sturgeon

Sept. 25, 2009

An RV pulled over on the side of the interstate. Someone burst through the door and sprinted towards me. My jaw dropped. It was Stefanie: the fiddler from Baker City. Some friends were taking her and her husband to play at a Blue Grass music festival in Central Oregon. We had a hug-filled reunion with snapping cameras and semis rumbling by.

Moments after they pulled off, I felt my bike slow as my back tire lost all its air. I figured the funky patch I’d gotten from the hardware stove the night before had given out. All we had left were funky patches. (It turns out, it was just another hole. I could have patched it; but fate was taking us fishing). We stuck out our thumb to get to the next bike shop.

Another RV pulled over; this one toting a boat. The fisherman, Steve, helped us load our bikes. “I have room in the boat if you want to join me sturgeon fishing today,” he invited. It took an iota of thought. Steve bought us day licenses and we headed to the Columbia. Minutes after casting out, we got a bite. Twenty minutes later, with sweat dripping and a fresh blister on my thumb, I pulled an 8-foot prehistoric sturgeon to the stern. Unreal.

We made turkey sandwiches, drank beer and Gatorade, and relaxed in the sunshine between battles with monster fish that we wide-eyed stared at before releasing back into the river.

At the end of the day, we all decided that was the best flat we had ever had.

my trail

Sept. 25, 2009

I left behind an obese book about the Mississippi River in Baton Rouge with my Cajun third cousin-in-law. After deciding my Chaco sandals could do it all, I gave my New Balance tennies to Pam in St. Francisville, LA. My extra water bottle, with the WWOZ sticker, found a new home in Marksville, LA with the "coonasses," Penny and O'Neil. My red and maroon biking shirts--both uncomfortably short--I gifted to Grace in Giddings, TX, along with my mustard yellow knitting yarn. At the Ashram in Taos, NM, I donated 18 neon combs, since the dollar store only sold 20-packs. In Albuquerque, after buying and reading "Semi-Native"--a book about New Mexicanisms--I placed it on a shelf in the Beekeepers' library. I accidentally passed on my razor to the Couchsurfers in Flagstaff, AZ. I placed an extra pair of sunglasses on a park bench in Boise and another on a tree branch in Arlingson, OR because Bree keeps finding me cooler pairs along the road. Yesterday, we left our mixed "NOLA Jams" CD with Katherine in Pendleton, OR--a woman we met at a coffeeshop who invited us to crash in her beautiful Harley-themed home. Twenty-seven other people along the route might be listening to that CD, too. Our gift of gratitude.

yankee doodle

Sept. 23, 2009

I shivered through four layers, yet somehow her bare fingers moved. Up and down the neck of the fiddle. “Amazing grace…” We already ate pizza, drank tea, and were on to Peanut Butter Cups…under the stars in the bitter Eastern Oregon air, while Stefanie took us back 100 years.

We met Michael and Stefanie in Baker City, OR’s bookstore. Bree asked if we could pitch a tent in their yard. We followed them, each of us on a bike, to their single-story house with a flock of quail in the front. The grass was cut short. We set up in the corner. They left and returned with pizza. Extra cheese. We made chamomile tea on our stove. Stefanie tapped her toe to her melody and beamed a genuine “cowgirl” smile.

In the morning they had doughnuts for us and tips for scenic rides. Generosity despite being unemployed…

A couple miles outside of La Grande a man was standing next to his parked truck. “I’m Jack Boyd,” he said as I approached. “Just wanted to make sure you girls didn’t eat in town. We got spaghetti simmering at the house.” He is the father of one of my Seaside High School teachers. His wife, Jennifer, had prepared a feast, complete with raspberry-topped vanilla ice-cream. In the evening we each found a cushion and a lamp in the living room to read.

Waking up early to brewed coffee, we ate together then took a sack into the backyard and loaded it with purple grapes, apples and plums straight from the tree.

Our bicycles--packed a little bit heavier--we maneuvered down the hill and towards the Blue Mountains, Pendleton, Portland and beyond.

taters

Sept. 20, 2009

We're in the land where Subway sells hashbrowns and convenience stores offer ice cream filled potatoes. Winding along the Snake River through Idaho's farm country, onions and potatoes littered the shoulder, reminding me of New Orleans after a St. Patty's Day parade where float riders throw produce.

