The Ends of the Earth

Kimball, Nebraska to Pine Bluffs, Wyoming Thursday, August 12, 2021.

I ended my last post with a Homer Simpsonesque “D’oh!” Here I had just talked myself into resignation, skipping the Nebraska highpoint because I couldn’t get an escort through the buffalo range. I spun it as a life growth event, learning to gracefully accept reality and bending on my rigid goals. Anne posted a lovely comment lauding my choice. Then, just as I was closing the entry, Brandon the deputy offers to escort me after all. I graciously decline, my mind is made up. He says I can call tomorrow if I change my mind.

I slept fitfully that night. The smart thing to do was nothing, just go ahead with what I had decided, and head for Denver. But whatever sickness it is that compels me to do these highpoints in the first place kept gnawing at me. I had to give up on Wounded Knee because it just wasn’t possible. In this case, Brandon had made it possible, and if I bypassed it, it would be because I didn’t want to. It would be my choice, not circumstances beyond my control. And I just couldn’t say no.

At the cross roads, I called the landowner, Jean Klawonn. She was so nice about it, said it was the insurance company that told her to forbid pedestrians and cyclists at the highpoint. She mentioned that the buffalo were in rutting season, and that it would definitely be dangerous to be around them. However in the heat, they commonly lie down and are usually less of a problem. She was quite happy with the idea of my having a deputy escort. Even enthusiastic, since she welcomed anything that would bring law-enforcement out to her property, being so out of the way, they don’t get out there much.

I checked again with Brandon, and he confirmed that he was happy to help me out. He suggested I approach from Wyoming, which would keep me on pavement for as long as possible. Crossing the border was funny. I got a chance to look back and capture that ironic Nebraska welcome sign

But Wyoming made no such fanfare. This rundown shack was the only sign I could find that I had even entered the state.

Fanfare or no, I was in Wyoming! Yes!! This is truly the west. As if on cue, a tumbleweed rolled by, I wasn’t quick enough to get a picture. Instead, I grabbed a quick lunch, dropped my heavy bags at the motel, and was off to meet Brandon.

It was a 16 mile detour, with 6 of those miles on dicey dirt roads. The sign at the entrance to the Klawonn property confirmed that bicyclists and pedestrians were not welcome.

Brandon arrived in due course and drove slowly behind me as I crossed the cattle guard and bounced down the rough track for the final mile and a half to the highpoint. There were no bison in sight, after all that.

I thought I had gotten a photo of Brandon and his big pickup, but I can’t find it. He offered me a ride back to the hotel, and even though some could argue that wasn’t kosher, I took him up on it, it would’ve been a headwind all the way. Plus, I wanted to get a chance to talk to him. He told me of the expanded duties of the sheriffs office in rural Nebraska, and that he plans to run for sheriff next year, with an excellent chance of winning. He also has a cattle and crop farm that has been in the family for 100 years, and I was amazed to hear how much work that is. I heard about the details of those irrigation booms, how they work, how much they cost, and that this part of Nebraska has only seen a half an inch of rain in the last three months, when they usually have 5 times that. With the two jobs, 110-hour work weeks are common. It just made me realize how thoughtful he was to come out and help me. He wouldn’t let me buy him a beer or dinner, it was just in the line of work. This kind of generosity is the norm here in the great plains, but it amazes me every time.

So for better or worse, I maintained my “streak”, but the whole thing held me up enough that I will have to bust my hump to make it to Denver in time. Hopefully the wind will cooperate.

Distance 42 miles, 5,205 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,224 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Scottsbluff to Kimball, Nebraska Wednesday, August 11, 2021

Today was a day of compromises and missed opportunities. For quite a while now, I have been uncertain of being able to visit the Nebraska highpoint. I’ve already been there by car, with Brian and Eric in 2004, but I hoped to get there under my own power. Trouble is, it’s on private land with an active bison range, and a large sign requesting that pedestrians and bicyclists stay away, it upsets the buffalo and could be dangerous. They ask that you visit only in a vehicle.

The buffalo aren’t always there, sometimes they’re in other pastures. My plan was to contact the landowners, to see if that might be the case tomorrow, when I hoped to do it. Their number isn’t listed; websites said they could be contacted through the chamber of commerce of the nearest town, Kimball. Google maps said the chamber closed at noon.

