Tuesday, July 26th
“Bored in the USA, how did it happen?”
Though not my words, when this song comes into my ear at the end of the day, as I’m navigating through the entirely depressing suburbs of Spokane, it sums up the mood of the day.
Not necessarily boredom, but fatigue, which can manifest itself as the same thing.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of having to justify myself to strangers and make up reasons for why I’m doing this and how I can afford to. I’m tired of gas station food, the too much-ness of everything – the size and the choice, the overwhelming displays of quantity over quality. I’m physically tired, I’m tired of the habit I’ve developed of counting down each 10 miles to make it through the tough days. I’m tired of finding time to write each day. I’m tired of the same thoughts treadmilling in my head.
I’m sure this is just the culmination of 4000+ miles, not a lot of sleep or rest, and the fact I’m on the homeward stretch now and, perhaps, secretly looking forward to being back in Europe, a little frustrated with America and then in turn my reaction to it when I know that I will inevitably come to miss it.
Today was objectively great. I met lots of nice people on the trail who were amazed by what I was doing, I cycled beside a lake, I saw wild moose, drank coffee in the sun, and finished my 94 miles at at a beautiful state park with the sound of the river in the background.
All I can say is I’m not unhappy, the opposite in fact, and each day still surprises me in some way big or small, and I’m still enjoying myself, a lot. But – I am tired.
I woke up in the dark at what I thought was sunset, it would become apparent later how I was wrong. But I made my breakfast, washed, and was back on the trail, right next to the campsite, at 7.20. Despite the proximity to the interstate, to the point where it felt like cars and trucks were literally driving over my sleeping body, I slept well, trying to turn the noise into some kind of ambient drone music or white noise.
Almost immediately I run into Fred. He’s cycling the trail for a few hours this morning. Apparently the start of the day is his, the rest belongs to his wife. He’s from Washington and holidaying nearby with family. On the back of his bike a bungee cord holds down a towel and some swimming shorts.
We spend roughly the next hour and half cycling together. He’s got a good eye for spotting wildlife, and points out quails and wild turkeys as we pedal. He’s also full of facts like, ‘a hay bale weighs 700 pounds’, and has a story about a lone apple tree in the field we pass likely grew because the train drivers which passed through would toss the core out of the window when they are finished eating. It’s a romantic philosophy on agriculture.
After lots of intriguing shapes we do finally run into a female elk with two calves eating at the side of the trail and we pause and watch before they take off slowly into the water and shrubbery at the side.
We talk about how nice it is to be up so early and the only ones on the trail. It’s at this point I have the realisation that I passed through a time zone without knowing. According to Fred the moment I passed out of Montana and into Idaho I gained an hour, and so I set my phone and watch to that effect. Pacific time, my fourth and final time zone. So in actually fact I first got up at 5.00 not 6.00. The day is going to be a long one.
Fred stops at a rock and puts his bike down for a drink and a snack, he’s going to turn back, I give him one of my cards and carry on.
It’s just a few short miles to Harrison, a town on the side of Coeur d’Alene lake as trail emerges to run alongside the water.
I stop for coffee in a small place at the top of a steep hill. It’s busy with people, mainly cycling part of the trail today. A whole team of women in matching jerseys. A couple of locals next to me comment how bikers are taking over the cafe. This is why I don’t wear Lycra or sporty jerseys. I feel people treat you differently when you stick out as a ‘cyclist’ and I’d rather blend in with ordinary life when I’m not on my bike.
I drink two cups of coffee then eat three doughnuts at the supermarket whilst chatting to an older cyclist outside who has run 50 marathons, I forget his name.
The next hour or so I run into many different groups of people cycling, including a couple towing their dog who I ride with for a bit. Most people seem to have come from Washington for the day to ride specific sections of the trail for 20 to 30 miles or so.
The trail runs alongside the lake then crosses a trestle bridge over the bay. Soon after this the uphill begins. It’s not a huge incline since rail tracks don’t tend to be more than 2-3%, but it catches me surprise. It heads up through the trees leaving the water behind, eventually terminating in the dry heat of Plummer.