Boise's cool factor might be Idaho's best kept secret. We rolled down 8th Street and took our pick among several appealing coffee shops. Young and old cruised by on bicycles. So many bicycles. Our Couchsurfing host, Travis, lives in the quaint Hyde Park neighborhood which was having a weekend festival with live music, arts and crafts, and plenty greasy treats. Bree and I climbed a mini-mountain overlooking the festival; twinkling stars above and carnival lights below. In the morning, several blocks of downtown street were closed to traffic for a delicious locally stocked farmers' market. I ate a juicy nectarine and we bought homemade granola bars for the road. Two ladies with guitars, Blaze and Kelly, serenaded the meanderers. When they sang their "Life is Beautiful," Bree and I--with chills--had to stop and buy their CD.

This morning, we loaded up the bikes, and fought a headwind the whole way to Ontario, where we found a gourmet pizza joint to celebrate our arrival to OREGON!

a word from bri

The Utopia-esk e-mail that I had planned to be this one, portraying the fabulousness of our trip, emphasizing that beyond the confines of our towns, community and television sets, there awaits strangers, and a world that is beyond beautiful to the eye of a wiley traveler, to be seen and discovered. That e-mail has been cast aside by a more thrilling account of my "crash."
Although I have a liking for theatrics, I kid you not, this is how it, or rather I "went down." September 17th, we chose the scenic route of Hwy. 30 to make our way through Idaho...not only to follow the bends and twists of the snake river, but to devour the deliciousness at the local Buhl Creamery. (On a side not, when people ask if we have a cause to our expedition, I'm tempted to respond that we're mapping out the dairy stops, ice cream specifically, between Louisiana and Oregon.) ...Hwy. 30 was idyllic, farmland stretched as far as the eye could reach. Aside from the occasional inhalation of methane gas due to ample cow dung, the set was breathtaking. As the day progressed and the sun was at its peek we climbed the last hill out of the valley, knowing interstate 84 was next. Leading the way I instinctively followed signs reading 84 West-nearing the onramp, it was clear that there was a blockade due to some interstate-al construction...this never having stopped us before, I proceeded to the blockade...
The wind pushed against me as I coasted downhill to the looming orange monsters that blocked the road...it was all too late that I noted the matching orange line that clothes-lined me at top speed...my bike went crashing to the ground, followed by the huge orange tubes- I used my god-given agility to fling myself off my bike and somehow landed on my feet. My "Morphe Turbo-master blast pump" received the most damage followed closely by my forearms...where to this moment are still bruised and stinging from rope burn. A little bewildered, I looked to Lyndsie for sympathy only to find raging laughter as she recounted "Bri as a bowling ball." I texted my boyfriend who sent me kisses through the phone which cured most of my ailments...(something none of you care to hear about I'm sure.) I sort-of, kind-of chuckled and after taking photos (of course) got back on my bike and proceeded towards the horizon.

salt lake

Sept. 12, 2009

The current grabbed me with both hands. "Help me! I'm serious!" I was headed for the edge of the waterfall. One of the girls swimming in the upper pool with me got a hold of my wrist. James saw the commotion from shore and dove towards me. Just as he got to me, the girls managed to pull me onto the rocks. James was caught in the current and went over the edge.

That was five years ago during a study-abroad trip in Southern Mexico. James emerged below with ripped up feet and hands, but alive. We hadn't seen each other again stateside, until Bree and I rolled up to his family's place in Salt Lake City.

Celebrations. Not only did his mom get to meet the Lindsey James "saved" from the waterfall, I got to spend my birthday, and be present for a "Celebration of Life" party in honor of his recently passed dad.

Early birthday morning, our mutual friend, Sara, took me hiking to a sparkling lake up a STEEP canyon. In the evening, we met up with a group of James' friends, and Bree and her visiting boyfriend, Sergei, at Rio Grande Mexican Restaurant. Noella--who I'd met the day before--baked me a cake replete with 26 candles! Margaritas all around, then we headed to a salsa dancing club. Walking up with a cake, I caught the attention of the manager and managed to get all ten of us in for free! Salsa, cumbia, barchata, merengue...

