Chapter 2. Mountain Passes and Rattlesnakes
Leaving took me much longer than I expected. When I finally had all my things together it was 1 pm and the sun was beating down on me with all of its' intensity. I hitch-hiked a ride from Diablo back to the Ross Lake parking lot and had enough wits about me to replace my front brake pads before heading up the mountain pass and was on the road again. There were no services, stores, or campgrounds from this point on for about forty miles. I had plenty of food and water to keep my energy up so I wasn't too worried. The road had a wide variation of grade change but was consistently uphill. I was following a map that I purchased from Cycle America along the "highline" trail, using Highway 2 and backroads and this was supposed to keep me close to the Canadian Border for most of the trip
Something was wrong with my bike because I felt like I was pushing harder than I needed in order to move at six miles per hour. The new brake pad's had come loose and were rubbing against my tire! I fixed the problem and continued up the hill. I had to pause for a break near a stream and I refilled my bottles with the clear water. The taste of mountain water this high in the mountains is wonderfully sweet and clean. I don't think I had ever in my life tasted anything more nourishing and pure than that. Two hours later, I was exhausted and dripping with sweat but near the top. Words can’t do justice to the feeling I got when I arrived at the top of Washington Pass after endlessly pedaling. It was a huge accomplishment for me.
The North Cascade peaks were still snow capped and the air was crisp and refreshing. As I scanned across the panorama of the deep blue sky, the mountains looked as if they were shooting up into the atmosphere like the jagged teeth of some ancient buried giant creature. It was awe-inspiring, different than driving a car and getting out at the top of the pass. Riding a bicyle, you become immmersed in the landscape. My favorite thing is to tune out the chattering thoughts in my brain and just let the senses take in all the scenery. the smells, sounds, and feelings of my legs, arms and back. The mantra was something like "there really is no pain, just sensation."
I took a deep breath before heading down the East Side of the majestic North Cascades. I let myself get carried away with speed and my bike computer displayed 41.5 miles per hour before I started to squeeze down on my brakes. The rush was extreme, it was the thrill of being put in danger. I would surely die if something went wrong and went careening off the side of the road or at the very least broken many bones in my body. I managed to slow down to a more sensible 30 mph with much effort, hanging on to the brakes for dear life. Twenty or more miles of downhill forests, twists and turns led me to the "old west" high desert town of Mazama.
(I found this amazing map just past Mazama, I am pointing at the North Cascades in reference to where I just was, Anacortes is left of my head in the Puget Sound )
I had arranged to stay at an outdoor adventure company community house in Mazama with a guy from Couchsurfing.com but he was out of town at the time and the director thought that I would be an insurance liability to the company if I stayed on the property. They had no idea that I was even coming, it was another disappointment but he at least told me to walk down to the rock climbing area called Fun Rocks about a half mile away. He said that nobody out here would care if I was camping by the outcrop there.
I started to set my tent up, and a group of rock climbers arrived. I gave them a couple of beers which I had bought earlier as a gift for my out of town host and slept in relative comfort that night directly beneath one of the overhanging monolithic rocks. Just a few hours earlier, I was amidst lush green ferns, high mountain lakes, and streams but now I was in the dry, hot, high desert of Eastern Washington amidst rattlesnakes, sagebrush and sandy dirt. This was my first time being really alone without anyone else around, and it felt good even though I was told that bears were regularly seen around here. I was free to do whatever I chose to do, and that night I chose to go to sleep early. I left early that morning, the sun was already oven hot and burning my face and legs, so when I got to Winthrop I had to stop for a rest. There was a farmers market setting up in the town park next to the library parking lot that I pulled in to. So I leaned my bike against a tree to see what goods they had for sell. I tried to buy carrots from one of the vendors and unfortunately they had rules prohibiting selling anything before the official opening. I did strike up a conversation with Amber (the girl working the booth) and she asked, “where do you suppose you will be staying tonight?”. I said, “I have no idea, but somewhere near Okanogen”. She offered a place for me to sleep at the farm that night after asking the owner, Watershine. I still had more than 40 miles to travel to get to the farm so I continued on down the country highway. The ride over Loup Loup Pass from Winthrop was long, hot and horrible. There wasn't much shoulder for bicycles, and I dodged several rattlesnakes that were just sunning themselves in the shoulder; I couldn’t wait to get into Okanogen town. When I finally came down the other side, I pulled into the first store I saw and there were a couple of bikers wearing Canadian flags on their jerseys. The Canadians! Bill and Linda weren't surprised that I caught up with them even after having a day off with Ian. They were headed north that day, and they shared their fresh cherries with me. and we took some pictures together. I left the country store together with them and we reached town within a few miles. I split up with Bill and Linda at that point and I went down a main street to the river so that I could jump in. It wasn't the coolest or cleanest water, but I felt refreshed after getting out. The directions I followed to Filaree Farm sent me winding around the most extravagent building in town, the courthouse (of course), then up a steep hill. I found the overgrown entrance to the property after missing it several times, and entered, walking the bike down a dirt road between apple and pear trees. There I met Watershine, who was a patient woman born in the baby boom era who wore a smile on her face that looked like she was squinting from the sun. She had the kind wrinkles on the sides her eyes that to me looked like she had smiled and laughed for many years past. This smart lady had figured out how to sell more varieties of garlic in the US than any other farm. As I continued down the road, there was a shack with open doors that I was invited to enter. A young group of barefoot interns lived in the midst of the apple and pear orchards in trailers, shanty shacks and a tree house built into the crook of a huge willow tree.
