on the former rail line). When Pat hit a bump, his pannier fell to the ground (this is not the first time) and the outside clasps sheared off.  Frustrating we patched it back together with rope until we reached a hardware store in Audubon where Pat purchased bungee cords.

Why is this town called Audubon?  For John James Audubon, the famous ornithologist. There are statutes of him and several ceramic tile pieces that line the sidewalks in his honor. Audubon, is also the home of Albert, the world’s largest bull.   When we stopped to take a photo of Albert, we found that he is in the process of getting a refresh so he can look prim and proper for the next 30 years. The rest of the day’s trip tested our mojo and Pat was crushing it as I got further and further behind. As we got closer to our planned destination in Guthrie Center we checked on the weather and learned that 30 counties in Iowa were under a tornado watch. Rather than camp, we found a room at the Mid-Town Motel.

As we travel on many gravel and paved roads (when trails aren’t available) we are stunned by the number of truckers hauling 30 foot trailers filled with rocks. Where are they all going? To build roads for wind turbines which are growing at a furious pace among the corn and soybean fields. And we are also being exposed to crop dusters and helicopters who are out spraying the fields. Occasionally they get a kick out of buzzing us as we cycle by.

Thursday’s ride was one for the books. After negotiating truck traffic and sand strewn shoulders for seven miles, we arrived in the town of Panora. While having some iced coffees, we struck up a conversation with two former teachers and a local farmer who has a thousand-acre farm. I am learning that a thousand acres is about what one needs to make it and that the corn and soybeans are processed and travel throughout the world.

From Panora, we found our way to the paved Raccoon River Valley Trail (in total this trail is 89 miles in length) to Perry and eventually to dinner and camping at the Whistling Donkey restaurant and campground in Woodward.  Best of all, it was an easier day (very flat) though I recognize this may be short lived when we head further north.

Shevonne and Pat

Follow us as we spin our wheels across the USA

“You will never get through the Cowboy Trail in Nebraska with those tires,” said another cyclist we had met back on the Mickelson Trail in SD. “It’s now quicksand because of extensive flooding in 2019.” We were extremely disappointed as we had been focused on cycling multiple miles on the Cowboy Trail. Resourceful as we have become, we punted, rented a 10-foot U-Haul truck in Chadron, drove through the Sand Hills and dropped the truck off in Lincoln. After a night’s rest, we were back on the Great American Rail Trail, destination Omaha.

We headed east on the MoPac Trail (the old Missouri Pacific Railroad) through Lincoln, stopping for lunch in Eagle minutes before a thunderous washout kept us from moving forward. And then a subsequent downpour caused us to attempt to stay in a local park until a neighbor gave us a thumbs-down. Onward we went to South Bend, to a brand-new campground, called the Omaha Campsite, complete with a horse, several goats, chickens and a Great Pyrenees. The owner, Corey Price, was thrilled to have us as his first paying customers. “I am going to frame this $20 bill and hang it on the wall,” he said.  And, after a somewhat soggy night, Corey showed up in his golf cart the next morning with a thermos of coffee and some goat’s milk soap.

Heading towards Omaha from Corey’s, we crossed the recently renovated Lied Bridge over the Platte River before the real fun began. There was the road, closed for construction, that we needed to cycle through – a bad move as our bicycles and our shoes got covered in mud. Then we got a bit confused because of the lack of trail signage and thought we were going west when we were really going northeast. Lastly, having dismissed the idea that even though two days earlier Omaha had sustained severe thunderstorms, 95-mile an hour winds and that 200,000 homes were without power, we would be able to cycle right into the city we discovered that was too optimistic. The trails were covered with downed trees, requiring plenty of bicycle carries and debris removal. Upon our very late arrival, we were welcomed to Omaha by Christopher Schmidt, our second “Warm Showers” host on this trip. He rolled out the red carpet, making us a scrumptious dinner and shared plenty of cycling stories. Because we inevitably are next to a freight train, either when camping or staying in a motel, we asked Christopher if he lived near the train tracks. “I work for the Union Pacific Railroad,” he said. Does that count? And as usual, we heard at least one freight train go by in the midst of the Omaha night.

