Miles: 48.8

Total Elevation Gain (ft): 636.5

Weather: Sunny, Warm

Hillbilly Insults: 1

Roadkill: 9 (1 Chipmunks, 1 Birds, 5 Rabbits 2 Skunks) 

Bugs Swallowed: 1

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

The Wind and the Sun were persuaded by Don King to have a rematch on pay-per-view to settle, once again, which was the stronger. They saw a weary cyclist coming down the road, and the Wind said: “Remember that vagrant wearing his winter coat in August?  That was a pretty cheap shot. Below the belt. An easy KO for you.  This time, whichever of us can cause that jackass to dismount off the bike shall be regarded as the stronger.  You begin.” 

So the Wind retired behind a cloud, and the Sun began to broil as hard as it could upon the cyclist, but the harder he tried, the more water the cyclist drank as he pedaled and thanked the sun for the hydration reminder.  The sun gave up in despair.

The wind came out and blew a mighty tailwind in all his glory upon the cyclist giving him a great boost.  Then swiftly and dastardly reversed the direction of air, creating s headwind so strong that the cyclist felt like an insect on flypaper.  Every rotation of the crank-arm pained each corpuscle in his body and the psychological effects were worse. Exhausted, cranky and sore, the cyclist stammered to a halt and got off the bike, clutching his intestines.  

Unfortunately, for the cyclist, this was a 12 round bout. Yet, he only stopped 10 times because the Sun, fearing the loss of the title belt, went into a rage in the 11th and bit the ear off of the wind.  DQ'ed and angry, the Sun flared and tore up a Vegas casino. 

George Carlin's "seven dirty words" looped in my head all day as I trudged through a headwind that was a tailwind just yesterday.  I'm just an eighth-grade educated Quaker boy and I'm befuddled how such a drastic change could happen so quickly.  The Chinook winds trounced, battered, shellacked and winnowed my efforts today.  I should have noted the omen when Katy said to me, "It's gonna be a short day, only 48 miles."   

Two-thirds of the way in, I needed a rest and took a long break on a Sioux reservation 12 miles from Wolf Point, MT.  I met Thomas Firemoon, a local entrepreneur, running a small convenience store.  He's a wunderkind;  former Navy, headed various store start-ups for Wal-Mart, acted as retail manager for 400 people and is a consultant to the flagging ALCO chain. Thomas' main interest is helping out the Sioux and we chatted about how treaty violations are still prevalent all these years after Sitting Bull's time. 

I asked if he had to pay taxes from his business to Uncle Sam and he nodded affirmatively. When I said "How does that square with the Sioux being a sovereign nation?," he smirked and we bid farewell.  

If any reader gets near Fort Peck, MT, stop by the Nakoda Trail Stop where friendly service isn't just an empty slogan.

I pushed my guts back in and slugged out the dozen or so miles to the end.  I asked Kathleen to find us any place in town where I could shovel pasta down my gullet. We ended up in a motel restaurant and while I waited over an hour for my Chef-Boyardee style chicken Parmesan with horrible service, it was as delectable as anything one would find in the best Parisian bistros.

Miles: 88.3

Total Elevation Gain (ft): 721.8

Weather: Mostly Sunny, Cool

Hillbilly Insults: 0

Roadkill: 15 (5Chipmunks, 4 Birds, 2 Skunks, 2 Snakes, 1 Raccoon, 1 Teddy Bear)  Bugs Swallowed: 0

Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

In 1993, Robert Townsend wrote, directed and starred in "The Meteor Man."  The film is about a reluctant superhero that gains extraordinary ability from an errant asteroid. He destroys crack houses using x-ray vision, superhuman strength and speed, invulnerability, freezing breath, telepathy with dogs and telekinesis.  Although he can take to the air, the Meteor Man never flies more than a few feet from the ground due to his fear of heights.  

I see a lot of roadkill when I ride and most of the time the victims are poor rodents.  I rarely see birds.  Not so through Eastern Montana. I wondered why these avian victims kept piling up, so I started paying attention to see if it was the same kind of bird getting hit. Sure enough, I put two and two together and figured it out, sort of.  I have to confess that I have a very limited knowledge of different bird and plant species.  To me, all birds are classified into three genera:  sparrow, pigeon and eagle.