The chamber was up a 2000-foot hill, 45 miles away. I got up sleep deprived, super early to try to make it. The good thing was that I was able to catch the morning balloon launch, and get a better picture of Scotts Bluff. Too bad I didn’t have time to climb it.

Imposing edifices like Scotts Bluff should be the highpoint, but the real one is one of those slight rises in a flat field, like Indiana and Iowa. The whole state of Nebraska tilts upward as you go west, and the highpoint is just a few yards from the Colorado and Wyoming borders. Here’s a picture I got off the web, a stone monument placed by the chamber of commerce years ago, surrounded by an absurdly stout pipe fence, and an adjacent ancient steel desk where the register is. The landowners ask that you make a three dollar donation.

I pushed as hard as I could to get to the chamber by noon, but the heat, wind, my age, and sleep deprivation got the better of me, and I didn’t get there until 12:30. I needn’t have bothered.

Great. Now what do I do? I went into the municipal building, and a very helpful Wendy Baker called a woman she knew, Jessica, at the information center on the interstate. It was up another 300 foot hill, but what the heck.

Despite being busy with other tourists, Jessica spent nearly an hour with me, contacting the landowner, who was noncommittal about where the buffalo would be, giving me a special map, and brainstorming about perhaps finding someone who could meet me at the gate. The plan would be for me to walk or bike behind their vehicle, and if a buffalo came around, I would duck inside.

She offered to meet me there herself, but I saw how busy she was, what an imposition it would be. She mentioned that there was a deputy who lived fairly close to the highpoint, perhaps he could help. She texted his wife, who contacted him. By the end of the day, I hadn’t heard back.

I had to make a decision. Jane was flying to Denver to meet me in five days. Even in the best of circumstances, going to the highpoint, down 35 miles of dirt roads, would make the schedule very tight, at a time when the wind and heat remain significant factors. Add to that the uncertainty of when I got there, if there were buffalo around, and I was not able to arrange an escort, I would have to turn around empty-handed.

I’d already caved on the Wounded Knee destination, so I decided to let this one go as well. This may turn into a pattern. I had hoped to bike to the trailheads of all the big Rocky Mountain highpoints I have climbed, but I now see that time pressure and the approaching winter will make that impractical. If I am unable to do those, there will be a little point in trying to do Nebraska, to maintain my “streak” of doing them all under human power, in one or two stages.

Ah well. My therapist and family say this is good for me, making compromises, easing back on my rigidity, acknowledging the perfect is the enemy of the good. Another bitter pill to swallow. There was a point today, when I was pushing as hard as I could to reach that non-existent chamber of commerce in time, that I was ready to throw in the towel. Instead, I was sustained by the love of family and friends, and the kindness of strangers. The real theme of this trip.

Just as I’d cemented my plans, and wrapped things up to try to catch up on my sleep, Brandon the deputy called at 9:30, apologetic for not getting back to me sooner, he’d been flat out since 3AM. Sure, he’d be happy to meet me at the highpoint and provide an escort. D’oh!

Distance 46 miles, 5,163 total. Time 8 hours with stops. Elevation gain 2,008 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Alliance to Scottsbluff, Nebraska Tuesday, August 10, 2021

Another fairly featureless day, but at least this one had an intriguing destination. Scotts Bluff, a butte which rises dramatically 800 feet above the prairie, was a landmark for earlier travelers on the Oregon Trail. It also rises above the eponymous town, which pushes the two words together. Both were named for Hiram Scott, a 23-year-old fur trader who was found dead at its base in 1828.

You could see it from far out, although today the wildfire smoke kept it hidden until I was fairly close. I was only able to get one shot, in shadow as it rose above the North Platte River. It’s a national monument, and there is both a hiking trail and road to the top, but it was almost 100° today, and I held off.

I imagine many of you, when flying across the country, have noticed those intriguing green circles made by irrigation booms with a center pivot. I was able to see one of those up close, although it was so huge it took a while to grasp that I was looking at the edge of a giant curved field.

