Monday, July 25th
My first day in Idaho – my 15th, and penultimate US state. And another first – the first time I travelled towards my destination without pedalling a bike, in other words, I travelled 20 miles in a car. But I had good reason to do so.
The day began (and ended) alongside the I90 interstate. Despite the proximity to it at Quartz Flat campground I slept well and was up early to try and make progress on the road whilst the day was cooler and hopefully the traffic lesser, though i’m beginning to see that this road is perpetually busy – even at night, ferrying cargos of people and products across this country in the darkness, and the light.
I made good progress though and reached St Regis sometime after 10 after 25 easy miles. I stopped at a gas station / casino / gift shop / restaurant for coffee, and also took a slice of huckleberry pie to eat outside, since it seems to be a Montana speciality.
I ate my pie and drank my coffee in the sun on a bench outside, spoke to Finn back in England, and a Vietnam vet who’d stopped to fill his truck with gas.
I reviewed my options for going forward. The interstate was tolerable – just. Other than the fact it was downhill, and quite scenic, I wasn’t enjoying it much and just viewed it as the most efficient way to get me to the start of the trail I was aiming for.
Google suggested two other trails which would connect me with the Coeur d’Alene trail that I was aiming for at Mullan. After sitting an hour or so in the sun I took a small road to the trailhead which started right at the side of the interstate.
Immediately I knew I’d have to get back on the road. The trail had rocks the size of my fist and by this point in the trip I knew that I was better off on hard surfaces, even if that meant sharing them with trucks carrying logs passing just a few feet away from my face.
It was 40 miles to Mullan. The first 10 passed ok, then I ran into a section of road works. What was two lanes in each direction became one in each direction as the both East and West bound traffic shared what was the East bound side of the road. A shoulder had been created but it was narrower and the traffic even closer. It was too much.
I decided i’d ride on the closed off section of highway. It looked like it was being prepared for resurfacing, and aside form 2 or 3 short sections which had been dug up already it was perfectly rideable and allowed me to continue safely.
The roadworks finished and I merged with traffic again.
Almost since leaving Missoula there had been signs advertising a huge gift shop close to the Idaho border. The last chance to buy fridge magnets, doormats, and wooden signs with things like ‘Hope is the only thing stronger than fear’ written on them in terrible fonts.
I was going to bypass it but, as the junction came up, I turned at the last second, thinking a jar of huckleberry jam might make a nice gift for a friend. I’m glad I made that turn.
As I parked my bike I got speaking to a guy called Doug who was about to drink a beer with his wife inside. He had rode to California in 1974 and was so enthusiastic that he cut off more or less all my sentences. But he did impart some useful information. I would shortly be approaching a climb and, at the top, Lookout Pass. According to Doug this particular section was closed to cyclists and a sign had a number you could call to arrange a shuttle to take you down. This all sounded less than ideal, on a road I was already out of love with. Doug’s wife said they could drive me over later. It was an option.
I went to the gas station on the same lot as the gift shop and asked the guy at the till what the deal with the roadworks was as I bought a coffee. All he knew, he said without making eye contact, was that it was a mess.
I knew enough to know that I didn’t want to cycle it. If I could get a lift over to Mullan, the last 20 miles, i’d be able to relax. The last hour or two had been some of the most stressful riding of the trip and for the first time I genuinely feared for my safety. LCD boards on the highway reminded me ’93 deaths on MT highways this year’. The roadside had featured numerous white crosses. It was time to stop cycling for a bit.
I kept a lookout for anyone pulling in with a small truck type vehicle, with a space in the back to dump my bike. I hung around by the pumps and asked one guy if he was going West but he was going back down the road. I moved out into the carpark and tracked a white vehicle which pulled in at the gas station. It’s owner was a large guy with a beard. He went in the shop.
I moved over and as he came back to his truck holding an bucket sized cup of soda I asked if he was heading West and if he could take me over the pass. To my surprise he immediately agreed and I quickly stripped most of the things off my bike, and slung it on to the flatbed at the back. He tied some kind of strap to secure it and I put the rest of my stuff on the back seat.
