From the Mountaintop Archives

A Random Bike Trip List

I promise to write more about this bike trip from Washington to Wyoming and share more pictures when I have more consistent internet access. (More. More. More. How many times can I say it?) Till then I need you to know a few things.

 

1) Elias now considers himself more of a walker than a crawler, demanding that his walker comes outside with him at every stop. “Want to walk,” he is known to cry when he is stuck in his car seat or booster chair or some loving family members’ arms. Want to walk. From a boy who we weren’t sure would. And sure I would love it if he could stand up with out holding onto something but the independence the walker grants him goes farther than the state of Washington. And you should see him aim for hills, dips, rocks, bushes, and curbs. He’s a mad man looking for a challenge. Hmmm. Like his family, I guess.

2) A bike shop pro tested Nick for an hour on his bike, making all kinds of crazy adjustments with laser beams and mirrors and markers on his knees. So with his bike aligned to him, and a new pair of shoes, he’s ready to hop back on the saddle with hope for a long ride.

3) My mom and I have different standards of personal hygiene. Since Nick and I fell in love with each other during a hiking expedition where we didn’t shower for three weeks and during our engagement we lived in a one-room cabin without running water for a year and a half, going days without a shower is no big deal. It is for my Mom. So every couple days we find RV parks with full services. But to my Mom’s credit she is doing this trip instead of reading in the sun on Cape Cod. When we started she said she would not ride up hills or in the rain and not only has she done both but she rode 90 miles in two days this week.

4) Long dark tunnels scare me more that long steep passes.

5) Age does not need to slow you down. My Dad can climb faster than any of us on the steepest of passes and his bike is over twenty years old.

6) As hard as it seems, someone always has it harder. An Adventure Cycle tour group shares our route and they carry all their gear on their bike and do not have a home on wheels to hide in from the rain. Or to hold their cooler filled with Alaskan Amber and white wine.

7) As someone who always stood on the outside of RV culture, smirking as the tourists trudge into Alaska each summer with their mega-wheels causing traffic jams on the Seward highway, I must admit it’s a pretty sweet ride. And we get to meet friendly folks like BC Jerry who drives to Omak with his wife for the great shopping deals.

8) The part that sits on the bike gets the most sore and unfortunately its not a part you can stretch—now I understand why friends talked about baby powder, chaffing, Vaseline, and “but butter.”

9) There is absolutely nothing sexy about sleeping in a standard RV with your husband AND your parents and your son.

10) I’m still so glad to be doing this.

Across Washington with a Downward Shift

Hello again.

Writing from McDuff's in Sandpoint Idaho where the online password is "ilovebeer".  Again rushed for time, even though it's our first down day in over a week, but my old friend Hannah is here to see us so I want to maximize my time with her--though i miss writing to all of you as well.

There's too much to share that I'm a bit flustered on where to begin. So I'll just start where my heart is: I want Nick's knee to heal. He hasn't been able to bike for three days due to sharp pains in his knee. It sucks being injured. I know I hate it-- especially being stranded on the sidelines as your family takes off down the road. He's a better sport than I would be but his eyes gaze down more often and his smile isn't quite as alive as earlier in the week when we pedaled together.

He saw a doctor at a walk-in clinic yesterday and the good news is she doesn't think he tore anything but she didn't give him the green light to ride. Just a wait and see. Maybe maybe not. The story of our lives.

Home-r away from home (guest post)

There's something special about small-town Alaska. Maybe it's a quality found in small towns everywhere, or any place where people need each other in community. But in Alaska, I've found it in Haines, and in Homer. I know Christy and Nick find it in Seward when they go to visit David and Mary, Johnny and the dogs. 
What I've found is this:
In a part of the world where many people are far from family, no one can afford to be strangers. There's a growth of the collective and it happens everywhere. Today, my friend Sue and I were in the grocery store looking for some iodine to purify our water when we go camping across Kachemak Bay this afternoon. The only iodine to be found was a little bottle with a skull and crossbones on it. Tincture of iodine. Even without the international poison symbol, something didn't seem right. I asked two of the people standing in the pharmacy line what they thought. They didn't have much of an idea, not having used iodine to purify water before. When I asked a girl of about my age who looked like she might have been camping before what she thought, she said, gee, I wish I had my filter with me. I'd just lend it to you. I'd never seen this girl before in my life. After a little discussion, she pointed us to a camping store up the hill.
Somewhere else, she might have given me a funny look and kept moving. Or maybe not. I'll admit, I talk to strangers a lot. Even living in New York City, I used to talk to strangers a lot. I'll just say that the response I get from Alaskan strangers is almost never one of shock or indifference. Mostly, it's as though we're continuing a conversation that has been going on for a long time. How do you live in this world?
I'm moving, leaving Alaska in a couple of weeks, and hoping against hope that some of this friendly stranger energy will travel with me, that I can bring it along and transplant it with myself. Like the sourdough miners of old who brought the starters for their bread up the Chilkoot trail to this great land, I'm filling a little jar with forget-me-not-seeds and things of that ilk, transporting Alaska inside myself. Because somehow, being able to continue the ongoing conversation with strangers is an act of hope for me, an essential element in the snail-shell that will let me move my home.