I head to the supermarket in town to buy more coffee since the stuff I’ve been making in the morning tastes like dirt, then get a fresh coffee from a gas station. Outside I run into Bob. An unlikely looking cyclist wearing dirty blue jeans and a thick grey beard, our of which pokes a long cigar he’s just purchased from the smoke shop next door – one of many i’ll see in the next few miles. Despite the scruffy appearance he seems sharper than most even if his story, cycling from spearfish to Spokane because he owes his brother 50 dollars, doesn’t quite add up.
He says ‘right on’ a lot, and says an extra big one when I tell him I started in New York. I want to chat longer and get to know this guy, but I need to press on and say goodbye, and good luck.
I’m also saying goodbye to Idaho after just a day and a half or less. Not enough to get to know it that’s for sure, but my lasting memory will be the dry afternoon heat I’ve endured.
I leave Plummer on the 95, past more smoke shops in Worley, some open, some shut. I believe these are connected to the Native American population in this region. There’s definitely a different atmosphere and I can’t pinpoint what’s changed.
From Worley, I remain on the 95 for a while, then divert on to the 278, before joining the 27 which takes me most of the way toward spoken valley.
It’s a little odd at first being off the trail and back on roads but the highways are fairly scenic, and once I’m Away from the 95, not too busy either. There’s more fields now, more agriculture and of course fewer mountains.
I stop at Rockford where I try to figure out where I’m staying tonight. No warm showers hosts have come through, camping is sparse, motels are plentiful. I ring the KOA campsite and they’re charging $38 for a night spent by the freight trains tracks. That would make my third night camped by noisy traffic of some kind, and besides, for just a little more a can get a motel. The only other camping option is a state park on the west side of Spokane, a little out of the way. I decide to make a decision once I get into the city.
The edges of Spokane are not the most inspiring place to cycle. It reminds me of some of the long stretches I faced sometimes in Japan where a mix of car showrooms and shut down businesses with bright signs but long overgrown grass on their forecourts. Balloons dangle from wing mirrors advertising promotions. And those inflatable men flop in the wind. I pass at least two subways and three McDonalds. There’s also a lot of these small huts or cubicles offering drive through espresso, I stop at one for an iced coffee and join the interstate on the section which passes into Spokane.
I’m not sure what I expected with this city but either I’m seeing the worst of it on my route in, or if it is in fact a dump.
I’ve lost all signal on my phone so pull in outside a McDonald’s to use their internet. After reading some reviews of various motels I decide I’ll head for the state park, another 11 miles. I don’t feel like I need another night inside, though maybe it would be nice to try one more motel before I leave.
The traffic flows heavily. On the horizon the sky looks ready to break into a storm or at least rain and I travel as fast as I can to the park, stopping only to pick up a beer.
I turn off one of the busier roads and follow a suburban street until I hit a golf course then make a turn and I find myself on a steep road entering the park, with a large drop at the side of the road down to a river at the bottom of the valley. Suddenly the whole landscape has changed, from shut down Mexican restaurants to a huge valley of untamed forest, it looks like the Washington I imagined.
I follow the road along the hillside until it deposits me at the entrance to the camping area where I pay $12.
I can pick any place to camp down towards the river amongst picnic benches and fire pits. It gets dark quickly and I try and cook my food and put up my tent all at the same time whilst a few small rain drops fall. I eat my food under a picnic shelter whilst the shower passes. There are cracks of thunder but it seems to move on.
After two nights camped by an interstate being able to hear a river and see nothing but trees beyond my tent and bike feels like a novelty again and I’m glad I choose to persevere and not taking the easier option of a sleazy motel somewhere along the road.
It’s been a mixed few days since leaving Missoula. Highlights have been riding the trail, this park, meeting some nice people. But given the chance again I’d probably have headed north sooner and avoided the interstate and all the surrounds it. The beauty and isolation of the mountains in mountain has felt a long since passed.
I will be going north tomorrow on highway 2 to Newport where i’ll rejoin the northern tier route for the last week. I’ve got the cascade mountains to cross, and maybe some time to explore some of the islands close to Vancouver and Seattle. I’m looking forward to being by the sea again.
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