The first photo should help narrow down the possibilities for those
who keep asking the question: Jeff, where the heck are you? I actually
encountered this sign the day before, a few miles outside of New
Meadows, but since we took a U-shaped route -- south, then west, then
north -- to get from there to Halfway, I suspect it applies to today's
ride, too(*).
The day started with a big climb out of Cambridge which took us up
from 2700' to about 4200', and then dropped us down a long, winding
(and smooth, and light trafficked) road to the Brownlee Reservoir, an
artificial lake formed out of the Snake River, on the ID/OR border.
For a Minnesota boy, these western artificial lakes are a very odd-
looking breed. I'm used to lakes nestled in the trees, and surrounded
by green. The Brownlee is surrounded by brown, mountainous desert,
without a hint of green anywhere, even right down at the water's edge.
To me they look bleak and not very appealing.
When we crossed the river, just north of the Brownlee Dam, we entered
Oregon, our final state ("non-funereally speaking," as my friend Jack
cheerfully put it). See second photo. So long Idaho which, mile-for-
mile, has provided the best/most beautiful biking on the whole trip so
far, IMHO. You've got your work cut out for you, Oregon.
In Oregon we continued to ride north along the Snake River for about
10 miles, but it was an unexciting Snake River -- more a long lake,
actually, formed by the Oxbow Dam. Below (north of) the dam is where
the famous Hell's Canyon wilderness area starts, but our route turned
south at that point, so officially we missed it. Our route was still
pretty wild and canyon-y though, with signs indicating that we were in
big horn sheep territory. I barely took my eyes off the hills and
ridges all day -- saw a number of deer, but no sheep.
A few miles after the dam I turned in at Scotty's store/gas station
(which was about the only place to stop on the whole ride) for a
coffee and whatever break, where a by now very familiar scene played
out. Two young couples were in the store buying some supplies for
their outing:
Guy #1: "Hey, man, how's your ride today?"
Me: "Excellent, thanks; it's a beautiful day."
Guy #1: "It is that. Where you coming from?"
Me: "Well, Cambridge this morning..."
Guy #1: "Wow, nice..."
Me: "... but originally, two months ago, I started in Yorktown
Virginia."
Guy #1 [pause while he looks at me more carefully]: "What? Get out!
Virginia?!?"
Me: "It's true. I'm with a bunch of people..."
Guy #1: "Hey Jimmy -- dude's ridden a bicycle here from Virginia!"
Jimmy [also gives me a careful look, as does his accompanying female]:
"Whoa! That's insane, man!"
Me: "Yeah, a little."
In Halfway we stayed at the sensibly-named Halfway Motel(**) and had a
group dinner out, featuring eminently forgettable food-like fare, at
the Stockmen's Cafe. Naturally there was interest in a pudding course,
and by this point in the trip there's getting to be substantial
interest, beyond just my own, in having pie for pudding. One of the
pie options was marionberry, which is, I hasten to assure all you DC-
ites out there, a real fruit -- sort of a cross between a raspberry
and a blackberry -- and which can make an excellent pie. I believe
there were 7 orders for marionberry, including mine, but it turned out
there were only 4 slices left. "Jeff has to have the marionberry,"
Steve said. "It's for his foot."
Final story of the day -- it's Hugh-related, and speaks volumes about
his world-class abilities as a flat-getter. We're back in our room,
and just about ready for lights out, when he glances at his bike, and
observes, in quite colorful language, that his back tire is flat. The
man scores a flat IN A MOTEL ROOM, a place where a pretender like
Dennis, and the rest of us mere mortals, wouldn't even think to try.
But Hugh's game is really at a different level. He fixes the flat
before hitting the sack, even though, as he observed, he could
probably have done it in his sleep by now.
BTW, the "fixed" tire was flat again in the morning. The man is that
GOOD.
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(*) Maybe that's why it's called Halfway? Although that wasn't the
explanation Mike got from a local, which was something about how the
town was midway between two important points in the wilderness way
back when. But he also said there were about six different stories, so
maybe the latitude thing is one of them.
(**) Sensible, yes, but also a missed opportunity -- they could have
called it the Halfway House.
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