Monday morning, we found our way to Council Bluff, IA, crossing the Missouri River on the impressive Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge.  You may have noticed my fascination with bridges. That’s because I majored in Civil Engineering. In the middle of the bridge, we crossed into Iowa, my first time ever in this state. Being from the East Coast, my stereotypical image of Iowa is that it is flat.

Monday’s journey solidified that as we made our way some 30 miles over flat terrain to Underwood.  And then we turned right onto the Magnolia Road.  Oops, big hill staring at us! Since it was already 4 o’clock in the afternoon, and there was a truck stop motel in front of us, we opted to bag the last 20 miles we had planned and rented a room.

I spent hours planning our travels for the next few days and today, Tuesday, we rode over 40 miles, from Underwood to Lorah. The trip featured hill, after hill, after hill. Iowa is not flat! This area undulates up and down like a sine wave.  Along the way, we passed through Neola, Minden and Avoca, all towns that were established when the Rock Island railroad was built. And then there was Walnut, a town of 745 people, whose main street is lined with numerous antique shops and pretty much nothing else. Oh, and we saw fields and fields of corn and soybeans. Now, that’s the Iowa I was expecting.

During the heat of the mid-afternoon, as were we fighting the hills on a gravel road, a woman named Teri stopped her car and asked if I was okay. I told her I was fine but the hills were beginning to get to me. “Come up to my place and I will provide you with some chilled water,” she said. Of course, that meant one more hill climb but it was the best water I’ve tasted this whole trip.

Tomorrow we’ll be back on a rail trail, thank goodness, riding the T-Bone Trail.

Follow us as we spin our wheels

Pat and Shevonne

The mystery as to why all the parked RV’s at the Edgemont campground were without people was solved on the morning of July 5^th.  “There was a big event yesterday that many of us participated in,” said a young man who was in the process of hooking his camper up to his pickup when I asked him where everyone had been. Because that didn’t satisfy my curiosity, I followed up with another question- “What kind of event was it?  “It was a gathering of people from several states to check out some bunkers, listen to some speakers and share a meal”, he said.  “I ‘m from Montana and I don’t know which way this country is heading”, he added. And in that moment, I decided to forgo any more questions.

Back once again at the diner where we had met Frank and Peggy the previous evening, we were surrounded by folks at tables and booths who also had attended the bunker event and were abuzz with excitement. “Let’s get some furniture for our bunker,” one woman suggested to her husband.  And another couple with whom we briefly talked were determined to return to Arkansas, sell their home and move here and purchase a bunker.

Pat had done a bit of sleuthing earlier about the bunkers and he had discovered the following:  During World War II, Fort Igloo, an Army base, right outside of Edgemont, was charged with bomb development and experimentation. Eighteen square miles under the earth, 575 bunkers had been built that were each 2200 square feet in size and could each hold 10-20 people. A few years ago, an enterprising individual leased the former base and began marketing these bunkers as “the backup plan for humanity.” For a one-time payment of $25,000 individuals can lease one of the bunkers to wait out the end of days.

Not knowing what to make of this all, we opted instead to concentrate on our present dilemma – how to get from Edgemont to Chadron, Nebraska. Two of the local residents shook their heads when Pat described our plans. “I won’t even drive my pickup through those 27 miles of gravel,” they said. “The rocks are gigantic.”

Because of the holiday weekend, we had chosen to stay an extra day in Edgemont – this time at the local Cowboy Motel and to meet up with Frank and Peggy for dinner once again, this time at the Hat Creek Café. They could have retired anywhere but they love this town, and have a home on a dead-end road near the railroad tracks – not realizing how many times a day those freight trains would be passing by each day. When Pat asked Frank whether he thought we could handle the gravel roads to Oelrichs, Frank said – “sure, because you are experienced cyclists.”