I spent my boyhood in Brooklyn and the local "wildlife" in my neighborhood consisted of Latin trannies and plenty of pigeons. My grandmother would take me to feed stale breadcrumbs to sparrows while she'd yell the "dirty bastard rats with wings" away.  We didn't have any eagles, but I learned about birds of prey on Sesame Street and Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I can name obvious birds now, but my classification system works well enough for me.  I'm not a biologist, after all. Just a guy on a bike.  So, anything the size of a robin or smaller is a "sparrow."  All other birds that lack talons and sharp beaks are "pigeons." Yes, the albatross is a pigeon.  The predators are all "eagles."

So, back to Meteor Man.  

Miles and miles passed by and I stopped being startled by the birds frightened out of brush as I rolled by. One particular species of "sparrow" that looked like a smallish robin would take flight, but just inches off of the ground. This acrophobic bird made no attempt to get higher than a foot from whatever lie beneath it whether it was water, grass, gravel or the road.  Sure enough, it was the recurring remnants of these animals that I kept seeing splattered before me.  As I recalled Robert Townsend flying on the streets at the level of a four-door sedan, I spied one of these sparrows nearly taken out by a Honda Civic.  I cried out, "Evolve!  Spread your wings and fly!  Get above ten feet for Chrissakes!"

Yep, the sun beating down on me, dehydration and denial of discomfort give me time to embrace absurdity.  I wonder how I'll turn out when the kids commit me to the dementia ward one day.

28 miles into the ride, I took a break at the Town Pump in Chinook, MT.  It's 40 miles short of the Canadian border where following a five-day battle and siege, the Nez Perce gave in to Whitey and stopped fighting around the  Bear Paw mountains in 1877 and Chief Joseph gave his immortal speech: "From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever."  Now the place has a mostly abandoned main street, a couple of bars/casinos and a kwiki-mart.  

"Hey, where you from?!  Is that a Hawkeye Jersey?  We passed you yesterday out of Browning and honked at you. You know, in the white car," a voice rang out when I was about to remount.  

It was Ida Mountain Chief, a friend of Genevieve Cochran.  This friendly duo, recent basketball playing grads of a nearby tribal college, stopped to ask me about the ride.  Genevieve told me to stop by her place in Harlem, MT as she's listed on the Warm Showers App.  It was a kind gesture, but not far enough to justify the stop. She gave me good advice about the only place to stop in Dodson (The Cowboy Bar) and let me know that the swarm of mosquitoes would grow thicker.  

Man, she was right. If I stepped off the bike to take a picture, let water or adjust something, I'd be blessed with a dark halo and no fewer than a dozen bloodsuckers on each leg and arm.  The ride into Malta near dusk was disgusting.

Felix attends Pine Ridge Elementary School, home of the fighting Pine Martens.  There's a kid a grade or two above him named Destiny Thunderhawk.  I'm pretty sure she's just an Oregonian or a transplant from California with interesting parents, but now I'm not so sure.  

I made my second stop 52 miles into the effort at the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation kwiki-mart.  It was a bit run down and had no place to sit. The nice young woman behind the counter said, "You can go outside to the smoking hut on the side, there's a bench, but I'm not sure if there are any drunks back there."  I decided to loiter near the register with my cherry Slush Puppy and began to read the Xeroxed copy of the Hay's Newsletter.

I flipped the pages and took a look at the Hay's Elementary School Honor Roll and discovered that Western names are boring. The kids that made the list had the most excellent appellations.

Aiyana Has The Eagle.  Nature Andrew Bracelet.  Mulleeah Stiffarm.  Madison Plainfeather.  Amil Has The Eagle.  Wait, who has the eagle?  I'm confused.  I'm thinking about renaming my kids: FeliXbox Minecraft Addict and Camille Shortfeather Flipflop.  

Anaconda, Harlem, Malta, Zurich, Glasgow. The town names along the highway continue to baffle me.

The Canadians refer to the aboriginal people as First Nations--the tribes that had Christianity and Christians thrust upon them.  It wasn't until 2008 when Stephen Harper, the Canadian Prime Minister, delivered an apology to tens of thousands of indigenous people who were kidnapped as children and sent to boarding schools. Many were abused as part of the official government policy to "kill the Indian in the child."

