Murrs Across America

Bob drove us past a precarious place where the gorge started and the road hung over the river with little shoulder. We purchased supplies and started our pedaling in an area known as the “Scablands” in the Horse Heaven Hills. The land there is barren and scarred from the great Spokane Flood that occurred between 18,000 and 20,000 years ago when the ice dam holding back Glacial Lake Missoula broke. Our Adventure Cycling map says that evidence of the flood remains from Missoula, where the ancient shoreline of the glacial lake can still be seen on Mount Sentinel, which looms over the University of Montana, all the way to the Pacific.

The air in the gorge smelled like rosemary and there were rattlesnake warnings everywhere. The desert scrub landscape contrasted with the tall electric line towers and it was black-asphalt-on-unexpected-desert hot. Not far from where Bob dropped us off we came to the Paterson Onion distribution plant, which was watering its lawn. We hopped off our bikes for a frolic in the sprinklers just as an employee was turning them off! He saw our disappointment as he walked back from the pump house to his truck and literally ran to turn them back on. We played. Brady had an excellent potty experience (for those of you keeping track of that sort of thing).

We rode to Crow Butte campsite and Jane kept repeating the first line from a poem we read aloud from a book Aunt Stephanie gave the kids in Lawrence, KS. It’s called “The Lonely Surfer” in which the author explores the relationship between sense of place and personal identity, and makes children laugh. When we stopped to fix a flat a mile away from the campsite the kids wanted to read the poem and take pictures of each other with the lonely surfer dude.

At the campsite we swam in the river, made stir-fry for dinner, met a family with ten children who gave us sturgeon to eat and let the kids ride their bikes.

(Photos to follow. Especially the Lonely Surfer Dude pictures.)

This day we were tired. We toured Walla Walla after the lunch I describe below, but it was hot and kids were cranky. We rested after our tour and then the kids got a special treat: a babysitter! Molly, Bob and Sydney’s granddaughter, watched the kids and we went out with Molly’s mom and dad to hear their friend perform at an open mic night. We had a proper date with adults and I met a man with a William Blake quotation tattooed on his arm.

First though, we had lunch in Walla Walla at Icebergs per Peter’s recommendation. Peter is a Bob and Sydney’s grandson, a strong, polite young man who is working at the farm this summer. He said to get the fry sauce so we did, and we shared big milkshakes and enjoyed the lunch thoroughly.

We ate at a table near Iceberg’s walk-up window and spoke with Pierre, the veteran who sat next to us. He drives a restored model A, wears a Rasta necklace, and makes it a point to make eye contact with everyone. He volunteers at the VA and elsewhere, speaking the language of those who have been in combat, helping loved-ones and soldiers cope with PTSD. His friend (Mike?) with him had been an alcoholic for 22 years and was now sober and moving within the week to Arizona to take care of his ailing parents who had kicked him out of the house years ago for his violent behavior. When Mike met his mentor, Pierre wouldn’t even let him in the house because his rages violated the house rules. Eventually though, Mike said he started listening to what Pierre was saying, started noticing that combat taught him to become detached from his heart to survive, started noticing that to him fear and love were equally and paralyzingly injurious, started to become conscious that no amount of avoidance or alcohol would produce the oblivion he sought. Mike started slowly to engage with people, to make eye contact, to share stories. He started to mentor and feel a certain clarity. He started to entertain the idea that openness wasn’t necessarily vulnerability. He worked hard. Is working hard. And when we met him, Mike sat on the edge of a new adventure, enjoying a send-off lunch with a friend and mentor and a random family bicycling across America.

Best wishes, Mike.

(Photos to follow.)

After a beautiful breakfast and a fond farewell to Terry and Linda, we rode to Walla Walla, the town so nice they named it twice. Though the maps told us our ride would be mostly downhill, it was ultimately a very hilly ride through the Blue Mountains, so named because the pioneers saw them blue in the distance for many miles. The mountains were covered with wheat and it was harvest time. Wheat, harvested wheat, tractors, dirt, sun, and a camel were all the sights we saw.