So, with that recommendation, the next morning we found ourselves pedaling on the 27 miles of gravel,while we searched for prairie dogs who never showed themselves

We did scare a few cows and horses however.  Proud of how quickly we arrived in Olreichs, we discovered that the advertised campground offered no amenities other than a prefab open shelter with two picnic tables and biting flies, a Pepsi machine and a water pump. There were no showers and no toilets Two trailers with long-term residents were the only other folks on the property and the grass was burnt to a crisp. Hoping to find a bit of food, we cycled back into town to the Black Hills Saloon, the only establishment around. While dining on microwaved pizza we studied everything on the walls and learned from the bar maid that the historic bar and mirror were moved here from Deadwood in 1802. Oelrichs is known for its rodeo and is not far from the Pine Ridge Reservation or the town of Wounded Knee.  And the bathroom at the saloon wasn’t working so they had put a port-a-let outside.

The next day’s route to Chadron had me shaking in my boots as it required riding on a US highway for 32 miles. Though it promised a wide shoulder, at the Nebraska border, the road went from a divided highway to two lanes. Other than the casino and restaurant, not yet open at the border, there were no places to stop and grab a cool drink. Thankfully despite some unsteady RV drivers and tractor trailers traveling at speeds over 75 miles per hour, we arrived in Chadron, thirsty but unscathed. Chadron is an old railroad town which is also home to Chadron State College. The main street has shops, a movie theatre, a few places to purchase espresso and a natural food co-op.

We located the home of our Warm Showers hosts, Cheryl and Steve Welch We signed up for this program a few weeks ago after learning that it was created so long-distance cyclists might find a comfortable yard to pitch a tent and make use of the host’s shower. As we entered the yard, we heard Spanish music playing, found some very lively chickens and Leylo, a friendly dog to greet us. Cheryl and Steve were in the process of picking up their daughter, MacKenzie, and her partner, Ricardo, from the airport. When they all returned, we spent the rest of the afternoon with them, learning about their family and their community. Cheryl shared that she had gone to school in Woodstock Vermont and then UVM and somewhere along the way, had worked for Vermont Bicycle Touring. Her parents had hosted youth from the Fresh Air Program and from the Mohawk Tribe. And then, we discovered that I had once met Cheryl’s mother, Joey and her now stepfather, Brian, at their musical revue in Mount Snow in the mid 1980’s. How fortuitous is it that? Is that one or two degrees of separation? As it turns out, our good friends the Ahernes are good friends with Joey and Brian and that’s how we all met.  

After hiking to the top of the ridge behind Chadron to check out the big C and the labyrinth with our hosts, we said our adieus for the night. In the morning, thanks to the work of the chickens we dined on delicious eggs before  heading out of town.

Shevonne and Pat

Follow us as we spin our wheels

Over the past several days Pat and I have found many nuggets of gold in these here Black Hills. First, while patiently waiting for our bicycles to arrive from Missoula, we camped for three nights in the town’s campground next to a babbling brook, an historic fish hatchery and the town park, equipped with six pickle ball courts, a polywood playground and an open-air amphitheater. We met other cyclists and we had a beer with Pete and his golden retriever, GlenLoveIt, (a therapy dog) from Craftsbury, Vermont. They are traveling the country this summer on a BMW motorcycle. Glenloveit rides next to Pete in the yellow side car. In the past, few years they have logged 22,000 miles together.

Every morning, 365 days a year, Kerry Sue and her therapy duck, Mr. Duckery Doo, (who she wore in a baby sling of sorts) come down to feed all the wild ducks in the park.  Mr. Duckery Doo will only eat if he can share his food with the other ducks. “He is the best kind of partner for me,” she said.  “He doesn’t talk much and if when we get irritated with each other, we take our private time-outs.” 

On Friday, bikes ready to go, we caught a shuttle up to Deadwood, the start of the George S. Mickelson Trail. This trail is a former railroad that was first built to carry supplies and passengers during the gold rush years, it is 108 miles long, has 100 trestles, four short tunnels and involves plenty of uphill climbs and downhill coasting. It was in the Black Hills that Lt. Colonel George A. Custer discovered gold in 1874. As times changed, however, the rail line had less and less business, eventually shutting down completely and removing the rails. Thanks to the efforts of the former governor (for whom the trail is named) and several other advocates, it is now a cycling destination.