Today was also remarkable for long talks with Anne, Howard, Ellen, and my therapist, and of a random act of kindness. Looking for a place with some shade, I found a desolate general store with a sign saying “opening soon”. Linda, an older woman with a paintbrush, said I could go inside to talk, and there I found a fully functioning soda fountain machine, complete with ice and root beer. What heaven, this was the only establishment I passed the entire day. Linda and her husband Kevin were hoping to open it within a couple of weeks. She wouldn’t let me pay for the huge quantities of root beer I consumed. They told me of a balloon festival in Scottsbluff, and where to find groceries and food, and a good bike shop. That little shop was surprisingly well stocked, I got new cycling gloves and some elbow pads for my aero bars, that I have been looking for for months. Bike shops in the big cities didn’t have them. More Easter eggs amongst the desolation.

Distance 61 miles, 5,117 total. Time 7 hours with stops. Elevation gain 953 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Chadron to Alliance, Nebraska Monday, August 9, 2021

OK, this is the first time this has happened in the 115 days of this trip. I really have nothing to report. 54 miles across the featureless Nebraska Panhandle prairie, there was 1000 foot climb out of the White River Valley, and then just gently rolling, with good shoulders and a favorable wind. That’s it. Reminiscent of the Meseta on the Camino, which was interesting at first but then got kind of old. It was hot, and there was no shade, but I’ve gotten used to waiting until I cross a stream, which at least gives me a guard rail to lean on while I eat lunch in the hot sun. This particular stream was dry. I’m glad I had the whole 6 litres of water with me, and a couple of oranges I copped from the motel breakfast spread.

I was determined to find beauty in scenes like this, but this time it was a challenge. It’s hard to imagine what it must be like to live here. The irrigation booms were active, which I guess was something. There were still a few stray bikers from the Sturgis rally, trailing their multiple American flags.

I could’ve made it slightly interesting by detouring to Carhenge, but it was 6 miles out of the way in this hot sun, and I couldn’t see the appeal of a shrine to fossil fuel. Still, it seemed kind of cool. The family did get a kick out of the Cadillac Ranch, in the Texas Panhandle in 2005. I should lighten up. This trip is about embracing America.

Th-th-that’s all, folks! Only 5 more days of prairie to Denver. Don’t give up on me, I’ll try to find something.

Distance 54 miles, 5,056 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,956 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Hot Springs, South Dakota to Chadron, Nebraska Sunday, August 8, 2021

Decision made, it was time to get going. Another scorcher today. I left as early as I could, left the last trace of the Black Hills behind and re-entered the rolling prairie. I passed a sign that symbolized my difficult choice.

and found comfort, as I often do, in the words of fellow Vermonter Robert Frost. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44272/the-road-not-taken

Rolling prairie. Now I see where the term “prairie schooner” came from, it felt like I was crossing oceans of grass. The monotony was mitigated by a long phone call with Sarah, during which I crossed into Nebraska. I didn’t want to risk dropping the call to take a photo of the welcome sign, but it mentioned that Nebraska was the home of Arbor Day. This without a tree in sight. You can’t make this stuff up.

It was 99° when I rolled into Chadron, just before three. Chadron has the only Warmshowers host in the Nebraska panhandle, but you can’t camp in heat like this, so I opted for a nice motel. They had a fitness center with the first scale I’ve seen in weeks, and my sorrow was bucked up by seeing I had lost 40 pounds. Of course this was before eating anything or fully rehydrating, so I guess it was the opposite of a thumb on the scale.

I went over to see the Warmshowers hosts anyway, since Steve and Cheryl had cycled around the world. Their lovely home was naturally cool without air conditioning

…a real oasis as they gave me food and drink, local route advice, and we shared stories of our love of the open road. They met while cycling through Salzburg, Austria, which brought to mind a favorite movie Before Sunrise. We could’ve talked for hours, but it was Cheryl‘s birthday, so I left them to celebrate.

The 3 mile detour to visit them gave me another little bonus: my odometer rolled over to 5000 miles, or five large as Tony Soprano would say. What a long strange trip it’s been.

Distance 57 miles, 5,002 total. Time 7 hours with stops. Elevation gain 1,587 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Custer to Hot Springs, South Dakota Saturday, August 7, 2021

Today couldn’t have been easier, 34 miles down the Mickelson rail trail and good roads, almost all downhill, and with a tailwind. So why didn’t I feel better?

