The Crossing

For several years, I had planned to make a bike trip across the USA, but the trip kept getting postponed by other responsibilities. Finally, in 1988, I was able to make the crossing. What I did was not unique; tens of thousands of other cyclists have made the same journey. Still, many years from now, the trip will probably stand out as one of the highlights of my life.

I wanted to leave my mark (and also my address) with people I met along the road, so I compiled "Wisdom for Cyclists," a pamphlet of proverbs and parables based on the sport of cycling. The sayings were rather cryptic to most people, but I thought they would be well understood by most other riders I met on the road. For weight reasons, I had all eight pages reduced to fit on both sides of a standard letter size sheet of paper. When properly folded, it proved to be a smart and portable little production. The weight penalty for 100 sheets: about a pound.

Although I had been planning the trip for years, and accumulating supplies for months, the actual packing did not begin in earnest until about two days before leaving. Gear for both my fiancee and myself needed to be boxed. I would never have finished were it not for the help of my close friend Clay, who stayed on until about 2 am on Saturday night.

At that point, my eyes starting to bug out, and my head starting to buzz, I realized that I still had to put away the laundry, take a shower, eat, do the dishes, and finish up instructions for my house mates. (After all, I'd be gone for three months!) I finally got to sleep at 5 am on Sunday morning.

At 6:30 am, my alarm went off. Time to get up! Merrianne met me at about 7, and my house mate, Sandra, drove us to the airport in my truck.

We landed in Eugene, Oregon, about 60 miles away from the Pacific Ocean. Since I was intent on going "coast-to-coast," we drove to Florence, which was actually on the coast. Once in Florence, we checked into a motel and took a nap. Merrianne had slept five hours the previous night; I had slept closer to one hour.

The next day, we did sightseeing in Florence, and camped at a very moist and green campground, about 15 miles inland. We were pleased to see that it had flush toilets, rather than pit toilets as stated in the brochure. There would be ample opportunity later to experience pit toilets.

Tuesday was our first real day of riding. It was hot, and somewhat humid. We reached Eugene late in the afternoon.

While we were standing around at a Safeway, a woman approached us and said, "Excuse me, I just thought I'd offer my home if you'd like to stay there tonight."

We weren't too proud to turn THAT down.

Ila James, and her fiancee, Don Ausland, were incredible. Ila's enormous house was lavishly appointed with elegant works of art. If that house were in San Francisco, it would easily be worth $5 million. A true woman of the renaissance, Ila quilted, cooked (had a home ec. degree), had a pharmacy degree, gardened, played the French horn, and cycled. And taught at the U. of O. Don was semi-retired, teaching sometimes at the Dental School.

We had dinner there, then slept on their sofa bed, then also had breakfast there in the morning. At breakfast we talked with another house guest, Sybille from Germany. Sybille commented on how much Americans waste in water, energy, food, and packaging. She also said that where she lived, someone would NEVER take in a pair of unknown cyclists.

After stopping at a mall for Merrianne, we continued on. The next stop was Fry's Double J motel, just before McKenzie Bridge. I guess it was called the "Double" motel because it had two rooms.

The following morning, we had an incredible tailwind, and screamed past McKenzie Bridge at over 20 miles per hour. Then we hit the climb to McKenzie pass. It was only moderately steep, but long. At this point, on our second day of real riding, Merrianne was firmly convinced that we were the only ones on the road, and that we would never meet any other cyclists. Just then, Brian Hamilton appeared, cranking up the hill in steady rhythm. He and his touring partner, Debbie Ford, were both from the Chicago area.

We stopped at a campground to look for water and take a restroom break. It turned out that there was no water there, but a van stopped and gave us some. The woman in the van opened the pit toilet door while Merrianne was inside. I didn't know that Merrianne had such a loud scream.

The top of McKenzie pass was windy and cool. The lava fields were a familiar sight to someone from Hawaii, but must have appeared pretty stark to Brian and Debbie. Descending was fast and treacherous, due to the large amount of gravel that had been scattered for snow traction.

The four of us camped in Sisters, where there was an authentic country produce store. There were no showers at the city park, but the caretaker gave us cardboard disks so we could stop up the sinks.

"Almost as good as a shower," he proudly remarked.

We all made fun of it, but one by one, we eventually conceded that a sink shower was better than none at all.

Our group of four continued on to Prineville the next day, and camped at a city park with a pool. Merrianne enjoyed the swim. I did one lap and quit.

