From: raster@mystix.cs.uoregon.edu (Radek Aster)
Subject: Cross Country Trip : Raleigh,NC to Eugene,OR : story : long
Organization: University of Oregon Computer and Information Sciences Dept.
Date: Sat, 14 Nov 1992 03:28:10 GMT

THE TRIP - Raleigh, NC - Eugene, OR
-----------------------------------

Silly statistics   3933 miles in 72 days.
                   June 18th to August 28th (1991)
                   One pair of tires, one flat
                   11 states

We started in Raleigh, North Carolina where we stayed with a friend of Kathy's
for two days.  From there we rode north into Virginia.  It was easy at first,
because that part of NC is flat.  We rode 85 miles the first day and I was
beginning to think that this whole trip would be a sinch. Then we got into
Virginia and the Appalachians and our first real hill.  The roads in the
Appalachians must be built on old cow paths because they seem to be built
along the steepest grade up the hill. Crossing the Blue Ridge parkway was
quite a thrill.  There are actually two sets of mountains. The Old
Appalachians, commonly known as the Blue Ridge, and the New Appalachians which
are further west and taller. Crossing the Blue Ridge was the first test but
there was much more to come.  In Eden, we had our first wide stares and
exclamations of "SHIEEEEET that's a long ride."  One boy didn't know where
Oregon was, when we told him of our destination, but he knew where California
was. When we told him that Oregon was above California he too let out a string
of drawled exclamations.

Right on the border between Virginia and Kentucky is the Breaks Interstate
Park, named for the Breaks which the locals call the "Grand Canyon of the
South".  Here we spent the first of our rest days, more out of necessity then
desire.  Both Kathy and I came down with a serious case of the bad water
blues.  We spent the day lying in the tent groaning and would get up only to
get a drink of water or to throw up.

Crossing into Kentucky was a milestone too - the second interstate border and
the first bicycle trip in which we had crossed more than one state line.  In
Damascus is a hostel called "The Place" where Appalachian trail hikers can
stay the night.  We shared stories with hikers and discovered that there have
been a fair number of homicides on the trail in recent years.  I was glad that
I hadn't seen the movie "Deliverance" before starting the trip.  Eastern
Kentucky was everything I had hoped it would be.  Dense oak and maple forests
and quiet, winding country roads dotted by small houses.  One could almost
imagine a 'shine still bubbling away in the back yard.  We discovered that
Kentucky is coal country, and coal trucks are kings of the road - gigantic
behemoths, loaded to overflowing with coal, chunks of which would fall off
threatening to either hit you in the head or knock you off your bike.  But
much to our surprise, the drivers were very courteous and gave us plenty of
room when passing.  The same could not be said for the cattle truck drivers in
Kansas, but more on that later.

In western Kentucky we encountered our first super-100 degree temperatures
which combined with the humidity made cycling quite unpleasant.  At one gas
station we were told " .... and it's gonna get hotter.", not something we
wanted to hear.  Leaving Kentucky and crossing into Illinois was therefore not
something we regretted.  On the 4th of July we cycled a short day and spent
the day at Cave-in-Rock state park, so named because of a huge cave on the
Ohio river. In the early days the cave was occupied by pirates who would wait
for pilots of barges floating down the river to come explore the cave.  The
poor pilots would thus come to rather violent deaths and have their cargos
stolen.  Later the cave was used as a "safe house" and "house of ill- repute"
until "sanitized" by the feds.