For weeks I have been talking about, and apprehensive about, visiting the site of the Wounded Knee massacre, the heartbreaking coda of our military action against the Lakota People, on December 29, 1890. Apart from slavery and the Jim Crow era, this is possibly the most shameful episode in our history. I just can’t stop thinking about it, of course have read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, seen the PBS and other videos, and after finishing my Crazy Horse audiobook, have just completed American Carnage. No, not that American Carnage, the earlier book, the most detailed and definitive recounting of the massacre, and the grievous trail of deception, coercion, humiliation, and treachery that led up to it. That Sitting Bull had been killed just 14 days before, that all three tragedies—Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, and the massacre—were precipitated by bungled attempts to bring the Lakota into custody; and that the inciting event was the poignant and heartrending Ghost Dance, a plaintive call for a messiah to restore to the First Nations what was taken from them; it was all just too much. The dance was beautiful and harmless, but it unnerved the soldiers and settlers, and became the spark that ignited the powder keg.

Beyond the highpoints, a theme of this trip is to visit the worst as well as the best of America, that only by acknowledging, by paying tribute, by owning the harm we have done, can we begin the healing. The Germans have done this, to some extent, with the Holocaust, and are much farther down this road than we are. Maybe it’s all part of my grandiose self-delusion, that by eschewing fossil fuel on this trip I can combat global warming, that by visiting these sites I can help kickstart the healing. Silly perhaps, OK silly definitely, but it’s been an engine of motivation keeping me going.

So why the apprehension? This one has me creeped out. It will take me three days out of my way—I’ve blown days before taking zeros and zigzagging all over creation waiting for Charles Mound to open up—but now I’m feeling the pressure of the approaching winter, of getting through the Rockies and Cascades before then. The facilities are extremely sparse along the way, after reserving that B&B I discovered it has no running water, and the idea of doing these sweaty days without my nightly shower is daunting. Indeed, the heat and winds look unfavorable, as does the road quality exiting into Nebraska. I seem to be developing my own wounded knee, the DJD that dogged me on the Camino has been mercifully quiet until that 11 mile hike up Black Elk Peak on Thursday. Finally, and I’m embarrassed to admit it, the common practice of dogs roaming free on the reservations has me anxious.

My whining seems ludicrous compared to the real dangers and suffering of 1890, but tonight I’ve made the agonizing decision to skip Wounded Knee. Better part of valor and all that. Just getting through the semi-arid desolation of Nebraska and northeast Colorado will be challenging enough. Wounded pride (this is the first major stop I have had to give up) aside, I don’t want to jeopardize the whole trip to tag this post.

There was a bright side to this Debbie Downer day. My route took me through Wind Cave National Park

Only my second national park, Isle Royale was my first. I didn’t go to the caves themselves, we had been there in 2005 and they were cool, but there are more impressive caverns elsewhere. Just passing through, however, I was able to see bison, prairie dogs, and untouched prairie.

Randy had suggested I ride through the heart of Custer State Park, where there are large herds of bison, but included a link to his own adventures there.http://theentertainernewspaper.com/writers/brich/feb06.html Impressive story, but poor salesmanship, in terms of getting me to go there. I’ll have trouble enough with the bison at the Nebraska highpoint.

Distance 34 miles, 4,945 total. Time 5 hours with stops. Elevation gain 650 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Sylvan Lake Lodge to Custer, South Dakota Friday, August 6, 2021

The backside of Mount Rushmore, seen yesterday from the top of Black Elk Peak, was all I cared to see of that monument. I’ve seen it twice before, there are always huge crowds, and as much as I admire those four men, one could argue that two slaveholders, a wealthy adventurer, and the man who was responsible for the largest mass execution in our history, 38 Native Americans in 1862, were out of place here. There was one face in stone I did want to see, Tȟašúŋke Witkó, AKA Crazy Horse. I’d listened to his full story over the past few days in the audiobook The Journey of Crazy Horse, and I wanted to pay tribute to this man who cherished the Black Hills above all else, and who gave his life defending them for his people.

Today would be an easy day, swooping downhill from Sylvan Lake, then just 6 miles up the Mickelson Rail Trail to the monument, where I hoped to camp. Between them was the town of Custer, and I spent some time in the library using their good Wi-Fi and researching lodging for the next few days, the librarian helped me find a B&B just 11 miles from Wounded Knee.

There was no rain in the forecast, but I guess the Black Hills make their own weather. As I went up the trail, I saw storm clouds ahead and suddenly they were forecasting an 80% chance of thunderstorms. Great, the crushed stone rail trail does not do well in rain. I considered turning around, but decided to scoot up and at least make it to the visitor center before it poured. It was arresting to round the bend, and suddenly see him up there.