Babble babble. Thanks for reading. Friend Christy should be pulling up to an internet cafe anytime on her good ol' three speed (ha ha) and treat you to her reflections and adventures. I'm looking forward to it.

(of course it wasn't until after I wrote this that I saw Christy was back on the airwaves. oops!)

Sorry for the silence...sort of

So I'm finally in a town with internet access: Omak, WA. I'm sitting in a cute little cafe called Novel Delight and i have about twenty minutes to write while my family shops for dinner; but before I tell you anything else I need to thank Ginna for being my guest blogger and giving a quick report. (Ginna, you are off the hook for doing a second update this week.) And make one quick correction in honor of my Mom, she biked half of those first 60 miles and at a quick pace at that. Go Mom. (We are all rotating through as the designated driver.)

Oh yeah, and I need to let you know that I have another post right below this one that I wrote our second day but the man who runs the only internet access place in Marblemount, the Vistor's Center, decided to run off somewhere mid-morning and closed shop even though the sign said open. I hate being the tourist rolling into these cute little towns--I loved Winthrop--asking for internet and getting funny looks like I'm some kinda city slicker on the set of Northern Exposure. Thus the call to my saving grace, Ginna.

I could have stopped in Winthrop earlier today for internet access but it was my turn to drive the RV --my first time ever--and I was too nervous to park it. I'll tell you that rig scares me more than biking down a 7% grade hill.

I've overcome my fear of downhills. For those that don't know i busted my elbow a couple summers ago, cutting it to the bone, mountain biking on Powerline Pass and since then i've been over-cautious on hills. I clocked 44 miles per hour going down Loop Loop pass. According to my Mom I should still be more cautious on hills--"She's an adult," my Dad says. "Yes but she's a mother," my mom replies.

And I am a mother but this trip is waking up the part of me that isn't. Nick and I keep looking at each other with smiles and saying, "I'm so glad we're doing this." We can feels ourselves unwinding in a way we haven't since before we stepped into the Newborn Intensive Care Unit with our first child barely alive.

And the crazy thing is he's with us, making the driver work extra by following him through the woods, into dips, over rocks, and towards the water, with his walker. He loves throwing rocks and so a rocky beach along a creek, lake, or river, will entertain him for at least an hour.  He is the most unhappy when we are in the RV for too long. "Outside...want to go outside."

We've biked in rain, past snow-line, to hot dry air on this side of the mountains. The sun finally came out today and I'm sure before long we'll be missing the cool rain.

I'll share one more picture before I go--just so you know we aren't working too hard--and hopefully the next available internet stop won't as many days away.

The post I wrote but couldn't post: The Biking Begins

So a few years back my friend Anne and I hiked the “100 Mile Wilderness” of the Appalachian Trail in Maine. We both packed our notebooks and pens with grand ideas of filling the pages with creative prose inspired by the mountains and streams. Instead I only logged the miles we traversed, my battle with the bugs, and my constant longings for fresh peaches and ice cream. No poetry or Thoreau-like thoughts. Just: ”The f*%ing black flies are making me crazy” or “We packed too much shit and my back is killing me and the stove doesn’t work and I’m hungry enough to eat uncooked pasta with cheese.”

Well...

When I dreamed of this bike trip I once again believed I’d find more hours than normal to write and not only would I write brilliant blog posts but poems, children’s stories and hell, maybe even a novel. I’d sit outside with my journal or laptop and write daily after biking. I’d create in my head as I pedaled.

“Will you promise me something?” Nick asked as we drive down the Alaskan highway.

“What?”

“That you won’t plan as you ride.”

“Ok.”

“I’m serious,” Nick said in a tone that made me believe him. “I need you to promise me you’ll to pay attention. I’ve been watching these shoulders and you’re gonna need to focus.”

“Alright, I promise. No planning or writing or dreaming. I’ll try to stay focused on the road.” 

“OK. ..Though we may need to have this discussion again when it gets closer.”

The truth is I’m too tired to do much else besides ride, eat, sleep, and play with Elias. And when I am riding-- with a few wondering exceptions-- I’m watching the road, as promised.

It’s day two as I write and my legs can feel the 90 miles traveled. Tomorrow we trudge up Rainy Pass (4,855) to Washington Pass (5,477) before coasting-- or rather riding the breaks with body gripped from head to toes-- down to the town of Mazama. A long day of climbing up and then careening down the Cascade Mountains.

The initial RV stress seems to be declining as we figure out the quirks of this vehicle and the rhythms of life inside a small cramped space with parents, husband, and son. I know a lot of people wouldn’t choose to spend a month traveling with multiple generations, especially when you add in a child with special needs.

I won’t lie.

We aren’t the Cleavers full of plastered smiles and encouraging words only. But we like each other enough to accept the challenges that come with this trip. Elias may know a few more swear words when its done but his walker will have traveled where few have ventured before.

(I’ll continue to update you all with short posts when I’m in towns with internet access. If we’re cut off from the web for too long a good friend may be a guest blogger for a post or two.)