Our goal for the day was Hill City and by the time we arrived we were fairly exhausted from the climbs and the heat of the day. Hill City had advertised several celebratory events for July 3^rd and we decided to stay on to catch the parade, (the first one they have had in 28 years) partake of the pie and ice cream social and hear the Rusty Strings Band and Jill and Allen, known for their fine cowboy songs and to meet Mayor Kathy.   

On the morning of July 4^th, as we were packing up, our tent neighbors invited us to join them for a hot cup of coffee. That was a true nugget of gold as we are not carrying anything to heat up food or water. Thanks to Shane and Victoria and their children for the lively conversation.

Another long uphill climb brought us to the road next to the Crazy Horse sculpture.  A fellow rider told us a little bit about the sculpture and then warned us that there was lots of sand on the trail ahead of our descent into Custer. He wasn’t kidding. We arrived in Custer, in time for a dedication of a new US flag complete with the color guard, the singing of the national anthem and a gun salute.

On the other side of Custer, we crossed paths with Shane from Prescott, Arizona. Shane is loaded down with plenty of gear, a few bicycle flags and has been traveling since early May. We think we may run into him again as we near Washington DC. Shane told us we had about 30 miles of a downhill grade into Edgemont, our final destination. Sixty miles later, we arrived and the bank sign’s temperature read 96 degrees. Other than an exhausted dog sauntering in the middle of the road, Edgemont was eerily empty as was the campground. Though there were eight RV’s at other sites with air conditioning running, there were no people. (More about what we discovered in a subsequent blog) Ready for dinner, we cycled to the nearest open restaurant and shortly thereafter met townsfolk, Frank and Peggy and George Lingo and his former wife who traveled for their meal in a golf cart. Frank and George are musicians and Frank gifted us with one of his CDs.

Back at the campground, fireworks were being set off everywhere or so it seemed.  Add to that a wicked wind storm with lightning in the distance and the constant freight trains passing through meant sleep was out of the question. At 11:30 p.m. three vehicles pulled up next to the campground and began setting off a barrage of fireworks in the abandoned tennis court very close to our tent. After enduring this for 25 minutes, I checked in with the local 911 dispatcher. Her response was classic. “We have an ordinance here that says fireworks can be set off until 12:01 a.m.  They have six more minutes of time. “And indeed, just had she had stated, they shut them down at 12:01 a.m.

Shevonne and Pat

Follow us as we spin our wheels

If any of you have studied the map of the Great American Rail Trail (GART), you probably noticed that that there are several rail trails in place that stretch from Seattle almost to Missoula, MT.  Then, with the exception of a five-mile stretch here, a ten mile stretch there, another two-mile stretch there, there are several hundred miles of no GART segments through the balance of Montana and Wyoming. Thus, Shevonne and I had to make an executive decision about how to address this huge gap.

To get through the rest of Montana and Wyoming on our bicycles would have entailed riding several hundred miles of two-lane highways, such as US 12, where vehicles, including large trucks, typically travel at 70 miles per hour.  Some portions of these roads have very narrow shoulders.  There are also many stretches where there are no towns for 40 miles or more. Most of it is prairie land with no trees to provide any cooling shade.  And the temperatures this week in Missoula have been hovering around 100 degrees.

Considering all these factors, Shevonnne and I made the hard decision to fast-forward our trip to Spearfish, SD, in the Black Hills.  From Spearfish, we will resume our ride eastward, picking up the Mickelson Trail, a 106-mile long converted rail bed that has received rave reviews since opening in 1999.

Fast-forwarding our trip to Spearfish necessitated some logistical challenges.  First, we had to make arrangements to get our bicycles shipped.  Thanks to Joe, at Spotted Dog Cycles in Missoula, we learned about shipbikes.com, a service that specializes in transporting bicycles. We paid Joe to disassemble our bikes and pack them for the trip to Two Wheeler Dealer, a bike shop in Spearfish.