I made sure to get the full Mormon experience before leaving Salt Lake, visiting the Temple and Brigham Young's home. Friendly tour guides abounded. One mentioned that Mormons, as a highly persecuted people group, should be at the top of the list for political reparations. A movie of Joseph Smith showed a charming man with one wife...

After the party for James' dad, they loaded us up with leftovers; we made promises for more visits, then Bree and I returned to Highway 89 and pedaled on towards Idaho.

the state of the union

No end in sight. The incline snuck around a bend, and then kept going. Lowest gear. Just put your head down and conquer one foot of pavement at a time. A car honked encouragement. Finally, reprieve. We rolled into the rest area at the top of the hill outside of Kerrville, TX. While gasping for air, a woman called out to us. "Hey, I'm a cyclist,too." She told us about a women's online athletic network of which she was a part. "You guys need food?" She returned to their van with her daughter and pulled out several bags of Cliff bars, nectarines, crackers, cookies, cans of tuna. Is this really happening? "Take as much as you want." I started to grab a couple of each thing. "Really, you can take it all." Our jaws dropped. They were on a cross-country journey themselves, yet gave us ALL their food.

We pulled into the only gas station in Gap, AZ. One-hundred and fifty miles left to Kanab, UT and one day until we needed to meet a friend. "You headed north?" Bree asked a man in a red pick-up. "Eighty miles," he said, "Hop in back." He slowed for pictures at the breath-taking views, paused in Paige to buy us ice cream, climbed to a look-out point, then dropped us at Lake Powell National Park and paid for our campsite.

Before crossing into Utah, we stopped for lunch near a line of roadside stands where Navajos sold jewelry and handicrafts. A grey-haired woman with turquoise earrings invited us into the shade of her next-door canopy. We pulled out apples, crackers, and tuna. No can opener. I inquired the elderly woman. She retrieved an old-school version from her truck and opened the can for us.

On a stretch of barren highway outside of Bryce Canyon, we needed water. At a road junction, two men sat in lawn chairs selling beef and bison jerky. "Are you selling any water?" Bree asked. "How much you need?" They filled our four water bottles and camel packs, then pulled out pomegranate juice and fruit snacks. "Here, load up for the road," they insisted.

A gust of wind and water nearly blew Bree across the shoulder. Rain, coming down in sheets, blurred my sunglass lenses. Forty miles through barren northern Utahan hills until the next town. Here comes another semi. Bree pulled over. No communication necessary. We stuck out our thumbs. Several trucks passed; then one stopped. A woman and her three kids. "I never pick up hitch-hikers," she said. "My kids were freaking out." We loaded up. "I usually take the suburban into town. I don't know why I drove the truck today." The rain beat down. She dropped us off at Snowville, UT's only campground. The proprietor pulled up. "We need a tent campsite." "Not in this rain, you don't," he replied. "Take cabin number 1 and I'll charge you just the same."

quibbler

Sept. 4, 2009

I broke the speed limit. It was posted 40 mph coming over the hill into Marysvale, UT. I hit 40.2.

It’s been downhill since Bryce Canyon. Bree met a woman, Maria, at the Laundromat in Kanab. She and her husband invited us to their mountainside home near the canyon. Fred has been creating their dream double-balcony cabin for the last eleven summers. We got the full tour. Then, Bree and I shucked corn at the kitchen table, while Maria prepared sloppy joes. Bree’s friend, Brady—who was going to meet us at Bryce—joined us at Fred and Maria’s for dinner. After dessert entertainment was quibbler. A word creation game. Bree surprised the house with a big win. Rather than continuing to Bryce, Bree, Brady, and I unfolded our sleeping bags upstairs on the guest beds. The only time I awoke was when rain pounded so fiercely, I could only imagine our tent being swept away in the downpour. In the morning, we got out our cameras and hugged our most spontaneous of new friends.

Bree and I continued our ride north on 89 towards Salt Lake City. “Look at the deer!” Bree pointed up ahead. I rolled my eyes, “Those are goats, Bree.” When they started Bambi-prancing across the field, I raced away from Bree’s inevitable ridicule, over a slight incline, then charged 40.2 mph into Marysvale.

the gear

Sept. 1, 2009

Four days without a conventional shower. Here’s how we’re getting by: the Sea to Summit Pocket Shower, the Pocket Rocket 4 oz stove, the ENO Double Nest Hammock, and the Voltaic solar-powered backpack.