The next day, we stopped at a city park in Mitchell, Oregon, where there was a very friendly welcome cat. Showers were available in the laundromat for $1.50 each. No one was actually in the laundromat. The sign said to pay at the general store across the street. Well, everyone up to then had dealt straight with us, so we decided to deal straight with them. We each paid the required toll for the shower. At first, the tub was filthy, and there wasn't really a door to the bathroom. Fortunately for me, the women took showers first, so the tub was clean and scrubbed by the time I got to it.

In the evening, we also got to meet Dennis and John, two students from UC Davis. Everyone was carefully deciding where to place their tents. We were all experienced enough to know that the worst place to pitch a tent is where there is lush green grass (because that's where the sprinklers go on at 4 am in the morning.)

The next morning, Debbie and Brian stayed late at the Blueberry Muffin cafe while the rest of us took off. In a couple hours, Dennis and John had outdistanced us, and again, it was just Merrianne and I.

Suddenly, the chilly desert morning flashed into penetrating heat. We understood how the terrain could be so dry. Merrianne and I decided to take a detour to the John Day fossil beds, mainly because Merrianne had to go to the bathroom.

The visitors' center was an unlikely oasis in the desert - green grass, shade trees, a southern plantation house. At a shaded picnic table, we had our lunch of apples, crackers, Vienna sausage, and deviled spam. We also picked the earwigs out of our grapes and ate them.

After lunch it got muggy. I wanted to stop at Dayville, but oddly, Merrianne wanted to go on to Mt. Vernon. Probably she wanted to camp with Debbie and Brian again, who were supposed to be staying there that evening. The road to Mt. Vernon (which isn't actually a mountain) was flat, but the 23 miles seemed awfully long in the scorching heat. I drained both my oversize bottles, and couldn't manage to do better than ten or twelve miles per hour. About halfway, some heavy clouds rolled in. It was as if the very hand of God was shielding us from that merciless sun!

It's amazing how quickly one's strength returns with a cold, large size drink. I drank a big one at every town, and still didn't go to the bathroom all day.

As we were relaxing outside the general store in Mt. Vernon, Debbie rode up. She looked devastated from the heat.

"Where's Brian?" Merrianne asked.

"I don't think Brian and I will be riding together, anymore," Debbie stammered, choking back tears.

I excused myself to get something in the store, letting the expert (Merrianne) talk with Debbie.

Everyone thought that Debbie and Brian were the perfect couple. Debbie wanted to be a couple. The problem was, Brian didn't. It reminded me of Pee Wee and Dottie. What was Brian's problem?? Debbie was a wonderful person, and pretty, too. And women who cycle are hard to find. Apparently, Debbie was encouraged when Brian agreed to ride across the country with her, but couldn't bear to be near him if they weren't more than friends. Brian liked her. But only as a friend. Debbie decided that it was too painful being around him, so decided to break off traveling together.

At the campground at Mt Vernon, it was drizzling steadily. It never did rain hard, but neither did it stop. We also noticed that they had the sprinklers on, in typical bureaucratic fashion.

I met a man at the information post, mentioning to him that the church in Dayville was a hostel to bikers.

"What!! What's this world coming to! That's all we need, some goddamned convent that's hostile to bikers. Why, can't a guy..."

I had to stop him and explain that I meant "hotel."

Mosquitoes at the campground were vicious. I realized that we had seen more species of insects in the past week than we had in the past year in the San Francisco Bay area. We quickly girded ourselves in repellent, but not before I got two bites on my privates.

That evening, Debbie came to the realization that she was suddenly alone on the trip, so decided to sprint away early the next morning to try to catch Brian.

Merrianne and I rested on Monday in a town called John Day. My wonderful plan was to carry a Cirrus bank card, and find First Interstate banks along the route to restock my wallet with cash. Well, we found a First Interstate, all right, but it had no electronic teller. This was a problem, since I didn't actually have a FIB card, but a card from another bank that was Cirrus-compatible. In fact, most of the banks along the way had no electronic tellers. Why would anyone in a small town want money at 8 PM at night? Where would they spend it? I carried a directory of all national Cirrus machine locations with me, and must have stopped at every available one, usually withdrawing about $100. In retrospect, traveler's checks would have been better. My VISA debit card came in handy, but only for luxuries, like fancy meals and motel rooms. It wasn't any good for ordinary expenses.