And then we had to get ourselves to Spearfish.  We found one bus that runs from Missoula to Spearfish and we bought two tickets. Sounds simple enough. Then, we had to deal with the bus ride, which became its own adventure.  The daily bus to Spearfish leaves Missoula at 10:20 PM and arrives at Spearfish at 10:30 AM the next day, and it includes a transfer in Billings at 4:30 in the morning.  Trying to get decent sleep on a bus is difficult enough, but when other riders are carrying on conversations, making calls on their phones, and playing music, it becomes nearly impossible. Add to that an inebriated man who boarded the bus in Butte and started yelling things out and a near fist-fight and the ride became downright terrifying. Needless to say, when we finally got to Spearfish, we were glad to be off the bus and we have sworn to not ride any more overnight buses.  It’s a different world on those. Our first driver was struggling and very out of breath and our second driver was 80 years young and after retirement as an airplane pilot took up driving buses.

As I write this update in Spearfish, we have just heard that our bicycles have arrived at Two Wheeler Dealer. That means that Mike, the store owner, can get to reassembling them.  We are hoping to be “back in the saddle” by tomorrow or the next day.

Spearfish is a very attractive and vibrant town of some 10,000 people, located at the northern fringes of the Black Hills of South Dakota. It houses Black Hills State University, has an opera theatre, is home to two micro-breweries and features artisan galleries.  It also hosts a beautiful municipally-owned campground, where we have been very happy to spend some nights, waiting for our bicycles to be reassembled.  It certainly has been a nice place to be “marooned” for a little while.

Pat

Follow us as we spin our wheels.

There we were in Mullan, ID, on Sunday, going in multiple directions to locate the Northern Pacific (Nor Pac) Railroad Trail. No signage in any direction though a helpful Sinclair gas station employee did provide some guidance. And after coming across two other cyclists also trying to locate the trail, we all finally found it. The goal now was to climb up to Lookout Pass, some 12 miles upward to an elevation of 4,710 feet. Once at the pass, the trail promised 14 miles of downhill coasting to Saltese, Montana.

The climb upward seemed fairly easy given that it was a railroad grade.  However, it was at the top of the pass that we faced a quandary. We were informed that the US Forest Service had just closed the Borax Tunnel, a necessary part of the way down, 24 hours earlier, because the tunnel is in imminent danger of collapse.

Our only route down, according to a Lookout Pass ski area employee was to ride down I-90 with those thundering fast tractor trailers. I absolutely refused to do so, leaving us with trying to find another way to Saltese. Should we ignore the tunnel closure and gamble our way through in the dark? Or should we, according to another employee, attempt to find the correct ATV trail shortcut (there were so many) that would guide us around the tunnel safely?

As we slowly cycled down over the rock-strewn trail, a family of ATV riders, appeared at just the right moment from the opposite direction.  We stopped them and asked them about the tunnel. They had driven the tunnel detour and they indicated their tire tracks were still easily visible. “Follow them, we spun our wheels” they said and “you will be fine.” By 8 p.m. that evening we were finally in Saltese, a tiny community, too exhausted to have more than a cherry soda with some Washington State cherries. We stayed in a motel attached to a real general store.

Monday morning, full of newfound energy, we were back on the Milwaukee Road trail (the one that we had crossed Washington on). This Montana section is named the Trail of the Olympian and it was only 200 feet, via a connector, from yesterday’s Nor Pac Trail. In Haugan, literally in the middle of nowhere, we stumbled upon M’s Drive-Up Espresso and Smoothie Stand.  Hmmm, who would have thought?

Five hours and 23 miles later (the trail was rich with rocks and gravel). we arrived in St. Regis.  After climbing out of St. Regis on a back road, we were treated to wonderful views of ranches and surrounding mountains. We cycled through a section of a National Forest and tired, decided to stop in  Superior for the night.