We spent two flat days in Illinois, quite the respite from hilly Kentucky.  At
Chester we crossed the mighty Mississippi River into Missouri.  Despite the
numerous short, steep climbs of the Ozarks, of all the eastern states,
Missouri was my favourite.  Lush forests and crystal clear rivers abounded and
since temperatures were still in the hundreds, many dips in the rivers were
enjoyed.  Farmington, Missouri marked the end of the hills and the beginning
of the great American plains.  In short that meant Kansas.  We were warned
about Kansas.  We were told it would be flat, hot and we would encounter head
winds all the way.  All the predictions came true.  The wind was never a true
"in your face" headwind, but since it would blow from the south, it felt like
a head wind.  There were days when we would cycle for ten hours but cover only
50 miles.  But the people of Kansas made up for the harshness of the climate.
Numerous times people would stop and offer us water or a cold Pepsi.  The one
thing I will never forget about Kansas is the water tower.  Each town has one
and it can been seen for miles.  When you see one you know you are about 15
miles from the town.  It would then hover there for what seemed like forever.
You could swear that you've ridden ten miles but there it would be, still
seemingly 15 miles away.  And of course there were the cattle trucks.  If you
think log trucks are bad, you ain't seen nothing yet.  The trucks were
invariably "doubled" up and would create a side draft so treacherous that we
would jump off the road and ride in the dirt shoulder rather than risk being
swept into oncoming traffic.  And of course there was that unique smell and
"refreshing" cool spray that accompanies any loaded cattle truck.  Refreshing
until one realizes the source of the spray.

Crossing into Eastern Colorado produced no drastic changes but did produce the
first thunderstorm that actually drenched us.  I guess we'd been lucky.  We
passed within 20 miles of the town of Granada, which was the site of one of
the Japanese internment camps during WW II.  Seeing the arid and hot land of
eastern Colorado removed any thoughts that these camps were in any way
comfortable.  The book "And Justice For All" by John Tateishi is a must if you
are interested in this portion of US history.

By the time we got to Pueblo we could see the mountains.  At this point we had
cycled 2000 miles and were exactly half way.  Here I ate the first real
Mexican food, something that I had missed since I left Oregon.  This too
marked the point where Kathy was to quit because of employment concerns and I
would complete the trip by myself.  The first few days out of Pueblo were
simply spectacular.  Climbing into the Rockies was not gradual.  Within the
first two days out, I climbed the two highest passes on the trip; Currant
Creek pass at 9500' and Hoosier pass at 11500'.  The heights may sound
frightening, but the grades are very gentle and the scenery makes up for any
pain.  The much lamented altitude-sickness was kind to me.  It wasn't until
two days later, in Fairplay, that I actually felt dizzy, but that too passed.
Then came the shock of Breckenridge.  This town is nothing but a tourist trap.
In the years of the gold rush, there was a lot of sluice mining in
Breckenridge, but today it is a mecca for mountain bikers and skiers, and
nothing else.  Expensive cars and restaurants abound and day-glo colors are
everywhere.  "SAY NO TO DAY-GLO" was a rhyme that ran through my head.  The
only redeeming quality about Breckenridge was the Brew pub near the South edge
of town.  The next day was a ride into Kremmling and across the Colorado
river.  The citizens of Kremmling had built a bicyclist campsite and shelter
behind the police station, and it was here that I had my best night's sleep on
the whole trip.

Wyoming seems like a blur now. I essentially cycled across Wyoming from
Rawlins in the south, heading in a North-Westerly directions.  Fascinating
rock formations and excellent roads were the highlights of Wyoming, making a
rather pleasant experience.  Pleasant until I got to Yellowstone that is.
RVs, bad roads and camera clicking tourists everywhere, convinced me to get
through Yellowstone as fast as possible. In West Yellowstone I passed into
Montana and 5 days of excellent cycling.  In Montana I met several fellow
cyclists with whom I rode until Missoula.  In Montana I also had my one and
only mechanical breakdown - my freewheel came apart and dribbled ball bearings
all over the road.  Luckily I managed to find most of them and make it into
Missoula.  Chief Joseph Pass and the Big Hole national Battlefield are more
reminders of this country's dark history.  In fact the numerous clashes with
the Nez Perce form a large part of Montana history.

Reaching Missoula was like reaching Mecca.  It is the home of Bikecentennial
and probably the most bicycle friendly town (besides Eugene) in the Northwest.
The micro-brewery will of course sway anyone's judgement.