We made our own shade with the tent footprint stretched between the bikes and ate a tuna salad with chickpeas, peppers, and cucumbers.

Bob thinks these stories need to be told more. I’m inclined to agree.

(Photos to follow.)

Setting out from Butch and Cindy’s house, we felt cooler and reenergized. This was a very good thing, because we still had a lot of desolate, hilly looking landscape to traverse, and because we had a flat by the time we reached the bottom of their driveway.

Shortly after fixing the flat and visiting with some Pomeroy locals, we met Sergei, a German cross-country biker from the Ukraine who was on the 18th month and 23rd country of his worldwide journey. His bike was light and fast and his travel was so efficient that even his earphones played English lessons that he read along with as he pedaled by stashing worksheets in his front pack flip-up map pocket. Sergei had a grasp on tenacity and geography that defies comprehension.

A few miles beyond Sergei we encountered an enormous surprise: Terry and Linda from Fair Hope, Alabama. Perhaps you’ll recall that before Mother’s Day, nearly 3000 miles ago after a nerve-racking day of travel on sketchy Alabama roads, we met Terry and Linda at a restaurant and they invited us to their home. They served us Southern Comfort from an heirloom green glass eagle and gave us their master suite. They planted cucumbers with the kids, and have since sent us pictures of their growth. They taught me a lot about parenthood, motherhood, seasons of family. And when they passed us on Highway 12 pulling their unique T@B orange and silver camper trailer, we waved and laughed and nearly crashed our bikes with glee.

Terry and Linda had tracked our spot. They e-mailed and left a message that they may pass us, but I didn’t receive either message because of spotty reception. Our surprise reunion was a huge lift, and a huge gift. The pair whisked the kids and some of our gear up the mountain before us and to a campsite ahead while Stuart and I practically flew over the summit on featherweight bikes (funny if you’ve ever lifted a Surly Long Haul Trucker).

We enjoyed dinner and the discovery of HUGE banana slugs and a full sky of stars. Most of all we enjoyed our time together and what felt like a circle and a blessing for the final stretch of road.

This day was a scorcher. It was 100 degrees yesterday when we sought shade and a lift through the barren east Washington hills. It was too hot, and we didn’t want to push things. We agreed that it would be safer to try to hitch a ride than continue climbing the 2700 feet to the Alpowa summit.

Stuart waved at the first pickup that passed, and the driver waved back and continued driving. The kids and I sat in the shade of the Burleys and read books. Fifteen minutes later, another truck approached and Stuart waved then awkwardly stuck out his thumb. Something about the way he signaled to the driver made me think of how he might have looked in high school, at 6’1” and 120 pounds, asking the pretty girl to dance. The truck passed. Then we watched the brakes light up once…twice. The truck turned around and out popped Butch.

Butch said he decided to stop because he saw the kids. He curiously listened to our story and helped us load bikes and gear. With the air of an experienced grandpa, he answered the kids’ questions about whether or not he had a dog and if his truck had air conditioning. He said his wife probably wouldn’t shoot him for bringing us home, and when we arrived at their lovely home in Pomeroy, Cindy was actually bursting with pride over his uncharacteristic attentiveness. She was curious about our story and she shook her head for two days, saying, “ohhhh, bless your heart”.

Cindy and Butch doted upon the children, who blissfully explored the toy room in the basement, the pink kids’ room with two beds, the buckets of trucks, dolls, and dress-up clothes. Butch perched Brady beside him on a stool and taught him how to drive electric trains. He showed Jane how to unload cows from the stock car and how to attach the caboose.

We enjoyed showers and a fantastic meal, and after the kids went to bed we ate ice cream and homemade apricot cobbler and chatted. Time with the quintessential grandparents was an experience and an answer to prayer that will stick to our bones for years.

Thank you, Butch and Cindy.