Happy Fathers's Day, Pop!

It was one of the best I've had as a father. Katy, Felix and Camille arrived after their long drive. The kids were already amped up like ferrets on crack, but they put on afterburners when they discovered the waterslide park and redneck mini-golf beside the Western Inn. Nevermind the mountains. If you read my post yesterday, you can see that these are truly my kids. I'm so proud.

Camille exclaimed, "Daddy, guess what?! It was a long trip but I didn't vomit once."

We gorged ourselves on a holiday buffet and set out for a "lazy" afternoon at the low-rent waterpark. I stopped sliding after being jettisoned out the "Comanche" water cannon. It's hard on white devil tourists.

Later, Felix made a fire and dinner was served. Costco hot dogs and S'mores. I prefer Smos--just marshmallow and cracker. It was a fine day. I really miss the constant hum of my bickering brood.

I'll do a bit of riding over the next few days, but mainly for the scenery around Glacier. The whole family unit hits the West side for a day trip tomorrow and then we'll spend more time on the more scenic East side and Canada. I'll throw down the appropriate gang signs at all the right places and blare Tupac (I ain't mad at ya!) tomorrow and Suge the rest of the week. R.I.P. Respect.

Tippin' a 40 to all my friends in that gangsta lean at McDonald Lake, presently.

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 Like a junkie getting a long awaited fix, I enjoyed hours of offal served up on the outdated Braun tube.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: 81.9 Total Elevation Gain (ft): 1876.6. Weather: Rainy, Mostly Cloudy, Cool
Hillbilly Insults: 0
Roadkill: 0 Bugs Swallowed: 0
Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Does a bear shit in the woods?

Racing down the valley between the ridge of the Swan Mountains to the East and the wind-torn cliffs of the Mission Mountains to the West, I pondered this age-old rhetorical question. This is prime Grizzly country and my solo venture was filled with irrational fear.

It didn't help when my friendly SAG hosts, Larry and Patty, pulled out the graphic below. The yellow streaks illustrate GPS bear movement all over State Highway 83--my route. This reminder was trumped by knowing the odds of being mauled are pretty remote, but I did pedal a bit faster as if it made a difference. Deer, which are always standing in the road around corners, gave me surging adrenaline rushes all day. I assumed anything with fur was a bear waiting to perform a vivisection on my flabby frame.

Yet, my level of fear was trivial compared to my rekindled faith in humanity. I think I'll always be a misanthrope but this trip is softening my rough edges. I was checking my map at a local grocer in some village when a congenial couple, Larry and Patty, invited me to stay the night in their log cabin. Condon, MT was about 25 miles away, so I'd pass through their town too early, but I did stop by after a late lunch to chat a while.

Patty and Larry are young retirees and spend time between Missoula and their cabin in the woods. If you know me, you can imagine the thrill I got when Larry showed off his old outhouse and his new electric toilet. You heard right, electric. A human cat box. Instead of flushing, press a button and presto! The offending matter is incinerated into ash. Sustainability freaks should campaign to get these in every household. Gaia's life giving water will be spared the sewer.

I put in a much longer day than I expected. I think the early morning showers jolted me upright. Thank heavens for waterproof socks. See the separate entry endorsing them against trench foot under "Gear," later.

Vacationers take note: While Glacier National Park is the H-Bomb of outdoor places to visit, the locals know that avoiding the interstate and taking Highway 83 from Missoula Northbound, is like having a 120 mile Road to the Sun without all the traffic, tour buses and pasty Europeans. It took me through
the Lolo, Flathead and Swan National Forests. The pictures say it all and they were shot haphazardly with an iPhone. I didn't make stops for the best lakes, streams and mountains. I was too busy outrunning Smoky and praying for a bear whisperer like that buffoon Grizzly Adams to appear. He didn't.

Tomorrow, I plan to deviate from the Adventure Cycling Route. I'm staying on the Grizzly Hwy 83 to Columbia Falls, rather than getting close to the interstate and the relatively pedestrian and suburban Kalispell, MT.

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.

Karl Marx was a miserable man who despised bourgeois conventions and advocated class warfare. His motivation for this wasn't generated by his experience in German sweatshops, but because he was afflicted with carbuncles. His affliction made it hard for him to work, which made his wretched poverty worse and destroyed his self-esteem.

I can't relate to the fist sized boils that Marx wrote about in his journals, but I can empathize with his discomfort from my experience. Yet, unlike curmudgeonly Karl, I refuse to yield to painful bacterial growths on my posterior from all of the grinding and chafing on tour. I'm already living like a vagabond, so I don't want some furuncles driving me to madness and communism on this trek. That's why I abide by an absolute standard that my bibs and chamois are removed as quickly as possible after a rude and washed, with river water if need be.

