Our ride out of the campground began with seven miles of steady uphill pedaling on Highway 97 to Blewett Pass.  Once over the pass, we enjoyed an exhilarating 20 consecutive miles of descent at a 7% grade according to the signs warning truckers.  WOW!

At the intersection of Highways 97 and 2 was a fresh fruit stand.  Aaron and I stopped and ate a basket of delicious Rainier cherries.  It was the first time I ever had that yellowish variety and I can't emphasize enough how tasty and refreshing those cherries were at that particular time and place.

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True to its name, the Wenatchee Confluence State Park is at the point where the Wenatchee River flows into the Columbia River.  Sadly, the confluence itself is not particularly scenic.  I do like the high, barren hills to the east though.  The park is heavily developed--more suited to RV's than to small tents--and has more luxurious accommodations than we've been accustomed to.

The young lady who checked us in for camping gave us a pretty nice deal.  "We like to get bike riders here," she said enthusiastically.  "I'm not going to put you in the regular campground," she continued, "I'll put you in the group campsite since there are no groups coming in tonight."

"Sounds good to me," I replied with a shrug of my shoulders.

"You can just set up your tents wherever you want down there," she said as she pointed us in the right direction.

Aaron rode his bike into town to pick up a few groceries while I rode down to the group site to set up camp.  I discovered that we had about four football fields worth of land to call our own as well as a huge grill, a 561 square-foot shelter (I stepped it off myself,) a complete sink and wash station, electrical outlets, 31 picnic tables, an extra large fire pit, our own restroom, and best of all, total privacy from the RVers.

Total privacy, that is, except for a park ranger who came by and asked who authorized us to set up camp at the group site.  I noticed he was armed.  I nervously explained what the gal at the entrance station said and showed him my receipt to bolster my defense.  I couldn't take my eyes off his gun as he mumbled something about how she shouldn't have done that.

The ranger turned out to be a pretty nice guy and we talked for a few minutes before he drove off and left us alone.

A couple hours later, another interruption to our privacy arrived.  Hank, a 63-year old dude, cycling from southern Illinois to Renton, Washington, was also sent down to the group site.  We invited him to join us for the deluxe meal Aaron was preparing--grilled shrimp, a grilled vegetable medley consisting of red bell peppers, zucchini and mushrooms, plus cheese raviolis smoked over the fire and then added to an alfredo sauce.  Damn good stuff.

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Hank asked us if we had seen any goathead thorns yet.  We told him that not only had we not seen any, but we had no idea what they were nor what they looked like.  He explained what a menace they are to bike tourists and how no tire on earth is resistant to their sharp spines.  He was also surprised that we had taken no precautions against a bear attack.  He showed us his bear spray and the neat little holster for it that was attached to his handlebars.

I began to think either I was very naive or Hank was a little paranoid.  I tried to picture malicious bears clotheslining innocent riders right off of their bikes . . . or attacking them while they were repairing their goathead-punctured tires.

"I think I'd rather die being attacked by a wild animal than in almost any other way," I announced after debating the merits of carrying pepper spray.  There was a momentary look of horror on his face.  "It would be better," I clarified, "than suffering a long bout with an incurable disease or any death on a hospital bed."