After pedaling up a tree-lined highway, we reached a look-out point and there it was: the Grand Canyon. The Southern Rim. Sun rays cascaded through the clouds like a waterfall into the abyss of layered rocks and sheer cliffs. We continued our ride around the rim. Biking until night neared. After picking a dense area of trees off the highway, we found a flat spot to pitch the tent. Time to make house. I pulled out the pocket shower (a compressible bag with a shower head), dumped in two water bottles, then heated a pot on the stove to add to the mix. We put down a tarp to keep our feet clean and used biodegradable soap to bathe. With the remaining water, I washed my biking shorts and shirt, then hung them on the line to dry. After taking down the shower, I strung the hammock between two trees and Bree and I swayed with the breeze. Once thoroughly relaxed, Bree made us tea on the stove, and then we combined our kitchen skills to rehydrate black beans with cheese quesadillas and tobasco sauce. Meanwhile, the solar-paneled backpack recharged our cell phones in time to text our mothers our whereabouts before crawling into the tent.

A word from Bri

Leaving Taos via the "high road" we peddled 20 straight miles up windy roads. At every crest, our minds hoped to see the slight bend that would signify the massive downhill we were hoping for but alas, time and again we were disappointed. The afternoon heat crept into our every pore, my muscles, swollen and fatigued begged for reprieve. The temperature began to ease as the wind rose and we witnessed thunderheads form before our very eyes. As quickly as the rains came, it was over. We continued, slowly, gradually putting distance between the valley, civilization and ourselves. At last the sun began to set and our eyes pealed for a tent sight. The break in the barbed wire fence along highway 76 was our saving grace. We wheeled our bikes into the forest, stealthily covering our tracks lest someone come looking for us; wolfed down the stale bagels, soft cheese and creamy avocado before pitching tent and falling prey to the dark night.
Shoes. If I had a rucksack a mile high and wide, it wouldn't serve to shelter the many shoes strewn 'bout the roadside between Louisiana and Utah. Against the wind we rode for sixty miles, climbing the summit of southern Utah. We climbed and climbed and when finally, the land appeared to level, Lyndsie quite rightly stated "I think we've made it to the top of the world." If there ever was a top of the world...it had to be there. When our eyes caught sight of the sign that read "summit, elevation 6,000" we began to whoop and holler, making more ruckus than any two biking girls have ever made before. My quads are bulging...at least my spandex shorts feel tighter...perhaps it's muscle or maybe due to the free pastries at the hostel in Santa Fe!
You ask "what sort of folk live in Kanab Utah?" I pondered the same thing myself. A quaint town inhabited by many dog-walking men is my conclusion. We will set out for Bryce Canyon today I hear another stretch of uphill awaits us...my oh my!

buzz

Aug. 28, 2009

Bees swarmed my face, the occasional flying kamikaze into my head net. Our Albuquerque hosts through warmshowers.org—a bicycle touring organization—raise honey bees. Bree and I took turns helping Andy tend the hives. We removed one wooden slat at a time from the top of the boxes and monitored the state and size of the combs adhered to each one. Our reward: a golden dripping slice of heaven straight from the source.

In an attempt to skip the desert between Albuquerque and Flagstaff, AZ, I posted a ride share notice on Craigslist. Though I’m a connoisseur of online networking sites, I’d never crossed the line of “getting into a car with a stranger (online-style).” A man taking his motorcycle to the West Coast left me a voicemail. Bree and I both listened. Our intuition said: ok, go with it. Judging by his accent, I thought he was a middle-aged Native American. When he was late picking us up, Bree joked he must be Latino. The truck and trailer pulled up to the house. A slightly less than middle-aged, sandy blond, stunt double with dimples emerged form the cab.

Along the ride, our conversations ranged from traveling mishaps to how to relate to the respective people in our lives. It was a one-at-a-time therapy session. Had I not spotted our dinner location, we might have blown by it. But at Cracker Barrel we partook in smothered potatoes and beef, before heading to Dairy Queen for Derrik’s first blizzard (which his sophisticated palate had no appreciation for).

Pulling into Flagstaff after dark, our Couchsurfing hosts were at a concert and said to let ourselves in. Thinking we’d found the house, we approached with flashlights. Nope, wrong one. We got away before the cops showed up. A couple blocks down, at the correct house, Derrik helped us unload our things. We gave him our blog address, and said “until next time” to the Native/Latino/middle-aged stunt double.

