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.