Tuesday was our day to make lots of miles (62) to Missoula and there were no off-road trails. Up early, we made great time 15 miles on Old Route 10, until we suddenly came to an unanticipated dead end. Though Google Maps indicated that the road we needed was right there on the dirt strewn path, instead there was a large yellow sign which read “No Outlet”. The only way to Missoula from here was multiple miles on the interstate. Would we now have to walk or ride on I-90 for 40 miles on a very hot day? As we prepared to walk up the ramp entrance, we stopped for a moment to determine the distance to the nearest exit. And that’s when another trail angel, named Cindy, appeared before our eyes. Cindy, who is about the same age as we are, was driving a pickup truck and going to Missoula for a massage. Yes, she would happily give us a ride.

Cindy told us she was raised in western Washington on a Holstein farm, with four other sisters. She and her family have lived in western and eastern Montana and sold a property that subsequently burned to the ground. Cindy is full of love, positivity and curiosity. On the outskirts of Missoula, we said our goodbyes and shortly thereafter, Pat discovered he had left his cycling helmet in the truck. Whoops – time for a new helmet. Then we found the Milwaukee Road rail trail once again, stopped at the Spotted Dog bicycle shop and then crossed the river into downtown Missoula where we popped in to visit the headquarters of the Adventure Cycling Association.

A gentleman opened up the door and said “Welcome.” “You can park your bicycles here and then come on in for free drinks and ice cream.”  We filled out a small card with our information and they took a Polaroid photo of us, posting it with the other cyclists who have passed through in 2021. We spent several minutes describing some of the trickiest parts of the Great American Rail Trail thus far while we sipped our Coke’s and ACA’s Jeff said, “We had a couple here yesterday who essentially shared similar information.”

Now staying for a few days in Missoula, we have cycled the rest of the   Milwaukee Path, the Kim Williams Trail and the Canyon River Trail. These trails run alongside the Clark Fork River (a branch of the Columbia River becomes gravel-like and heads to a golf course and resort community. This is the end for now of what is open of the GART in Montana

Follow us as we spin our wheels

Shevonne and Pat

After a warm night at Heyburn State Park, we were back on the Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes in the morning. This trail gets our blue ribbon of excellence because of its beauty, its pavement and because it winds across and next to multiple waterways. It crosses most of Idaho’s Panhandle, travels through the Coeur d’ Alene Indian Reservation and the Silver Valley and crosses a 3,100-foot bridge trestle on the Coeur d’Alene Lake that is also specifically designed for individuals in wheelchairs. Pat, the engineer, fell in love with the bridge’s design and indicated that he wished he could have had a part in its construction.

We learned that this 72-mile trail is paved because it is a superfund site. The asphalt on the trail serves as a barrier to the contaminants caused by mine waste rock and tailings (from early mining activity) containing heavy metals.Eight miles up the trail, we stopped in Harrison and chatted with two ladies sitting outside the town’s library selling crafts and huckleberry products. According to them, it was once very easy to find huckleberries as they grew after forested lands had been clear cut.  Clearcutting, however, is no longer supported as a means of forest management. By a bit later that afternoon, we reached the By the Way campground, small yet equipped with hot showers and a fabulous gazebo.

That evening, we walked down Pinehurst’s thoroughfare in search of dinner. Prospector’s Pizzeria drew us in and sure enough, it wasn’t long before Prospector Bob, dressed in his plaid flannel shirt, red suspenders, jeans and a prospector’s hat appeared. Prospector Bob, (aged 75) entertained us while we ate, sharing stories about how as a teenager he was friends with all the miners and then after a stint in the service, he became an IBM software developer for several years. He and his family opened the restaurant and indoor mini-golf room last fall because they saw a need for more recreational activities needed for children. After a hilarious evening, we made it back to the campground in time to meet Linda, a woman in her mid-50’s who is presently living out of her Honda Element as she travels the country. Linda is from St. Augustine FL and deemed it time to quit her job as a software developer a few months ago, to discover the country and do lots of hiking. “Who knows,” she said. “Perhaps my next career move will be raising llamas.”

On Sunday, we continued on the paved trail, cycling through Kellogg, where we noticed a gondola shuttling mountain bikers and tourists up to the top of the local mountain. And from there, we cycled up to Wallace, a town designated as an historic district, which kept it intact when the interstate was built.

