A Trip Highlight!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006Anaconda to Lewiston. 330 miles (Hell’s Bend state park).
Finally my riding butt was coming back. It was getting easier and easier to put on the miles. The more I rode, the less frequently I looked down at the odometer. If my body was aching from riding I knew it because I'd constantly check the odometer to see if I’ve clocked the miles I needed before I let myself take a break. By the end of the trip I was riding 100-150 miles without stopping, and without even really looking to see how far I'd gone. I could focus on the journey.
That trophy yours?
The kid sat on his bicycle, looking up at me expectantly. He was referring to the motocross trophy in the room behind us, in the hotel’s breakfast area. That and the fact that I was loading up what looks like a big dirt bike. A logical enough conclusion if your world is as small as a child’s, or if your imagination is half as enterprising.
No, I smiled. Not me. Just riding through towards the Shalkaho pass.
Oh, he said. Watch out for the Georgetown area, lots of fires right now.
I nodded appreciatively at his solemn warning. I wouldn’t have given him much credit except that I had heard the same thing yesterday. The news was even less welcome now. Last thing I needed was to ride into the middle of a forest fire. I did that once already near the Andes in Argentina years ago. Knowing that you could be riding into a blaze big enough to kick across roadways and rivers and envelope everything in its way is more than a little nerve wracking.
The road towards the pass seemed fine and I saw no indications of fire over the hills so I decided to take the route, albeit cautiously. It was gorgeous. The ranges were gently graduated with small pine forests at their bases, like beards leading up to the balding peaks. A nice canyon opened up along the Pintler Scenic Route. Huge sheets of rock jutted at a 45 degree angle from the roadway, making striking geometrical images. At the end the stream that cut the canyon sprung from a cave through the rock, continuing it’s downward path.
I finally rounded the last of the paved road and hit the dirt pass. The way was nicely pressed and graded, wide enough for two cars at all points, and very well-maintained. Even the worst roads here are far better than most other places in the world. That’s the startling thing about the United States. We keep dirt roads around almost for nostalgic purposes. Because they’re not really dirt roads. They are too maintained, too tame, too… nice. It’s just a paved road without the asphalt. That’s why I was a bit shocked when I hit some small washboards. After everything bike has gone through in the 40,000+ miles I’ve ridden it, this was nothing. As I glided along over the slightly saw-toothed path I could imagine the bike saying don’t make me laugh.
A sign read: Shalkahoe Pass, elevation 7250 feet. The kid was right, there had been fire through here not too long ago as I saw some burned out patches in the treeline. I later learned that the whole valley on the Western side had been burned in the year 2000. This area was a literal (forgive me) hotbed of forest fires.
The desire to take these scenic roads may seem silly to some, especially since the way is so housebroken, as I just mentioned. After all, the back roads are slower, less comfortable, and if I should have a problem will result in much more inconvenient to get help or out get out. But somewhere down deep I was hoping to experience something different, something far out of my normal routine. The clichéd less-traveled road did not disappoint this day. I’d just finished taking a pit stop, and was coming around a corner when their appeared in my way what I’d hoped, but never thought I would see in the wild on this trip—a bear! He was a fat little juvenile, about as big as a St. Bernard, and he loped off the side of the road and scuttled down the edge of a steep hillside, his wide bottom bobbing ridiculously as he fumbled along. He stopped once or twice to look back at me with what I can only assume was curiousity, but kept moving so I had very little time. I rolled up in neutral and whipped out my camera, afraid to turn the bike off lest the little guy’s mother come charging from the tree line and catch me unaware. The camera was on full zoom and my hands were shaking in addition the motor’s vibration, but I managed to catch him. A pity that the autofocus picked a flower in the foreground as a target and he came out fuzzier than I’d hoped. But I got him, and I will never forget the excitement and wonder of that moment, seeing a wild bear live in front of me.