Tuesday was an eventful day. On our way to Austin Junction, we met another couple, Peter Furcht and Diane Sweeney. They had actually been married for years, but Diane had kept her last name. She mentioned being embarrassed at motels because their names weren't the same.

Austin Junction turned out to be just a single store. While we were having lunch there, who should come coasting in, but my friend Stewart Lee from California. Stewart and I had ridden to L.A. together before; now he was going transcontinental with two friends - at twice our pace. We chatted for a while, then parted, knowing that we probably wouldn't see each other again for the rest of the trip.

That day, we also met Jay, a P.E. teacher from Virginia who was touring with two of his students. Jay later earned a reputation as the horniest cyclist on the road. Good example for our young students.

While going up a hill, we saw a woman walking her bike. She wasn't exactly fit-looking, and had about a hundred pounds of gear on her bike. At the campground, we met Letty. Her name was actually Maria Letticia Parra, a woman that had put an ad in the BikeCentennial magazine looking for riding companions. I had responded to her ad previously, offering to team up, but I think my expected cost for the trip scared her off. She was used to traveling much more cheaply.

Letty was peculiar. She carried a huge tent on her bike, big enough for four, a coffee pot, stuffed toys, a pillow, several pots -- even a tiny washing machine for her clothes. We later found out that she had originally brought even more gear than she had with her -- she had mailed back forty pounds of stuff at the start. Instead of buying food in small quantities along the way, she went to a sporting goods store ahead of time, and bought her entire trip's worth of food in freeze-dried meals. Then she had her sister mail it ahead to towns on the route. One's immediate reaction might be to think that she was green as a frog, but in fact, she was a seasoned tourist, having logged thousands of miles previously on a loop of the United States.

Two companions, Alan and Stephanie, had started out with Letty for the first few days, but later decided to move faster.

"Oh," I remarked to Stephanie, "is Alan your husband?"

"NO!" she shouted emphatically, with that tone of 'How could you possibly even suggest that?'

Steph was the darling of the road. News of her spread far and wide along the trail. A charming and attractive girl in her early twenties, she was exactly what one would expect of a Blue Ridge mountain maid (although, in truth, she lived and worked in town). Stephanie Robinson carried only one change of clothes, no stove, no cooking utensils, and no food. She just ate wherever she stopped. If there was no food where she stopped, she simply didn't eat. Her budget was about $5 a day, which was more than adequate for one so tough. Besides, who could resist those enchanting green eyes? I suspected that she got many unsolicited handouts-- I did, and I wasn't half as cute.

We rolled into Baker on Wednesday morning. This was Merrianne's destination, but she didn't have to leave until Saturday. Well then, what could we do? We started with breakfast at the Blue and White Cafe. The most expensive thing on the menu was $3.00. Coffee was ten cents.

First things first. We got a room at a motel, then picked up a box at a local bike shop. Then we rented a storage locker (a month's storage was the cheapest way to go, even though we would only use the place for two days). In Baker, $30 buys a huge locker. It was big enough to store two cars in. We packed up Merrianne's bike, left my bike there, too, then drove away in our rented car. We were fortunate to get the rental car in Baker. There were only two in town. Whew! Business out of the way, we rested.

The next day, we drove out ahead along the route, so that we could say that Merrianne touched Idaho. We passed Letty, who was struggling up a hill. A few minutes later, we came upon Peter, then Diane, ahead of him about a quarter mile. Then, up ahead in the distance, two riders -- a man and a woman. Debbie and Brian had united again! Merrianne was so happy to see them riding together.

At Cambridge, Idaho, everyone stopped. Then we heard the story of what happened. Debbie had rented the same car that we had, drove ahead to catch Brian, then admitted to him that she didn't want to ride alone.

The museum in Cambridge was exceptional. Louise Preston, our octogenarian guide, was in reality, a part of the exhibit. She told us stories of the things she used when she was a girl, and stories that her grandmother told her about the Indians.

That night we had a big barbecue under the water tower. Nine cyclists camped there (well, technically, seven, since Merrianne and I had driven). In addition to Debbie and Brian, Peter and Diane, and Merrianne and myself, there was Norman and Linda Deveraux, married two weeks that day. Their honeymoon was to bike to Bampf.