Upon our arrival, we went straight to the refurbished railroad depot, where we met John Turner, who plays the part of Colonel Wallace, the town’s founder. According to Turner, Colonel Wallace, was a shyster from Kentucky, who laid claim to the land with fake money. The Wallace depot was once home to the employees who worked either for the Northern Pacific rail line or the Union Pacific rail line.

Women had their own waiting area, to avoid the rough language and the spittoons, used by men. We learned that President Teddy Roosevelt once came to town for fundraising purposes, traveling to Wallace on the Northern Pacific rail line and leaving on the Union Pacific rail line. Within the depot is the only remaining US flag from his visit and a framed map of what the United States and its territories looked like in 1908.

After tooling around the town and having lunch, we cycled up through the headwinds to Mullan, (the home of the Lucky Friday silver mine,) and the last stop on the paved trail.

After surviving the ride through the Yakima Proving Grounds and the subsequent wind storm, we discovered that the rest of the Palouse to Cascades rail trail is not ready for prime time. The railroad ballast still lines the trail, meaning we would have to push our bicycles for a few hundred miles through the rest of Washington. It was, we decided time for a detour.

Thus, over the past week, we have traveled through Moses Lake, Ritzville, Sprague and Rosalia and earlier Friday evening crossed into Idaho. We have made use of frontage and dirt roads through desolate, dry country. We have become accustomed to the freight train warning whistles at all hours of the day and night. We have seen how the construction of new roads and recurrent flooding have destroyed once vibrant communities. We have learned much about freight trains, what they carry and where they travel We have stayed in inexpensive motels, camped in the Rosalia town park and in the Heyburn State Park, the oldest state park in the Northwest. We have chatted with motel owners and guests, folks hanging out in their lounge chairs and several individuals in cafes and restaurants. We have witnessed several acts of kindness among community members and have also been the recipient of their generosity.

We have been introduced to summer and winter wheat, fields of hard shelled peas, lentils and barley.  We have gained leg strength as we climb in elevation.  We have learned that Ritzville is famous for their wheat (once claiming be the wheat capital of the world) and because it was where the majority of the volcanic ash from the 1980 Mt. St. Helens eruption landed, forcing road closures for several days. Similar to what occurred in Gander, NF after the 9-11 attacks, Ritzville hosted several out of town visitors until the ash could be cleared.

Last Thursday on our way from Sprague to Rosalia, after several gorgeous but challenging climbs, we came upon the town of Malden, much of which was destroyed in a wildfire last Labor Day. It was eerily quiet, not much rebuilding was taking place and the remnants of homes and vehicles were still visible. As I cycled through, I saw an older gentleman, digging through his home’s charred remains. A short time later I had the pleasure of meeting Paul as we were in the same restaurant in Rosalia. He shared that he was ecstatic when he found pieces of their Nativity set in the rubble.

A little later in the new coffee shop in Rosalia, we met Bill O’Keefe, who was teasing us about our ride and offering to take us either to Plummer, Idaho or Spokane, WA to get wider tires. Though we laughed at the time and said “No”, as the day progressed and we stared at the hills we would need to climb out of Rosalia, we decided we should really reach out to Bill. Trouble was we didn’t have his contact information. In a small town, however, it didn’t take long to find him

By Thursday evening, we had his contact information and sure enough he and his partner, Tonya agreed to take us the 29 miles to Plummer on Friday afternoon. That meant Pat and I had several hours to talk with local townspeople. For three hours, we held court in the Red Brick Café. An older gentleman (91) named Rudy appeared and acted as though he knew me. As we chatted, I learned that he had won two Emmy’s for a program he put together years previously entitled – RV, an American Odyssey. Rudy told us that he traveled all the backroads of the country and loved every minute of it. And sure enough, he went out to his truck and brought in those two Emmys.