But what a thrill! I was shouting out loud in happiness on the bike. I couldn’t believe my luck. To get that kind of proximity to a creature like that, under those circumstance is next to impossible for many of us, as nature gets increasingly more corralled. Sure, there are tons of bears near human dwellings and in natural parks and you can see them, but this was on a mountain, and the dirt pass went through his turf. I caught him unaware, in his underpants walking through his living room, as it were. It was very special and unexpected. That’s why when I went around a corner soon after I nearly soiled myself when I thought I saw a grizzly. A huge-headed, enormous, and menacing grizzly reaching above himself to scratch at a tree trunk. I carefully slowed as I passed and then decided to risk riding back to look again, ready to blow past him if he started for me. Turned out to be a log fallen against a tree just so, to cast a perfect likeness of a grizzly scratching the bark near his head. What was I saying about an enterprising imagination?
The universe provides. That’s a saying I have been taking to lately and I really think it’s true. Sometimes just when you need it, the right thing comes along. I noticed the day before that my bike tire had a problem, and it needed to be addressed as soon as possible, but I didn’t really have the tools to do and needed a shop. So it was when I came over the pass and entered the little hamlet of Hamilton. I saw a place with a big Kawasaki sign and pulled in.Kelly and Rich were the manager and mechanic, respectively. I couldn’t have encountered two nicer guys to help me with the issues I’d had. I’d also been looking out for a Kawasaki P15 model police bike to get some photos up close and maybe even ride it for the book I was researching. Not only did they fix my bike up, but Kelly let me check out a customer’s P15 they had in for service, by the strangest of coincidences. While I had to make a needed pit stop I was able to kill another bird with the same stone. The universe’s timing is impeccable. The bike’s owner was a former police officer. He had had such fond memories of his service motorcycle that he just had to buy one for himself after he retired. I couldn’t have been more pleased as Kelly rolled it into the sunlight for me to pore over and take the photos I needed. I’m also not supposed to tell but I even got to sit on it. You rock Kelly!
Rich and the boys corrected the problem I discovered, which I was annoyed to learn I’d had since I left New York, where my new back tire was put on with the bead improperly set. This was fixed with what he called “a satisfying pop.” Rich also performed some other needed maintenance. He was a neat guy, he’d led a pretty full life for just having 30 years of age. Rich was married with two kids, raced trucks off road for fun, and had some scars to show his driving experience. He was in the army in North Carolina and flipped a truck. He put his arm out the window when it rolled, instinctively, almost as if to stop the truck’s roll with his bare hand, and you can imagine the result. I certainly can’t blame anyone for their reactions, God knows some of the less than brilliant things I’ve done without thinking, but Rich judged himself harshly and felt it was a pretty dumb thing to do upon reflection. He ended up with a two plates and fourteen screws and counted himself lucky to still have an arm.
Devon and KC were the two teenager brothers helping out in the place, doing the brunt of the less sexy tasks around the shop. Nice guys both, Devon planned to join the Marines and be a diesel mechanic. KC said he didn’t quite have it all figured out just yet. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t either, but I didn’t know if it would make him feel worse or better about his situation.
I left the crew and continued, and along the way I saw a big rock being eroded, chewed out from underneath by a stream. The boulder was a big as a shed, probably several hundred tons, laid out flat and slowly being eroded by the water so that it stood on a stilt extending down from it’s underbelly. Very, very cool and a great example of all the amazingly interesting things to see that aren’t even in national parks or on maps. While everything else has been going on in human history over the last hundred millennia, that rock and stream have slowly been playing their game, waiting for travelers to come along and bear witness to see who wins.
I rode on along Route 12, following both part of the Lewis and Clark Trail and the trail that marked the flight of the Nez Perce led by Chief Joseph. The road wound along mile after mile of beside a gorgeous river cut through a lush valley that was perfect for motorcycling. If this route wasn’t on the top ten list of motorcycle roads in the US, it should be. What an amazing ride.
posted by goat hill dreamer @ 11:17 PM
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