So much for the polite Canadian stereotype!

While the apology came with a $2B settlement, no one was going overboard and giving any territory back to the First Nations.  "First" just denotes an honorary title.  Its kind of like my Premier Class status with United Airlines.  Most of the time, my "Premier" boarding pass has bold print at the bottom that reads "GROUP 4."

The new owners of the Northern section of the Waterton International Peace Park in Canada are quite welcoming.  I gotta say, despite their past genocidal transgressions, the folks in Waterton measure up to the mannerly Canadian stereotype I've grown accustomed to.

We took a tour of Many Glacier before crossing the border for a stop at the Prince of Wales hotel.  It sits atop a ridge at one end of Middle Waterton Lake which is also at the tip of a valley. It resembled a fjord.  When I walked to one side of the joint, the winds pushed me back. Felix had fun trying to stand on large rocks without being blown off.

Camille decided to get all jingoistic and bought a maple leaf cap to "represent."  It was only after her purchase when she asked if we were in another country.  I told her we were in the 51st state.  She's easy to fool, for now. We've convinced her for the last 36 months that she's a year older than she actually is, so she wouldn't blow our cover for putting her in private school early. Dumb kid!

Yet, Camille gets all the props today for being sworn in as a Junior Ranger. Unlike her delinquent brother, she took the advanced course and chose not to dally with the exercises in the pee-wee book.  She stuffed the questions like LeBron James in Game 7 and emerged victorious with her badge. Way to go Milly!

I swooned when a couple of fit, young Canuck women told us that we seem "blended" and "get it."  They were saying that we didn't fit the ugly American stereotype.  It might have been because we're fans of the CBC or Camille's hat, but wait until they read this post's intro, eh?  I've probably ruined my metropolite persona.

Tomorrow my lethargy ends. So does the unnecessary gluttony.  Any weight loss from the first few hundred miles was replaced by pie, glorious pie. 

Peach pie. 

Huckleberry pie. 

Saskatoon pie. 

Mixed berry pie. 

Strawberry Rhubarb pie. 

  

With ice cream. What is pie sans a la mode?  It's gateau merde, that's what. 

My tan has abated too.  The golden farmer sheen hiding my many flaws has returned to the lumpy white finish of an aging mongrel.   Curses to clouds, air-conditioning, auto transport and those hours spent watching the Oxygen network!

Pedaling starts again in earnest tomorrow.  The mini-vacation with the family is at an end. I'm hoping to persuade them to endure the boring high plains for just a couple of days so I can ride the most jealous of my mistresses: the Colnago CLX.--another bike I am wholly unworthy of. 

I'm ambivalent about the ride tomorrow. The anxiousness I had about churning miles each day has passed and I'm gonna miss the family and all of that exorbitant pie. Oh God, the pie up here.  It's better than the cat's ass, I mean it.  

Speaking of the feline backside is a reminder that my own keister has healed nicely from the break.  Now, it's time to render it on the meat-grinding saddle. I think heat is a big factor for derrière issues, so the call for cool rain should help in one area and make me suffer in others. 

What lies ahead on Highway 2 East through Montana and North Dakota looks like an eternal slog through prairie and Chinook wind. I hope that the castigation of the White Man in this blog puts the breeze at my back

Enough babbling for tonight. Now, I dream of mountains and pie...or mountains of pie and friendly truckers that yield me a little more room than the shoulder allows.

I was surprised that the visitor center with friendly park rangers reserved a corner of their building for what amounts to an Indian protest exhibit next to the gift shop.  It was moving to read that the Blackfeet lament that they "only sold the rocks" to the government and that they will outlive the capitalists.  It's going to be a long time coming the way the stuffed animal and poster sales were going today. Isn't it odd that we are now selling trinkets to ourselves?

We took a ride to the top of Logan Pass and skipped hiking. There was a torrential downpour all day. Felix was glad we had thunderstorms because he says the bugs are eating him alive when we march through the woods.  By that, he means that he has two mosquito bites.