I know people sporting shorts that are two and three days into biothermal activity. These microbial composting ass-dungeons are doing Satan's work on thriftier riders. I heard a few of them lamenting about their saddle sores today in the Adventure Cycling lounge.

There's no way to eradicate soreness and raspy bumps from long distance riding. It's like herpes and Afghanistan: it just keeps coming back again and again. So, when denial gives way to acceptance my strategy for dealing with the scourge involves the following:

1: Washing

If a washing machine and enough quarters are available, it's easy to clean up. If not, any sink or basin will do. I carry a flat rubber drain cover so that I can build a washtub. Then I use Tide hand washing packets that work wonders with just a bit of agitation.

2. Ointments!

A man must have his topical creams. There are folks that swear by commercial cycling products like Chamois Butt'r, but I find the stuff too viscous and water soluble. A thick dollop if Balmex diaper rash salve coupled with some narcotics does the trick for me.

I discovered lidocaine ointment from an Englishman during the Paris-Brest-Paris super randonee whilst toiling at the 600 mile mark. Dr. Feelgood kept me going with a generous helping from his stash. I learned that Europeans, unlike Yanks, are allowed to buy pharmaceuticals without a prescription. Since then, I've legally used my connections to doctor friends to get my derrière drugs.

EMLA is used in dentistry for chancre sores, but wirks little wonders. Unfortunately, it comes in little tubes. Hence, when I can get it, I stock up on a 2.5% prilocaine/2.5% lidocaine generic cream in the largest vessel I can find. I have one of my cartel connections sending an Rx to a Missoula Safeway for pick up tomorrow. I'm stockpiling for the spartan land mass that lies ahead.

Balmex and EMLA is a winning combination that doesn't cure saddle soreness, but masks the problem enough to put a chafed man back in the saddle. While not as effective, the numbing agents in Vagisil and Preparation-H offer some relief, but fade so so quickly that it's probably not worth the effort but for a placebo effect.

"The bourgeoisie will remember my carbuncles until their dying day," Marx told Friedrich Engels in a letter from 1867. He was probably wrong about that, but I hope this posting will help his acrid legacy live on just a bit longer.

Hello Mountain Time! One time zone down, three to go.

The climb up and over the summit of Lolo Pass, ID was a steady 13 mile climb. It required effort, but nothing the lightning Felt 25 couldn't handle. The engine on the bike had a harder time pushing through strong headwinds on the long descent into Missoula past randomly placed giant boulders scattered about from the ice dam break of Missoula Lake about eleventy-jillion years ago. This flood of biblical proportions created some of the most unusual formations along the scablands of Washington and throughout Montana. Just thinking about it reminds me that my bladder is about to burst from the gallon of water, tea and Coca-Cola I've consumed.

I meet Hyeong-Joong Park at the top of Lolo pass. He's a young cyclotourist from Korea making his way to Richmond, VA. He calls his journey the Project D-7000 Dream. It's his first time in America and he says, in a very impressed way, that we have "great big hills and big stomachs!" Right on Park! USA #1.

His tour pamphlet of information is impressive. My favorite lines of his life goals include:

"to maker handmade shoes" (sic)

"if there is a time machine, I want to meet someone"

"every year to take a picture with younger brother"

Park reminds me of the young idealistic professionals I worked with at Samsung in Seoul. He's surprised when I tell him that Katy and I have adopted Camille from Korea. He teaches us how to correctly pronunciate "Ji-Hyeon," Camille's Chosongul name.

We arrive late afternoon in Missoula. Katy is the first to notice that there are more people on bicycles than in Bend. Although they have a smaller population, Missoulians are riding every imaginable two and three-wheeled contraption up and down the streets. They even have a bike parking problem on the sidewalks.

The velocipedes are piloted by attractive young women with bright tattoos and men sporting the high and low fashion of the 19th Century. The place is teeming with waxed mustachioed chaps with the stereotypical uninformed well-manicured political opinions one would expect of the tragically hip.

These new bohemians are home grown and transplanted from "Williamsburg," downtown Seattle and H.G. Well's time machine. I suspect they toil as buskers, affinity marketers and "local" chickeneers. I love these young poltroons and this town. So much to see and do and ridicule.

We finish the day having dinner and redesigning the load on the Fargo. I'm dumping some gear and forgoing the big rear panniers for a hobo system of bungee cords and dry stuff sacks. If it works, I'll shed nearly ten pounds and a portion of the wind catcher I had before. Crossing my fingers.

I lose the finest butler one could hope for as Katy heads back to attend to Felix and Camille as school ends. I'm making the transition back to the solo slog by taking a rest day tomorrow followed by a plodding path North to Glacier National Park. Katy us planning on rejoining me with the kids to enjoy Montana and camping. I don't want to get there too fast, lest I blow a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Farewell, ma tete de chou! Thanks for the companionship and for making it "easy" over the weekend. It was a great time. Much love.

