Day 115: Skookum Creek Campground to Colville, WA

August 5, 2011

I pedal north just after 6:00 with long shadows on the tall grass, a chill in the air, and two sets of cattle humping in the nearest field. Soon I reach a narrow concrete bridge and head west across the river into Usk. Someone actually proposed a town name of Usk and a bunch of other someones actually agreed to it. Drinking was involved, for sure.

I still check the license plate of every passing car, and I still feel a little twinge when I see one from Washington. It takes me half an hour to remember that I'm back in my home state and to tell myself to get over it. With the road mostly empty I talk to the donkeys that watch me from their pasture and the young deer who stare at me with concern from the trees off to my right. I also spit at the brown plastic markers topped with a white reflective strip that line the road's edge and cheer out loud when I hit them. I've been riding long enough that there's a lot of cheering.

I fly on the flatness of Highway 20, with the river off to my right, scraggly pine trees to the left, and the Kettle River mountain range looming as a challenge in the distance. The world is sunny and cool and peaceful, even along the highway, and it reminds me that even after four months of traveling there are few things in life that bring me more joy than a bike ride on a beautiful morning.

The route hangs a hard left a few miles before Ione because I've run out of north. I've been slowly working my way up since leaving Key West, but now I find myself just 27 miles short of the border with Canada. It's almost all west from here on out. The four miles that follow run up and up and up, full of strain and sweat and slow speed on a winding and chip-sealed surface that doesn't level out for even a tenth of a mile. It's a look into my future, where starting tomorrow four big mountain passes each spaced one day apart stand between me and Western Washington.

I grab lunch at a combination mini-mart and restaurant, a place right next to the highway with Beaver in its name. On the menu I notice that they don't serve beverages, but Beaverages. Clever. The walls and posts and even some of the windows are covered with all kinds of things that used to be alive: a deer head, dozens of mounted fish, a goose, snakes, a porcupine, the snarling head of a Grizzly, and even a jackalope. It's a giant middle finger pointed straight at nature. I try to count all of the dead animals but stop once I pass a hundred. As I eat my delicious pizza I watch the customers come and go through a huge window. Half of the vehicles that pull up are cars and the other half ATVs. I see a lot of bad tattoos, several big women wearing tank tops two sizes too small, and more drugged-out-looking people than any place of this size should reasonably expect to have. On the message board out front I see an advertisement for a guy who wants to teach me how to shoot automatic weapons, including an AK-47 and almost a dozen others.

Not pictured: the guys who tore down the flyer advertising a community theatre performance, put this up in its place, and then ran away as fast as they could. Well done.

The afternoon brings strong wind and blowing dust, so I ride mostly with my eyes pointing at the ground as I pass through an ocean of green, where the hills and mountains and streams are all blocked out by thick pine trees that stand close together and seem to stretch forever.

From off a back road a few miles east of Colville I roll down a narrow gravel driveway and pull up to something I never would have known about without the ACA map: a hostel for bike riders. It's run by Barry and Shelley Bacon, who have a huge property with two homes, a tree house, a large garden, and acres of space with trees and grass where cows and goats and at least one alpaca roam. The top level of the guest house is set aside only for bikers. It has four dorm-style rooms with single and bunk beds, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a large living room. The Bacons ask for no payment in return—everything is offered simply out of the goodness of their hearts, which must be giant.

Michael and Kevin, two 20-something guys riding from Glacier National Park to California, roll in during the early evening, but soon leave to check out the night life in Colville. It gives me the chance to clean up, take in the view of the mountains from the deck, and think about how thankful I am for the generosity of two people I never get the chance to meet. All I wanted tonight, more than anything, was to crash on a couch, eat leftover pizza, listen to The National on the laptop, and not worry about mosquitoes or blowing up an air mattress or setting up a broken tent. That's exactly what I got. It's all so sweet.

Cows moo outside my window and dogs from farms all over the area bark out to each other as light turns to dark. Thinking about the 4,200-foot climb to the top Sherman Pass that waits for me in the morning makes my tired body feel even more weary, so I crash out early to make sure I'm ready to give the pass the ass beating it deserves. Laying in bed I find myself picturing what it'll be like to finish this trip, to be back at home, to not have to think about riding a bike every day.

It sounds not bad at all.

For the first time I'm able to admit to myself that the long distances and big elevation swings and isolation of the West are starting to chip away at the magic of this trip, that four-plus months on the road is too much, that I've been pushing too hard in the last few weeks, and that I'm not looking forward to every day with the same kind of anticipation I used to. It bums me out, but I know it's the truth.

And in saying so I start to feel a little better.

Today's ride: 70 miles (113 km)
Total: 5,937 miles (9,555 km)

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