My son still took the time to do the absurd minimum to become a Junior Park Ranger. He's certified in three parks now, but if you asked him for a tour you'd be hard pressed to get past the snack shops and trinket dispensaries.

After a hearty lunch of pie at the Park Cafe, we holed up in our tiny cabin for most of the day and night. The thunder clapped and once again, I was forever thankful to our Lord for the divine gifts of iPads, Kindles and coloring books. Without them, I think we'd have a cannibal mutiny on our hands.

Miles: 0 

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  0

Spouses Present: 1, still

Precocious kids in tow: 2

Phwaaaap!

Lightning and thunder today.  A big storm rolled through St. Mary Lake, the site of our cabin in the woods. The kids hunkered down in their bunks as if it were the London blitz. 

"I don't like thunderstorms Dad!," said Felix sternly.  He still recalls the biblical weather in Kansas. Since moving to Oregon, we haven't experienced fiercely inclement weather. 

It was a lazy day at the campsite.  Holed up in our quaint shack, we had a couple of meals, got needed rest and pored over our electronic devices.  Roughing it was never so easy. I'm sure there are parents frowning upon our kid's allowance of digital heroin, but they can get bent.  Without such magnificent gadgets, I wouldn't have the neat manga framed montage Camille put together (posted).  It made my day.

Tomorrow we'll try to get to Many Glacier and ask the Blackfoot spirits to part the clouds.

Miles: 8 (Hiking)

Total Elevation Gain (ft):  700

Spouses Present: 1 (Utah was last summer)

Precocious kids in tow: 2

"We're a no stopping talking family, aren't we?!" shouted little Margaret Cho on the Avalanche Trail.  

My daughter, Camille, must have read "Know Your Bears" which says that obnoxious squabbling is the best deterrent against Grizzlies. 

Two million hairless apes visit the park each year and only 10 have been killed by bears since 1910.  The number one killer?  The rivers and streams.   Heart attacks, number two.  Bears rank fifth on the list.  The bears just capture the imagination here, like werewolves, zombies and Sasquatch.  So, all of the warning signs and stories feed the hype.

The kids fared well today, especially Camille.  She's recovering from a broken leg but she soldiered our 8 miles of hiking today, half of which was climbing.  The only danger we faced was an errant rock that ricocheted off of a tree into Katy's chest for a nice welt. The culprit was Felix and the slingshot he was wielding.

 We're moving to the East side tomorrow, where the park rangers say the views are more grand.  We marveled with mouths open at nature's bounty today. Perhaps, I'll shed a single tear tomorrow just like Iron Eyes Cody in that Keep America Beautiful commercial.

I suppose the cycle tour will start up again in a couple of days. I've got to make it to the airport in Dickinson, ND by July 2nd or 3rd to hop a flight to a very special wedding.

The view of a gargantuan mountain range outside my motel room just couldn't compete with the Oxygen Network on the free cable today. I endured the sappy unrealistic coupling of pre-gerbil Richard Gere to Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman" while simultaneously flipping to CNN's Anderson Cooper somberly interviewing a transgendered Navy Seal.

While I prefer being unplugged from media on this journey, my feral transformation is not complete. Like a junkie getting a long awaited fix, I enjoyed hours of offal served up on the outdated Braun tube. I've been looking at mountains and waterfalls for days. Yawn. There's even more spectacular nature to come and, really, who can resist the proto-"Fifty Shades of Grey?" Not me, that's for sure.

All of the slothfulness threw me into a near anxiety attack this evening. The feeling that I wasn't progressing made me jumpy. I don't like the feeling that this trip is my "job" now and I'm trying to shake it. I think when Katy gets here with the kids tomorrow, I'll feel better about this multiple day hiatus.

I calmed myself a bit by riding a few miles to Columbus Falls. I yakked with a family setting up a yard sale and took pictures of their chickens and enormous house cat. Then I had dinner in a Chinese restaurant that serves cheeseburgers and Philly cheesesteaks. It's a post-post modern world.

Since I'm rambling, I want to take a moment to mention that Montanans are good. In my book "good" transcends "nice." Nice people care if you like them; good people care about you. Nice people stretch the truth; good people don’t. Around here, there's a real lack of malicious affability. The stuff I find in people that know I have a credit card.