Upward over the mountain (guest blogger)

Ginna here, with a little external reporting, a little triangulation.
At 8:30 in the morning yesterday, my cellphone rang. It was Christy, calling from Oregon (I think). I was putting the final touches on a lesson plan that would be brought to life in less than an hour, but I'm a strong believer in the power of the last minute, so I put the planning away and listened.
In the first day of biking, Christy, Nick, and Jol, Christy's dad, logged more than 60 miles while Sue, Christy's mom, drove the RV and entertained Elias (I'm not totally sure that E didn't get to ride for part of the day). Christy said that although her legs were really tired at the end of the day, she woke up refreshed and much less sore than she expected to be. The reason for the call? 70 miles of mountains ahead, and no real hope for an internet cafe in sight. That could mean three or four days of riding, depending on the stamina of the riders' rookie legs -- even strenuous training in the fairly flat region of Anchorage can't prepare you for climbs like this (I imagine -- and I also imagine that a fuller report will come from Christy later, complete with the human drama that makes me keep coming back to read more). So she asked me to pencil in updates for you -- and because my laptop battery is almost out of juice, this will be the end of the first one.
Love from Christy to all of you -- keep your thoughts with her and her family as they struggle upward over the mountain they've chosen to climb this summer.

I'll be back later this week.

Ginna

The Wonder Boy Melts

Who could blame him. He wouldn't be my son if he didn't crack eventually, I mean no high lasts forever, and we all need to cry. At least I do. Often. But Elias rarely cries, even when he falls off the bed and clocks his head on the side of a dresser. (Not that he does that often, but when he did, I later pinched him just to make sure he could feel pain, and he gave me that look he gives me when I sing Broadway show tunes or dance as I feed him dinner: Who is this lady acting as my mama?)

The boy is  remarkably tough and adaptable. But after days of adjusting to changes and looking generally like this:

He broke.

"Ma, ma, ma, ma," he cried over and over again though he did not want me.

Mama, the universal word for need. The word we name ourselves as the primary caregivers.

Mama.

The word we can never fulfill.

Try as we might we just can't stretch into all those curves and angles.

Elias cried from a place of need I could not answer with a hug. Could not touch with a kiss. Overwhelmed. Over-tired. Over-traveled. Over. Just Over.

He woke up at Grandma and Pop's house in Grants Pass said goodbyes to them plus Aunt Lyndsay and uncle Neil, drove seven plus hours to Seattle, arrived just in time for a barbecue with extended family, rode in the wagon with cousin Tess, walked around the block with Papa and Uncle Andrew, explored the house with Nana, played with cousins Megan, Burke, Sam, Piper, and Max, watched the video of his play for the second night in a row, and then melted in the middle of "night night."

Go figure.

Tomorrow we pick up the RV for our month long bike trip from Washington to Wyoming. We start pedaling on Tuesday. The repetition of our days will be good for Elias. We may not know where we will sleep from night to night, but for a month at least, our home will travel with us. We may even develop a routine. This coming from a mom who has never successfully stuck to any kind of schedule despite the barrage of voices telling me I should.

But you know, if I listened to every opinion about what I should do as a parent I would be a tornado in the living room, all my good intentions spinning into a fury, more confused than capable.

So I do what I can. And tonight it meant handing Elias to Nick, with his well of patience that seems to run deeper than mine. It meant forgiving myself for not being able to "fix it". 

And accepting that "ma, ma, ma, ma..." doesn't always mean me.

Holy Heat

Acclimated to Alaska, this 90 degree Southern Oregon day is a bit thick. It's dry heat, not the humidity I know from the East coast that makes me sweat the second I step from the shower. But heat it is. A dream of mine during the long Alaskan winters when I tire of wearing layers upon layers every time I step outside. Now it's sandals, shorts, and sun-dresses. With a healthy side-dish of skin.

As I write Elias's Grandma and Pop are touring him around town so friends can meet  and visit with the wonder boy. Nick is being the Best Man with all the last minute errands and To Do's that this entails. And me? Well, before coming inside to write a quick post, I sat in the shade with my legs resting on an empty chair, reading The Forest for the Trees. An editor's advice to writers by Betsy Lerner. Reading about writing is something I enjoy almost as much as writing. Call it procrastination. Or research. Or validation that I am no alone in this quest to make sense of my life with words, images, and metaphors. When I am not reading or writing I am often composing sentences in my head so that all my experiences are part lived and part reflected upon in the process. Sometimes I need to shake myself awake so I smell the baking bread instead of trying to describe it. Feel the breeze off the Rogue River instead of wondering how to place it on the page. Other times I need to just grab a pen or sit down at the computer to clear my head.

So here I am. Writing again. Sneaking a moment to compose in the same way I use to sneak off to drink, worried about being caught or exposed for this desire to escape. Though unlike my drinking days when I pounded beer or shots to be free from the heat of adolescence, this fleeing to write is about trying to be more present. More open and aware. To feel the sun and describe it at the same time.

My own son just returned so it's time for me to be mommy again. And choose an outfit for the wedding tonight. I'll return to the page when there is time. Until then I'll be writing anyways. Despite the heat.