(The treehouse at the farm that I stayed the night in)
Nobody wore shoes at Filaree Farm, I even took mine off after about ten minutes, it felt very natural and wonderful to walk around the property that way. They took me on a tour of the ten acre property and I asked Amber why everyone walked around barefoot. She didn't reply until we reached the row crops, where the warm, soft earth had been tilled so deeply that my feet sank down into the dirt several inches. She could tell that I answered my own question just by walking through the soil. The farm made most of its income selling seed garlic to other farmers across the United States. At the very rear of the farm was about an acre of garlic growing in rows with so many varying shades of green, brown and purple puff-ball tops. Such a beautiful place, it was a magic 10 acre farm.
The intern farmers ate most of their meals from food crops grown organically on site or from nearby goat and vegetable farmers, therefore living and eating for free and earning minimum wage forty hours or more a week. They were all going to have significant savings from a summer of wholesome living. I had a great time talking with JC, Alex, Amber and Adrian; they showed me how things were done around the farm and I helped out with moving the irrigation pipes that night. They said that I could sleep in the tree house that night, it was a good thing because I watched thunderstorms rolling in over the countryside all night from my perch amongst the treetops, staying pleasantly dry. The storms are much more frequent and violent in Eastern Washington because the temperatures are much hotter during the day but once the sun fades, the temperature drops quickly and the maxing layers of hot and cold erupt with force.
This was my first taste of real life outside of what I knew, of life on the road, an intrepid traveler. Nobody could tell me where to go or what to do, I had to find my own way and make my own decisions for I was as alone as I had ever been.
The storm focused me and allowed me to really meditate on what was going to come into my life next. What was it all about? What is the meaning of life? These questions had been weighing on me for years, and I was beginning to truly understand it. What I was doing right then and there really was the meaning of life, and tomorrow, what ever came to me would be the meaning of life too and so on.
Did we truly create our own reality? And am I currently doing that? Yes, I was; but I also felt like these situations were meant to happen because I wanted them to. I wouldn't have met Amber if I didn't need to stop for a rest, or see what the farmers market had to offer me. She didn't have to offer me a place to sleep, but she had been a world traveler and knew the value in this. I was falling asleep with comforting thoughts, feeling like I was more connected to this world than I ever realized before. There was a strong sense of my energy being connected to all the other energy in this world. I felt as though my thoughts, desires and actions were vibrating at the same frequency as so many other people, whether we realized it or not. I felt that this was the reason why people get what they ask for, good or bad. I had a strong desire to put this way of life to the test in the following weeks and months and the rest of my human life.
(I tried to braid garlic at the farm before heading East on my bicycle journey)
In the morning, I pounded a couple cups of coffee and I headed north to Tonasket where JC had made arrangements for me to stay with his Dutch friend Ton (pronounced Tone) at Leaping Sheep Farm. The ride took me north about 40 miles through the desert valley paralleling a river. Ton's farm was seven miles out of the way that I was planning on going, but it felt right to head there. When I arrived, he had me pulling weeds for about three hours in exchange for the stay. I really appreciated the simplicity of his and other farmers lives. I had a wonderful home cooked meal that evening that his wife, Leah prepared for us. Ton and I were talking about city life versus farm life and he said something that I will always remember:
"people have forgotten to live by the rhythms of nature"
I had only been living on my bike for about a week now but I knew exactly what he meant. Any night that I slept outdoors, I went to sleep just after the sun went down and I always woke up with the rising sun. I felt like the natural way we as natural beings of the Earth are supposed to operate and my body loved it!