Lolo Pass forms the border between Montana and Idaho.  It was the Indian guide
Sacajawea, with a papoose on her back, who guided the wayward and exhausted
Lewis and Clark expedition across the seemingly impassable Bitterroot
mountains.  Although prominently mentioned in history, she was never
reimbursed for her troubles. It was her white "owner" who received monetary
compensation.

Just below Lolo Pass are the Jerry Johnson hotsprings. One has to hike about a
mile to get to them and they are therefore not crowded.  Signs warn you as you
get closer tha you may encounter naked bathers.  I was not disappointed, and
neither would the Romans had they seen them.  Clear hot water gushes out of a
nearly vertical rock face, and collects in hot pools.  Warm Springs Creek runs
right next to these pools, providing the necessary contrasts between hot and
cold water.  The rest of the Clearwater National Forest was like one large
wonderland.  I was lucky to be there on a weekend, which meant the total
absence of logging trucks.

The forest abruptly ends as one climbs into Grangeville giving way to the high
plains desert which Idaho is known for.  From Grangeville one descends the
super steep Whitebird Hill into the Salmon River canyon.  It was here that I
had my first experience with the scourge and dread of any long-distance
cyclist - the automatic sprinkler.  I stayed at a BLM campground along the
Salmon River, with a nice sandy beach and green lawn for pitching a tent.  The
astute reader should at this point realize that green lawns don't just happen
on the high plains.  But for some reason my sun baked brain did not make the
connection, and thanking the gods for my luck I pitched my tent right on one
of these green patches.  At four in the morning the sprinklers came on.  First
I thought it was raining but I could see stars.  Then the sprinkler hit me
again and I rushed like mad to get my rain-fly on the tent before I got hit
again.  Needless to say I became very suspicious whenever I saw another green
piece of lawn.

There is a legend that during the gold rush a train carrying $50,000 worth of
gold bullion was hijacked and the gold hidden somewhere in the canyon before
the thieves were killed. I amused myself for several days with daydreams about
eyeing a glint of the sun off a corner of a gold bar that had been uncovered
by the winds.

Another climb followed by a sharp descent brought me into Hells Canyon, also
known as the Snake river canyon and the border between Idaho and Oregon.  The
climb back out was not steep but the fact that the canyon floor can be as hot
as 120 degrees made it quite an exhausting ride.  The Eastern Oregon towns of
Baker, Mitchell and Ochoco were my next stops. More beautiful rock formations
and clear blue skies.  Picture Gorge and the Painted Rocks were particularly
striking.  From Ochoco state park it was 50 miles to Sisters where I had
planned to stay the night, but realizing that I was almost home, I climbed
Santiam pass and spent the night at A USFS campground on the other side.  A
rainy night welcomed me back to Oregon.

The next day I made the screaming descent of Santiam pass.  Crossing into Lane
County brought emotional tears to my eyes.  I was almost home, having covered
almost 4000 miles at that point.  Another 20 miles and I got my first flat of
the whole trip.  I had hoped to complete the whole journey without a single
one.  My first stop in Eugene you might ask ? A huge blackberry bush along
Camp Creek road - blackberries the size of your thumb.

What have I learned ?  Patience, tolerance and a large dose of respect for the
early pioneers who covered the 2000 miles between Independence, Missouri and
Oregon City, Oregon in covered wagons, or on foot, or with hand-carts.  A lot
of them died but a lot of them made it.  I discovered the great beauty of this
wonderful country and learned tolerance for those people whose lifestyles and
values clash with mine.  And finally, I discovered that I was no longer afraid
to die.  Fear of death is a fear of the unknown.  I was afraid to cycle
through Kentucky because of stories I'd heard about the hillbillies.  I was
afraid to cycle through Wyoming because of stories I'd heard about the
red-necks.  All these fears came to naught.  Experience is educational and
education removes prejudices.  I was also afraid to fail.  I've always viewed
this trip as the ultimate challenge.  I have come, I have seen, I have
conquered.  I cannot fail.  I now fear nothing.