Kooskia to Wilderness Gateway Campground, Idaho. Wednesday, May 29, 2024
[note: the next three posts are coming all at once, since I was off the grid for three days. They are a little bit less tightly edited than the others, my apologies in advance.]
Heading off today felt more formidable than my last accommodations desert, at least then I had a cell signal. I somehow thought that being on the Transamerica Trail would bestow this route with biker friendly services, but I was mistaken. I didn’t see another bicyclist all day. What I did see was lots of rafters, the Clearwater had turned into an unbroken rapid. It was exhilarating to cycle along it, and even more so to watch the kayakers and rafters negotiate the churning water. We waved and hooted encouragement to each other. Gratified that my bicycle and body were behaving themselves in the steady uphill grind, I was vexed by the intermittent rain.
I’d been lulled in into a sense of insouciance by the semi arid climate I’d enjoyed since the Columbia Gorge, no rain except for that one stormy day in Umatilla; I was in the rain shadow of the Cascades. But now I was approaching the Rockies, the Bitterroot and Sawteeth ranges were creating their own rain shadow, and I was on the wet side. My Showers Pass gear rose to the occasion – I was never uncomfortable – but I had to camp tonight and I hate setting up camp in the rain.
Billy and Bonie at the B&B had been invaluable in giving me the lay of the land. 40 miles in was a campsite, with running but no hot water, 40 miles after that was Lochsa Lodge, the only creature comforts before historic Lolo Pass (where Lewis & Clark crossed their highest pass in the Rockies). The next stop would be Missoula, college town of the University of Montana and headquarters of Adventure Cycling.
The steep forested sides of the canyon the Clearwater had carved for itself were unrelentingly beautiful, but impossible to capture in a photo. I wished I had taken my GoPro, to record a continuous video, and perhaps relay the sense of awe I felt coming around each bend. But that awe was undercut by constant vigilance, I could rarely take my eye off my rearview mirror. One huge truck whooshed by frighteningly close. You’d think a road this popular with cyclists would have decent shoulders. Apparently they’re coming, in fact the construction I’ve been warned about is to widen the shoulders. Too late for me.
Jane is constantly worried about me , and now has no way of tracking my progress or getting updates about my safety. Highway signs announced old-fashioned call boxes at intervals, I stopped at one and considered using it to reassure Jane I was all right. But the sign said it would connect me directly to Idaho State Police dispatch, and it seemed an egregious misuse of emergency services. I wandered around the campground hoping to find someone with a satellite uplink or Wi-Fi or something, but no luck. It’s bad enough, abandoning Jane for all these months, but especially harsh to be incommunicado like this. I remembered I felt this way on Denali, knowing two people had died on the mountain, and being unable to reassure Jane.
The rain paused just long enough for me to be able to set up my tent without getting the insides wet. Apparently there’s a way to set up the rain fly first, but I didn’t want to learn how to do it under these rushed circumstances. I used my camp stove for the first time to prepare Mountain House chicken pad Thai, it wasn’t half bad; Bonie had joked I was eating MREs, or K-rations. I hope to find kindred spirits in the campground, but the only people I encountered were drunken revelers from a wedding. Nothing to do but take a baby-wipes “shower”, go to bed early, and be thankful that this new tent is keeping me bone dry in the rain, and that my top quilts are keeping me warm at 40°. Nighty night.
Distance 44 miles, 1,144 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,524 feet
©️ 2024 Scott Luria
The Ends of the Earth 