After dinner, I set my tent up in the middle of his row crops between the okra and the broccoli. It just so happened that I set up in taller grass, and all night long I could hear insects trying to chew and claw their way into my tent from all sides. I was extremely tired, so I decided that I wouldn’t let them drive me insane, I would just live with the noise. After about twenty minutes I began to enjoy the sound and it put me to sleep. It could have been a sleepless night but meditation came to the rescue. I had another wonderful breakfast with farm fresh eggs, potatoes and coffee and I was back on the old pavement again.
After riding seven miles back into town, I had to face Waucanda Pass. My elevation map gave me the indication that this was going to be a very long, inconsistent mountain pass. The passes in this part of Washington seem to go on forever and ever, twisting and winding up without a clear idea of where or when the top would emerge. I had come to discover that the “evergreen state” had more massive mountains and high hills than I expected. The first leg up the pass didn't have much for a shoulder, and was very steep. Needless to say, I was extremely parched when I arrived at the general store in Wauconda which doubled as both the post office and café. In fact, there wasn't anything else around but spread out ranches amongst the hillsides. I ordered a large diet coke, the refills were free! It didn't take me long to ask for another. That little present was the highlight of my ride so far that day, and it's an understatement to say that it was the most refreshing thing. About three miles past the store, I reached the summit. When I started down the other side of Wauconda, I saw signs for road construction. Sure enough, the paved road gave way to gravel and I couldn't control the bicycle, so I had to get off and walk. A gruff looking old man in a beat up pickup gave me a ride down the hill to Republic where they still mine for gold. I stopped at the local bar for dinner and a drink. All the men in and out of the bar looked like they just came down from the mountain from months of prospecting. I was keenly aware of the racist comments they were making when the news came on the TV about the war on terrorism, it seemed that the majority of the people out here pronounced the name of the state, “Warshington”. I paid my bill and left promptly.
According to my map, the Fairgrounds was the only place to camp in town. I rode past some buildings that housed the natural history museum, and then around a curve to the only trailer in the campground. There sat an old, bushy-haired camp host wearing what looked like long dirty pajamas in an aluminum folding chair. He was drinking beer with his similarly ragged looking buddies as I parked the bike twenty feet away and he said, " It's five bucks to stay the night. You can do whatever you want here, you could sleep under the covered bridge if you want". So I wondered around the enormous grounds, until I decided that I would stay under the cover of a huge steel framed horse barn that was still under construction. I layed out my sleeping pad, crawled into my sleeping bag, set up my stove and made ramen and mixed in tuna packets for dinner, contentedly. I took out my notebook computer and listened to Led Zeppelin. Just as soon as I had my makeshift camp in order, a storm came in fast and began pouring buckets of rain. Thunder rolled across the hills in long, echoing waves and lighting flashed every thirty seconds. I couldn’t help but be so happy under my generous shelter. Had I arrived not twenty minutes prior, things would have been dire. This was one of those moments that you realize that things just work out the way they were supposed to. I could have been sleeping out in the open, lightning coming down all around me, wind trashing at my tent.
The storm passed after about an hour and the rain cleared. A large flock of swallows descended from out of nowhere and seemed to be playing with each other. I came to realize later that the sun was setting and it casted a sharp ray of light, which allowed the little birds to see and catch the mosquitos that were beginning to bite and annoy me. They dipped and dove through the air with expert precision, moving to brighter locations as the light became dim. It was another evening of quiet contemplation. In the morning, leaving the fairgrounds, I found a café attached to a gas station, so I stopped for breakfast. The huge portions of eggs and potatoes fueled me all the way up Sherman Pass. This particular route was supposed to be the longest and hardest of my trip but all I did the whole time was focus on flexing my core like in yoga.
I just let time be irrelevant for a while and kept pushing down on the pedals, focusing my attention on it . This is the style of Zen meditation that worked so well for this trip.
The surrounding terrain had changed back to dense forest from the bottom of the pass all the way up and I was at the top quicker than all of the other passes that I had ridden over. The ride down was very exhilarating, the valley below was a lush variety of greens and browns. It was surprising to me to see how my environment had rapidly changed within a period of a couple of days.
(The overlook at the top of Sherman Pass was so beautiful)
My next stop was Colville, and as I rolled into town there was a sheriff that must have driven by me at least three times until he found somebody suitable to pull over, I imagined that is was for texting while driving or for a bad haircut (that’s just what some cops do in small towns). I had made plans to stay with a hay farmer, Angie. I called her from the Walmart parking lot that I stopped at. She picked me up in her little farm truck at the farmers market. Angie was a very fit woman in her forties who had large, kind eyes and a wonderful smile. Her hair was a striking sheen of silver and she had an excited, eager quality to her demeanor. We went to the micro brewery nearby and had a couple of beers that I paid for. I think that she must have known every person in the brewery.