When Bill and Tonya arrived to pick us up, Bill said, “hey let’s take a detour to the Steptoe Butte State Park” Bill describes himself as a spoiled farm boy who was riding motorcycles by the time he was 14. This part of Washington is his home and he thoroughly enjoys each and every moment and is a consummate storyteller. After a somewhat terrifying ride to the top of the butte (over 4,000 feet) we were introduced to spectacular views of mountain ranges in the distance combined with the contrasting green and yellow fields below.

Shortly thereafter, we arrived in Plummer and thanked them profusely.  We are thrilled to be back on a paved rail trail once again – the Trail of the Coeur d’ Alenes. After a very quick eight-mile downhill ride, we have set up camp at the Heyburn State Park.

Follow us as we spin our wheels

Shevonne and Pat

The fifth day of our adventure was, by far, the hardest yet. After 11 miles of fairly easy travel heading east out of Ellensburg, WA and riding over a brand new trestle, we entered the US Army’s Yakima Training Grounds. Suddenly the trail

surface turned into pure sand, making cycling with our tires impossible. During the peak of the 90-degree afternoon heat, Shevonne and I had to dismount and push our bicycles on foot, uphill. This went on for four difficult miles until we reached the Boylston Tunnel. Technically, cyclists are supposed to walk up and over the tunnel, on a side trail, because the tunnel is in a slow state of decay, with rocks occasionally falling off the ceiling. As it was about 50 degrees inside, we decided to chance it, given our sturdy bicycle helmets. We pushed through all the tumbleweed inside the tunnel, carried our bicycles over the heavy rock falls in the center of the tunnel and emerged on the other side to find a jumbled mess of sage brush and a bog to navigate! At last, we thought as we looked at the topography, we were going to be able to revel in the gradual downhill trek for better than 10 miles, on a somewhat ridable surface, (though there were ruts and plenty of rocks to maneuver around and I fell four times). Then, suddenly a vicious wind storm kicked in, with gusts over 50 mph. For the last couple of miles we once again had to walk our bikes and hold on to them for dear life as the winds threatened to throw us or our cycles over the steep hillsides. After arriving at the trailhead by the Columbia River, we were wasted. We had been the only folks on that trail for several hours.  And although we didn’t say anything to each other, we each assumed we would not make it another three miles to our reserved campsite and would have to endure a night of sitting up in the wind because putting a tent up would have meant sheer destruction. our tent.

There are times in life, however, where something occurs that “was meant to be.”  When we arrived at the last trailhead, a gentleman was parked in his camper. He originally had plans to spend the night there, but due to the fierce winds, he was about to drive elsewhere. Extremely exhausted with several small cuts and bruises, I brazenly asked him if he wouldn’t mind taking two wiped out cyclists to Wanapum State Park. He said “Sure.”  So Shevonne and I hopped into his camper, (after loading all the panniers and the bicycles into the back of his camper) and he drove us to the state park.  Once at the park, our new best friend, Bob, spent the night in his camper while we determinedly got our tent up in the whipping wind. He cooked up a lovely dinner for us complete with appetizers and drinks.  As we chatted we learned Bob, (aka our Trail Angel) is an avid cyclist and is an advocate for bicycle trails in the State of Washington.  The perfect person for us to run into!  He also provided us with some very useful advice about the not-so-good conditions of the Palouse to Cascades Trail in eastern Washington meaning today while chilling out, we are figuring out a new route to Idaho.

Bob invited us back into his camper earlier today for breakfast and offered us a ride to Moses Lake. Given yesterday’s horrendous 35 miles, we eagerly agreed. Otherwise we would have been riding on Interstate 90 all day in the blazing sun.  It was during that conversation we learned a new acronym from Bob. “So you aren’t one of those EFI trail riders then?” said Bob. “What does that stand for?”, I asked.

“Making sure to ride Every F’ing Inch of the trail,” he replied. We laughed. I think we met our match on yesterday’s trail, making us much more willing to leave EFI behind! We may see Bob once again in Cataldo, ID, where he will be cycling for the next few days. Did I mention that Bob is 77 years old and has cycled many miles around the USA and on other continents? He’s one amazing individual and we are extremely glad to welcome him into our lives.

Pat

Follow us as we keep spinning.