The Polish-American sculptor Korczak Ziolkowski began working on this in 1948, at the request of Henry Standing Bear to serve as a counterpoint, and to dwarf, Mount Rushmore. He knew it would not be finished in his lifetime, and indeed he died in 1984, the work being carried on by his family. They have refused all government aid. If completed, it will be the second largest statue in the world. This is as far as they have gotten in 73 years, not much further than when I saw it with the family in 2005. The visitor center has grown considerably, however, and was swarming with tourists (given the news of the delta variant, I’m wearing a mask indoors again). This was the best picture I could get of the completed model, with the monument in the background.

This was the most touristy thing I did in the Black Hills, but I was happy to pay the admission fee, eat in their mediocre, overpriced restaurant, and make my way through the gift shop. I consoled myself that at least it was for a good cause, then I saw this New Yorker article https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/09/23/who-speaks-for-crazy-horse

He is being carved into Thunderhead Mountain, and sure enough, the storms returned with a vengeance. I had hoped to watch the laser light show at 9:30, but it’s no fun setting up camp in the rain. During a lull I headed back down the hill to Custer and a motel. There’s some resonance there, Crazy Horse defeated Custer at Little Bighorn in 1876.

Distance 22 miles, 4,911 total. Time 6 hours with stops. Elevation gain 983 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Sylvan Lake Lodge, South Dakota. Thursday August 5, 2021

The plural is intentional, a play on Black Elk Speaks, the definitive work on the Oglala medicine man. Until 2016, South Dakota’s highpoint was named Harney Peak, which I climbed in 1977. The name was a great insult to the Lakota people, General William Harney was known to them as “Woman Killer” for his habit of attacking defenseless women and children, so galling to have his name on the apex of their sacred Black Hills.

So I’ve climbed Harney Peak, but not Black Elk Peak. A silly distinction, perhaps, but it brings up the issue of what to do with all the big highpoints I’ve already climbed, but from a parking lot I drove to. As stated before, I’m too old to redo the really tough ones, have already decided to just bike to my prior parking space and call it good. Sea-to-summitting in two stages, acceptable to these “rules” that matter only to me.

Black Elk is in the gray zone, pretty hard but doable even in my decrepitude. I have reclimbed the northeast peaks, even the semi-tough ones like Washington, Marcy, and Katahdin. This one would be the highest so far. I was on the fence right up until I checked in to the Sylvan Lake Lodge last night. When the clerk said I could keep the room for two nights, that clinched it.

On July 22, 1977 my girlfriend and I drove nonstop from Boston to the Black Hills, on the 25th I bagged Harney with enough time to see Devils Tower and make it all the way to Yellowstone. Ah, to be young and strong, the whole shebang took three days. This time it took me 110 days to get here, and I knew the seven mile, 1200 foot vertical climb hike would burn up most of the day. Furthermore, an acquaintance I’d made outside of Pierre, Randy Brich, who has been giving me great advice about all things Black Hills, suggested I take a longer trail up and the short one down. What the hell, I’ve got all day.

Randy was right, the longer trail was much more interesting than I recall the short trail being.

The views were nonstop, many difficult to capture in a photo. It took me by a number of spectacular features, including Cathedral Spires and Little Devils Tower.

I didn’t have time for the side trails that lead to these, but on one occasion when blindingly following a family ahead of me, I came upon this crevice, and realized that I had gotten about halfway up Little Devils Tower.

I was tempted to proceed to the top, but no, this hike will be long enough as it is. The mistake had already added another mile.

The actual summit of South Dakota is covered by an old observation tower, and they have not changed the plaque on the wall, or on a Highpointers Club bench on the way up

I remember from 1977 that there were scads of ladybugs at the top, and there still were quite a few. Ironic, because Harney, you recall, was a lady killer.

This does not increase my highpoint count, I am still at 37, but now there are 18 that I have done from sea level.

In the hazy distance you could see the backside of Mount Rushmore, and can get an idea of what the mountain must’ve looked like before they carved it up.

You can also see how bogus that classic Hitchcock movie, North by Northwest, was. I’ve already mentioned it for the Indiana crop duster scene. In the climax, Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint are being chased through the woods and happen upon the top of Mount Rushmore. You can see here that they would’ve had to have made a major rock climb to get to the top of the heads from the back.