A word from Bri

As the wheels go round, my mind goes on an exploration of it's own! Ventures of the past replay themselves as the scenery brings up different memories. The tar-bubbles making snapping sounds under my tires remind me of hot summers spent roaming the neighborhood streets with Cory, looking for telephone poles to play beneath, sticking our toes and fingers in the tar. Riding in the back of a pick-up truck (on a dirt road, a short distance I assure you) beer in hand, cushion under fanny, hot wind fiercely playing with my hair, I think of my Guatemala backpacking trips and hitch-hiking extravaganzas.

At times it is clear that I am part of the food chain...buzzards literally circled me...probably expecting me to keel over at any moment as I slowly made my way in the blistering heat. My father correctly stated "there's gods' country and then there's hill country"... if ANYONE tries to tell me that Texas is flat, they'll have a battle to fight I assure you! I haven't bothered with deodorant (much to the distress of Lyndsie) while within minutes of riding, my entire body is glistening with sweat. The tan-lines I must say are horrendous. Lynds is a big fan of tan lines...but having a white strip under my chin where my helmet strap lies, a distinct color differentiation between my wrists and hands where my cloves reside, long white thighs and stomach against dark brown knees and arms...and worst, blackened shoulders...that no amount of sunscreen will keep from darkening...in my opinion is not exactly easy on the eyes.

When it comes to food, whether cooked by our hosts, given to us by strangers (which happens) or even in a restaurant, we've been told "you ain't shy!" We're not picky either...much to the disappointment of my father who's joining us for 10 days...he tired of our split-pea soup and dried beans and tortillas early on...so now we make accommodating stops...and frequent the dairy queens along the route...I'm not complaining yet!
I've had some enormous belly laughs at the expense of others...watching Lyndsie try to jam her newly purchased helmet on...wondering why it wasn't fitting...when she had it facing backwards (twice mind you)...and observing my dad adjusting to his "clip-in" biking shoes...first I see the top of his helmet fly to the ground, then the bushes shake and a string of @#!#$@#$ follows.

Strangers continue to become friends...and my preconceived ideas about what I "know" continue to shift. I've come to learn that anyone can peddle, it's the mind that has to stay engaged. 2 more days until New Mexico...hurrah!

Loads of thanks for your thoughts and prayers! Much love!

enchantment

Aug. 24, 2009

We biked Route 66 to Santa Fe’s Old Plaza. Along one side of the square, Native Americans sat on blankets hawking their turquoise jewelry, glass earrings, leather belts, and metal guitar picks. The colonial-era adobe chapel beckoned from up the hill. I bought Agua de Jamaica from a street vendor. Then, Bree and I made reservations at “The Shed,” renowned for its New Mexican cuisine; at 5:30 p.m. we returned for green chile burritos and blue corn tortilla enchiladas. Since we couldn’t peel ourselves away from Santa Fe, we returned to the hostel for another night.

In the morning, we started our ride towards Taos (off the route, be we heard it was worth it). Following the Rio Grande, we ascended 2,000 feet toward the mountain town and the Ashram someone said allowed camping. As the sun lowered and the mountain rose, it wasn’t clear if we’d make it before dark.

We stuck out a thumb.

A New Mexican woman with shiny black hair and piercing eyes pulled over. She said her youngest daughter rides, and helped us load our bikes in the back. We cruised the last 15 miles and on to her house—an adobe cottage on a sunflower-lined lane named after her family: los Ortiz, who trace their lineage directly back to the colonial Spanish. After viewing her metalwork creations, we googled the Ashram and she dropped us off.

Chai simmered in a silver cauldron. We sipped, set up our tent and joined the devout for meditation. In the town plaza the next morning, a middle-aged group of women performed Tai Chi. We didn’t need an invitation.

Leaving Taos, locals suggested “The High Road” for a downhill route back to Santa Fe. No one mentioned the road GAINED elevation for 20 miles before its decent. As we inched up hill, I glanced at the odometer, looked back down 10 minutes later and it hadn’t moved. Tears! Going “down” the mountain took two days, but we logged our 1,000th mile at Dairy Queen before rolling back into Santa Fe.