Tomorrow, a prolonged observation of Missoula.

Addenda:

To the gentleman inquiring what was meant by my cycle touring calling card:

"Citizen Adventurist" was just what popped in mind when I wanted to give myself a title. It was better than, "Ride Coordinator" or "CEO" for just one guy. It also makes no pretense of special credentials, although "Citizen" did connote very special status in Ancient Rome.

Miles: 188
Total Elevation Gain (ft): 5146.
Weather: Sunny, Warm
Hillbilly Insults: 2
Roadkill: 4 (3 Birds, 1 Ground Squirrel) Bugs Swallowed: 1
Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Highway 12 through the Clearwater National forest offers up exquisite views of the Bitteroot Mountains with the rapid whitewater of the Clearwater River winding through for seemingly endless miles. Hey look! Over there. I can see Brad Pitt flyfishing!

The Fargo was mothballed for another day while I took some ground with the nimble, racy Felt. I marvel that this 17.5 lb. machine can support my pantload of a body. As it rattled during some 40 mph drops, I reassured myself that we have good insurance for Katy and the kids. (Theresa, if your reading this, remember that you're in charge as the legal guardian. Be sure Camille gets deprogrammed after being in parochial school for two years.)

The Nez Perce called this home until they were forced to live on a sardine can sized reservation near Kooskia, ID. Lewis and Clark named a lot of the places around here. Most of them sound like condescending phonetic versions of the indigenous tongue. If you run them together it sounds like a Frank Sinatra scat at the Sands: "Koo Koo Kamiah Kooski, that lady's a tramp!"

The Corps of Discovery were nearly starved to death when the Nez Perce nursed them back to health here in 1806. In exchange for a couple of daggers and trinkets, the native folks watched after Lewis and Clark's horses until they returned from their trek Westward.

Of course, the Indians should have staved off their inevitable holocaust by eating the entire expedition like their brethren had been doing elsewhere, but it was a happier, friendlier time. It wasn't until 1866 when the Nez Perce and the Feds were in a full blown war as far East as middle Montana. Uncle Cracker and Christian missionaries emerged victorious. That's why I get to pedal through this scenery on pavement. PTL and God Bless America. I hear a Brad Paisley song coming in in my head.

Most of the Nez Perce high-tailed it to be with Tory sympathizers in Canada, where they are now called "First Nations" and treated slightly less crappily.

We made camp in Clearwater National Park, lit a fire and chummed one of my freeze dried dinners. Beef stew with instant Idaho brand mashed potatoes. We shoveled down our bounty out of the same gruel cup. It was delicious.

We had just one sleeping bag, a polyester blanket and pad between the both of us. After playing "Gift of the Magi" and splitting the supplies, Katy and I were freezing and damp. So, we set up a nice arrangement for her and I roughed it with the car heater, a Camelbak for a blanket and my Kraft "portable toilet" invention. Slept fine.

Miles: 84.80
Total Elevation Gain (ft): 4158
Weather: Sunny, Hot
Hillbilly Insults: 0
Roadkill: 10 (4 Birds, 2 Snakes, 1 Chipmunk, 1 Mouse, 2 Unknown)
Bugs Swallowed: 0
Mean Dogs Chasing: 0

Tour Highlight: Ferdinand, Idaho. Population 145

Trust me, Ferdinand is a gem nestled in Northern Idaho, "above the Mexicans and Mormons," as my new friend Hooker, the 75 year old cowboy says.

Ferdinand was a pit stop that became an overnight stay. This place has it all; a squeaky clean bar and grill called Trestle Brewing at the Halfway Club; "Hooker," the aforementioned icon; nice dogs and the "chateau" that we were invited to stay in overnight, for free.

Mike and Kim, the proprietors of Trestle Brewing, are top shelf. Those of you that know me are familiar with my non-religious teetotaling ways, but tonight is a rare exception. There is a je ne sais quoi about this joint. So, as the night progresses and we all trade rounds, I know it's gonna be a late start tomorrow. I'll probably shout curses when the real climbing over the Lolo Pass commences.

The spartan territory of SE Washington gave way to the canola fields and foothill mountains of Lawyer Canyon, Idaho. The Rockies are looming and ready to kick my ass tomorrow. I got a taste of it today climbing out of the town Cul-de-Sac, where the townsfolk were celebrating Shebang Days, a festival of bluegrass, local food and rebel flag hats for women. I have no idea how the "War of Aggression" against the South had an impact way up here. Oh, well.

Its been great having Katy with me with the assist. Besides the company, it's been swell having my sexy beast of a mistress to ride: The 17 lb. Felt Z-25. It'll be hard climbing back on the old reliable 70 lb. Fargo after this. The Felt sounded and felt like a toy during today's grind.

Getting close to Missoula and the Mecca of touring cyclists--Adventure Cycling's headquarters.