When we pulled up to her farm, I couldn’t believe the amount of animals that roamed around the barns and stables. It was like the book Charlotte’s Web, minus the talking animals but add a few peacocks, geese, guinea hens, a tarantula and dogs. Angie and her husband Dennis had four children, including eighteen year old twins (Ellie and Claire) . They had close to five hundred acres, part of which stretched up the hillside and there was a lake hidden behind a rocky butte on their land. Angie's daughters loved animals, especially a sheep named Molasses. They asked me if I wanted to learn how to milk a cow and goat, I had to try it. It was part of their daily duties, but we had fun with it, they shot a bit of the milk at each others faces as a joke, it was hilarious.
They took me for a ride up to the top of the butte in their truck to catch the sunset as the daylight disappeared. We sat near the edge of a rocky cliff and just hung out, talking about the beautiful countryside and the farming way of life. The daughters couldn't see any other way of living or wanting to leave their wonderful animals for a large city. We raced each other back to the truck but stopped suddenly when we heard something in the shrubs. There was a rattlesnake warning us to not come any nearer. Angie picked up a long stick with a fork at the end of it and picked it up by the tail. She tossed it off away from us after I took several pictures.
This is a different kind of crazy fun that just doesn't exist in the city. I grew up in Honolulu which is located on a small island in the middle of the Pacific, but completely surrounded with concrete and well over a million people. I had also been recently living in Seattle, and while both places are surrounded by water, I spent a majority of my leisure time going to parks, bars, eating out, movies, playing video games, cards or watching a band. I had spent so much time commuting in heavy traffic, waiting for the bus or bicycling up big hills to get anywhere. The idea of fun out here was very family oriented, taking care of the animals, picking raspberries, horse rides, going to the lake, cooking farm fresh food, making cheese. These were new concepts that I tried to grasp at but weren't a part of my vocabulary until I actually started to live and be that way.
I was getting a lesson in geography; I was under the impression that this part of Washington was all desert. It wasn't until going over the Wauconda, that I saw the diversity of the terrain and I was impressed with all the green hills and trees surrounding me. I was also impressed with the way the Angie raised her children, they were all so cheerful, respectful and polite. Life slows down when you live on a farm. They were generous with my accommodations that night and with dinner. In the morning, I was served home made lamb sausages, potatoes, and pancakes with huckleberries and apricot sauce for breakfast, all home made, all local. I had not eaten this well since I was a young boy growing up in Honolulu, so close to fresh fruit every morning, fish caught that day. Leaving at around 9 am, with a full heart (and belly) I headed to the town of Ione. I was expecting the ride to be kind of rough through the undulating hills, and it was. I went past a gorgeous spot called Crystal Falls and then through the seemingly nonexistent town of Tiger, there were just a few old buildings and homes in the surrounding countryside. When I stopped my wheels in Ione, the river by the town park beckoned me to dive on in. I ate BBQ burritos and a peach bought from the nearby grocery for lunch and proceeded to leave town, the only problem was that I went in the wrong direction. I didn’t realize this for three miles, and I had to backtrack.
The Pend Oreille River is wide, slow flowing and very flat along the area that I was now exploring, I was already in Priest River in my head but still a good forty miles to ride. According to my map, this section of the Northern Tier Route was very flat, but it didn't stop the insane headwind from blowing up the valley the whole time. At about mile 60 for the day, I stopped at a campsite to dip my head in the river. I met a man named Mike who was with his family and they were all riding their bikes around the empty campgrounds. He gave me a cold ginger ale and I told him about my trip. He informed me that the road ahead was torn up, nasty and muddy for 6 miles, so I had no idea how I was going to make it through. The incredibly generous man gave me a ride in his truck down the road through the nasty, rutty muck and let me off across the river from a town called Usk. He and his family were the only people around for many miles, and if I hadn’t talked to him then I would have had to walk for hours as it was extremely remote. This is the kind of situation where it is good to talk about what you are doing with strangers because you never know if you might need their help or if you might help them by relating your story. After being dropped off, I rode another 30 miles to a town called Priest River, bought a small, cheap bottle of scotch and slept at the campsite called “Mud Hole”. They had a bicycle site that only cost me three dollars and I built a fire, drank my well deserved scotch, and ate couscous. I had ample room to spread out and I enjoyed watching the sunset over the lake.
Life on the road was teaching me to cherish the little redeeming moments instead of focusing on the hard moments. That is what life is: a long series of moments that you can choose to be present in or absent from, you may choose to cherish them or throw them away but at the end of the day, when you close your eyes and go to sleep, the moments passed before you one after another.