I expect authenticity and giving personalities in folks, so I do my best to be sincerely friendly. Its been a love fest in Montana because of the reciprocity of good will. If you look in any direction, you come to realize that people out here have it made whether they live in a shack or own palatial ranches like the crusty killionaire, Ted Turner. There isn't much to be churlish about.

As I settle in for the night and see the talking heads rage on Fox and MSNBC, I'm thankful that my wife, kids and mom have encouraged me to be a bum this summer. The blissful ignorance I'm acquiring gives me a smile that could power a third world country, or a Lionel train set, at least. I cherish the rare domestic circumstance I'm in. It's priceless. I know many less fortunate fellas that are scrotally anchored in a vice.

Oh boy, gotta go! The best of Oprah is gonna start in a minute.

Miles: 41.2. Total Elevation Gain (ft): 905.5 Weather: Rainy, Mostly Cloudy, Cool
Hillbilly Insults: 0
Roadkill: 0 Bugs Swallowed: 0
Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Just as a cheesesteak is in your face, so are Philadelphians. Hot and spicy, they confront you with their boldness. Unwieldy and sloppy, they challenge you to react. I found this refreshing attribute in my host Joe, the proprietor of the Swan Lake Trading Post. Along with his affable wife Jocelyn, they've been running the place for twelve years.

It was getting dark and I saw a tattered Eagles flag flying at half mast above a tiny general store. I needed to stop riding and it was worth investigating why such a symbol of East Coast acrimony was flapping wildly in remote bear country. I arrived after hours, but Joe and Jocelyn greeted me and showed me around their place. They put me up in a new cabin, gave me keys to the shower and laundry and I was set.

Jocelyn is native to Seattle, and her friendly, refined nature matches that of her city. Iconic Joe is one if the friendliest chaps I've met, but I surmise that during a game against, say, the Giants, this Eagles fan can be pessimistic, obnoxious, uncultured and disagreeable. I never asked whether he threw beer at other teams when he was a season ticket holder. i witnessed that several times at old Veterans Stadium. Philly football culture is rooted in the violence of the sport, not the new sissyfied pansy-assed NFL foisted upon us by that mountebank, Roger Goodell.

Joe knows that in nicer cities, where the people are polite and smart, they eat salads ... and they are bored. So, South Philly to the core, he serves up a hefty breakfast sandwich that would do any cheesesteak fan proud. I had mine sitting at the counter, but it's made to be wolfed down while standing up, preferably on a curb next to an idling Chevy.

Needless to say, I recommend a stay or a stop at the Swan Lake Trading Post. Here's their vital information:

http://www.swanlaketradingandcampground.com/

As I left, Joe whipped out his Eagles green vuvuzela and blared the horn upon my departure. He's honorably added to my Philadelphia Honor Roll of John Chaney, the Phantom Rider, Ben Franklin and other irascibly contentious people who add spice to life.

I was a couple of miles down the road when a green pick up truck sped by, then pulled in front of me on the shoulder. It was Joe. He saw that I left a receipt and Jocelyn's handwritten directions to my next stop on the counter. It was a hand delivery. Swell guy.

By the way, Joe, I'll take mine wid.

I don't think that Western Montana has the vitriolic type of Christianity I grew up around in Kansas. I moved from Brooklyn to the Bible Belt around age ten and observed the most daring liars denounce science and fact in favor of buffoonery for almost three decades. It was pure entertainment for me as I got to spar with and skewer my peers as they embraced the corporate buddy Jesus. Nonetheless, it was a surprise when I came upon the sign pictured below. I'm pretty sure that Christ doesn't need a state by state referendum mimicking the marijuana debate.

The ride today was pretty short, but I had to stop at the nearest place to Glacier National Park as I await the arrival of Katy, Felix and Camille. It turns out that I shouldn't have been so ambitious yesterday. I'll use the time to idle and relax in the condo like motel I stumbled upon. It will be the place the whole family can rest before camping.

I met a couple of young forest ranger/ecologists. They trap female grizzly bears for a living and take important measurements. They let me know that the area I rode through outranks the park for bear populations. Apparently, there's about one black or grizzly bear per square mile throughout the valley. They reassured me that I'd probably have no encounters.

Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events that are apparently unrelated, yet are experienced as occurring together in a meaningful manner. It was first described by Carl Jung in the 1920s.
--Wikipedia

Okay, it's just a bit of a reach, but today's big coincidental bonus is that my Aunt Debbie, Uncle John and their friend Liza were visiting Glacier Park today. They've come up from Naples, FL. What are the chances?! Skeptical stat wonks will scoff at my wonder, but the hell with those choates.

John picked me up by car and we all had dinner in tiny Columbia Falls. It was a blast as we discussed our family psychosis and educated Liza about hoarders, rageaholics, and the outrageous property tax rates in New Jersey. I'm sure she was riveted.

Tomorrow will be a pedestrian day of sloth. Yippee!

Miles: 31.2 Total Elevation Gain (ft): 1115.5 Weather: Sunny, Temperate
Hillbilly Insults: 0
Roadkill: 3 (1 Bird, 1 Ground Squirrel, 1 Unknown) Bugs Swallowed: 0
Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Staying in the experimental forest is like being in the romanticized versions of summer camp I'd watch on ABC After School Specials.
It's conference center, cabins, recreation and dining hall are nestled in the woods. Congenial staff and grad students do earnest work and the place also supports Job Corps and forestry fire training.

It's a sure sign that my Geritol, prune juice, diaper wearing years approach as the young Job Corps and firefighter trainees call me "sir." What's worse is that this measure of politeness is genuine and not forced. I guess I'm not one of the cool kids anymore. I sense that they can just smell my decline. Sigh.

I chose to rent a cabin since the weather called for rain. It was a good call, as it hasn't let up yet this morning. Adventure Cycling makes scant mention of the Lubrecht project, but should emphasize it a bit more. It was a pleasant surprise. If anyone makes it to this area outside of Missoula, Check out their information here:

http://www.cfc.umt.edu/Lubrecht/

I swiped some WiFi from the conference center here and met a couple of affable U of M grads. Eryn and her assistant Christy are performing ecology PhD work in the woods. They make camp for four days and pack out for Missoula week after week. Our conversation quickly turned to questions about the best gear for camping, bikes, college mascots and Christy's fabulous dog, Diesel. The three of them are pictured below. (If you get a chance to read this Eryn and Christy, my offer to host you in Bend still stands. Feel free to bring the dog.)

It was a short ride and a nice day. The new hobo design seems to be working well on the Fargo. It will be a new test today to see how it all performs in my first day of rain.

Onto Big Fork, hopefully.

Many towns out West label themselves “outdoor” towns—suggesting a populace eager to bike, run, ski, paddle, hunt, fish, hike, backpack, float and camp. Missoula, is one of these places, but it has a spirit that distinguishes it from the rest. It's reputation as a haven for seething, crazed liberals is evident on the streets. Hippies chortle on acoustic guitars, fanzine flyers cover telephone poles and head shops and trendy cafes abound. This is, after all, a university town that exudes tolerance for everyone.

It seems too cold for me, but children and adults are already floating the rushing Clark Fork River on inner tubes. A white-water pool was constructed right beneath the downtown bridge, where one can stop and watch kayakers and surfers practice in the standing wave. Pretty cool to see surfers in the middle of Montana.

Spent time putting on a new seat and configuring my bike without rear panniers. My bungee hobo setup experiment is about to begin. Then I hung out with the Adventure Cycling folks. Justin, whom works there, grabbed me and took me to the Iowa "shrine" in the office. He's a native of Iowa City and really dug my Hawkeye Jersey.

I had some fitful sleep after listening to this earth mother carry on and on about grizzly bears eating out the guts of her friend a few years ago. She went on and on with one gory story after another. Bears are a threat, but the locals told me that this woman was a bit off the plot. So, now I have to decide if I want to lug around a heavy can of bear spray. Damn.

Just finished lunch at Five on Black, a rice bowl joint, to fuel up on my trek out of here. One of the employees, a young Grizzly Adams dude, asked if I needed a place to stay and took genuine interest in my tour. He's setting out on one this weekend around Glacier.

Overall, Missoula gets a thumbs way up! I'll be back again, soon.