The “short way down” still seemed interminable at the end of this day. However when I got back to the lake I had enough energy to walk around the perimeter, adding another mile. It was generally pretty easy except for a cluster of rocks at the dam on one end.

Randy had told me that a famous rock climber, John Gill, had pioneered the climb up the boulders there, and to look for paint marks indicating the route. The paint was gone, but there was a little chair at the top of the cliff, for anyone who cared to climb up there.

The biggest hike of the trip so far, and quite a bit longer that the hike in 1977, but totally worth it.

Distance 11 miles, 4,889 total. Time 8 hours with stops. Elevation gain 2,042 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Carstens Cottages to Sylvan Lake Lodge, South Dakota Wednesday, August 4, 2021

So today I started at almost 6000 feet, and finished at 6300. Why did I have to climb over 2000 feet? The elevation profile tells the tale.

On two occasions I dropped about 1000 feet only to have to climb it again. I wished I had a zip-line, so I could just go from peak to peak.

Well if you have to do all this up-and-down nonsense, it helps to have a great rail trail, the Mickelson, which I followed for 32 of these 41 miles. It was amazing how it cut through the landscape, beautifully graded with bridges and tunnels, avoiding all the ups and downs of the adjacent road. It used to be the Burlington Northern railroad, built many years ago, but what a tour de force of civil engineering.

• 

• 

It’s crushed limestone, generally very smooth, but because it had rained so hard last night, there were some ruts and soft spots in places. For the most part, though, I was able to cruise down the first slope averaging 18 miles an hour, grinning ear to ear, trying not to think about the paying-the-piper climbs ahead.

That last climb was on paved roads, no shoulders, as steep as I have encountered on this trip. In my lowest gear, I was weaving from side to side and having to take up the whole lane. Long lines of cars and motorcycles would pile up behind me, but not one person beeped or shouted, mostly just called out words of encouragement. At the top were the twisted granite cliffs and spires the Black Hills are famous for, you could see how one of them could’ve been transformed into Mount Rushmore.

Distance 41 miles, 4,878 total. Time 7 hours with stops. Elevation gain 2,109 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria

Belle Fourche to Carstens Cottages, South Dakota. Tuesday, August 3, 2021

How great that Lin-Manuel Miranda’s first musical is coming to the silver screen. I found myself in my own heights today, the Black Hills.

My hoped-for distant view of them rising from the plains never materialized, it was too hazy or smoky. Their hulk manifested itself in a different way, in my pathetic speed. I kept checking to see if my tires were low, or something was rubbing—I never go THIS slowly.

No, the bike was fine, and I personally felt fine. It was the constant uphill grade, so shallow as to be imperceptible, but steep and unrelenting enough to knock my speed into serious wussy territory. It might have been an optical illusion. I was approaching the Black Hills from the backside, thereby spared the grievous string of tourist traps leading into them from Rapid City. I remember one of them was about defying gravity. SEE WATER FLOW UPHILL the sign shrieked. Well in fact I was going gradually uphill, I thought it seemed I was going flat or even slightly downhill. It was uncanny.

Suddenly I was in Spearfish Canyon. Wow, what scenery.

Such a welcome change from weeks of prairie. A couple of other positive notes: it was getting cooler as I climbed, and the food stops were frequent. I could probably stop carrying my 6 liters (12 pounds) of water, but old habits die hard. A thunderstorm came by, but I was able to duck into a bar and avoid having to break out my rain gear, which for all its high tech fabrics still gets sweaty inside. The motorcycles were frequent but respectful, this scenic highway has a 35 mph limit. One stretch had no shoulders, but I fired up my crazy-bright rear flasher, and no worries.

The road finally steepened to the point where it was noticeable, I even had to walk my bike for a mile. I topped out at 6,300 feet, higher than Mt. Washington, so the acme of this trip so far. Then down to the Mickelson Rail Trail, 109 miles of crushed-stone heaven, as long as it doesn’t rain. Wound up at Carsten Cottages, the only lodging for miles, I’d called ahead and had the proprietor pick up groceries, and barbecued a sirloin steak.

Distance 43 miles, 4,837 total. Time 10 hours with stops. Elevation gain 3,485 feet

©️ 2021 Scott Luria