His name was Jim. He grew up in California, worked in a coal power plant for 35 years, and for the last 1.5 had owned a ranch nearby with holiday cabins. I have the details on the card he gave me.
He was going to vote for Trump, and didn’t believe in solar panels, Hilary Clinton, or much, it seemed. Though he still came across as a pleasant enough guy and as we reached the top, and I saw the sign and how the road narrowed, I was grateful for the help he was giving me.
We passed the Idaho state sign in a blur. Not exactly how I wanted to enter the state, but better to enter it alive in a car than in the back of an ambulance or worse. It was only 20 miles. A drop in the ocean compared to the other 4800 or so.
We turned off the interstate at Mullan after coming down from the pass. He said he’d never been there even though it was just a small number of miles down the road from his ranch. Jim continued on his way to Wallace to buy plumbing parts after I gathered my belongings from the back of his truck.
I felt a great sense of relief and relaxed outside the gas station i’d been dropped at drinking an iced coffee and making crude sandwiches from the bread and cheese I’d been carrying.
I’d magically gained 20 miles and a couple of hours so took my time before locating the trailhead. Mullan was, to me, a picturesque valley town, mid-century buildings and signs, some no longer in use.
A coupe of side streets later and I was on the trail. Silky smooth tarmac, no cars, no stress. The interstate was right beside me and it was hard to ignore the noise, but the trail was surrounded by trees and followed a river which was just about audible when the traffic dimmed.
And it was gently downhill. I rolled along stuffing pop tarts into my face and enjoying not having to think. There was 72 miles of this to look forward to.
The trail passed through small towns, like Wallace, Silverton, and Osborn. Old mining places from what I could observe, not too many reasons to stop.
Outside of the towns the river widened and the trail became more scenic as it drifted away from the interstate. It wasn’t as dramatic as the Mickelson trail i’d ridden in South Dakota, just pretty, but by this point I was just happy to be off the road.
I travelled quickly but as the afternoon wore on I became slow. The day seemed to be getting hotter and drier the later it became. I had pinpointed a campsite about 13 miles away at this point and stopped to make a cup of coffee on one of the many areas of benches which were dispersed along the trail. Hot coffee was not what I needed, but the break did me some good.
I realised that the route i’d plotted the day before actually took me off the trail only about half way through, and along small country roads up to Sandpoint. I decided that i’d invested so much in getting to the trail that i’d see it to the end at Plummer. It also looked like perhaps the best bits of it, close to the lake, were yet to come. I could ride to Spokane tomorrow after finishing the trail, then head north from there on the route 2 to take me to Newport where i’d be back on the Northern Tier as planned.
I did slightly regret not just heading north out of Missoula, but perhaps that would have problems of a different kind. All in all it was only about half a day which had been hard to enjoy, and I was looking forward to getting started on the trail early tomorrow in the cooler air.
I felt this longing building up in me, a longing for a cooler climate, a more subtle culture, somewhere less…American.
A few seconds after this thought I stop in my tracks as large elk with one it’s young stood right in the middle of the track about 15 metres ahead of me. We lock eyes. The older one looks like it’s thinking about confronting me, but they both jog off to the side, the little one jumps in the river with a loud satisfying splash.
The last few miles to the campground are some of the prettiest. The water is perfectly still and the trees are reflected across it. Elsewhere along the trail people were jumping from tressle bridges or swimming from makeshift beaches at the riverside. I’d have to try and take a dip tomorrow.
The campground is right at the side of the interstate. Kahnderosa RV Park & Campgrounds. It feel like it almost passes overhead. The noise is so constant it’s fairly easy to adjust. Yesterday’s campsite at least had trees to block out the sound, but this is wide open.
After navigating past a small dog, and a cat with only one open eye I give the owner a $20 note, and she returns $10 with a wink (it was meant to cost $15). Outside on a bird feeder is a hummingbird. The first time i’ve seen one this close. The owner then holds up her iPad and shows me a video of one even closer. So much nature so close to all the noise.
It’s my 70th day. Each day when I speak to different people I tell them what day i’m on. 70 seems to carry more clout than 68 or 69 or 50, it sounds like a long time in the way that ‘2 months’ doesn’t. But it’s not quite over yet.
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