We also finally met Alan Levinson there, and saw why Stephanie had issued such a vehement 'No!' the other day. Alan was an ex- Wall Street accountant. He once had a successful practice, then decided to cash it in and travel the world, writing a book. He looked about forty years old, like a Hippie left over from the sixties. The man was deceptively strong. I drafted him once for two hours at 22 miles per hour. And it was NOT downhill. Oh yes, and he smoked.

Instead of driving back, we pitched our tent right alongside the rest of our friends.

The following morning, we had breakfast with Brian and Debbie. A cute little dog came by the camp, wagging its little tail and sniffing around. It took a piss on Brian's panniers.

Good-byes were tough, but we finally started on the road back across the Oregon border. On the way back, we saw Letty again, and also Steph, whom we stopped to chat with.

Halfway to Baker, who should we see but Stewart and his friend Bob. Bob's knee had blown up (not surprising for anyone trying to ride with Stewart), and Stewart was escorting him all the way back to Baker (about 70 miles). Boy, were they glad to see us! We tossed Bob's bike in the trunk, and refilled Stewart's water bottle. Stewart decided to head on, and try to put in a few more miles. An exhausted Bob was extremely pleased that we showed up, as he would have otherwise had to force out excruciating stokes for the rest of the day. Instead, it was a pleasant air-conditioned ride to Baker, lasting a little more than an hour.

Merrianne was sad after the Greyhound pulled away with Bob on it. Once again, it was just the two of us. And soon, even we would be apart. We had our last dinner at the Kopper Kitchen. Two filet mignon dinners, complete with salad and pasta, cost $9.95. We stayed at the YMCA that night. For $2.50 apiece, we got the run of the place. In fact, there was no one else around. The lady in charge just gave us the combination to the door.

The next morning, Merrianne got on Greyhound #1898 for Portland. She began to get emotional on the bus, and started to cry, forgetting that I still had her airline ticket in my pack (it got resolved, later). I didn't think too much of it, since the large majority of the adventure was still ahead for me. At 9:15, I was "on the road again."

It was exhaustingly hot that day. Just after Richland, there was a long, steep climb up the parched mountain. I felt like an ant scaling one of the great pyramids. Dropping into my bottom granny, I started to douse myself to ease the heat load. I looked around for some shade, in case I got heat exhaustion, but there was none. No trees grow where there's no water. It could have been the Davis Double again, without the trees, rest stops, and sag wagons.

Even though I started with three full oversize water bottles that morning, by noon I was nearing the bottom of my last bottle. Fortunately, I had the benefit of an excellent BikeCentennial map, and my Cateye cyclometer. I knew that the climb couldn't go on forever, and yet, every turn seemed to be a false summit. There was a slight breeze - about five miles per hour. I could tell, because the dead grass was barely wavering. Unfortunately, the wind was right at my back, so I was riding in dead air. For all the times when I had cursed the headwind, I could have used even a little one, then.

Right in the bike lane, in letters too small for a car to read, someone had stenciled word-by-word in Bromo shave fashion: ICE... COLD... DRINKS. Wise guy. It wouldn't have been so bad if I had company to share the misery with. But there was nobody to complain to. I screamed obscenities wildly, but the hills had no ears.

Just then, something lifted my spirits. On the side of the road, I spotted a fresh banana peel. It was sitting just two feet to the right of my line of travel, and was still completely yellow. It could only have meant one thing. There was another cyclist on the road ahead. And not far ahead, either. No banana peel could stay yellow for more than an hour in that scorching heat! With renewed strength, I plowed ahead to catch my unseen companion. "Perhaps I can get a glimpse of him or her (oh please, let it be a woman) in the distance when I crest the hill," I thought to myself.

Soon, I began to feel the gentle breeze that always seems to foreshadow the top of a mountain. I had reached the peak! Unfortunately, I couldn't see any other cyclists up ahead. To maximize my chances of catching them, I didn't stop to rest.

As I zipped down the mountain at 40 miles an hour, my exhaustion evaporated as quickly as my sweat. On that extended 7% grade, pedaling would have been superfluous. The steady roaring of the wind was punctuated by the regular taps of bugs ricocheting off of my helmet and goggles.

I felt good. No, I felt ecstatic! I was so happy I wanted to sing! The only praise song that came to mind at the time was the Hallelujah Chorus, so I belted it out in my best operatic voice. Right as my mouth formed the "O" in "Lord of Lords," a bug flew in. Remembering how dangerous it was to be distracted on a fast descent, I chewed quickly and swallowed. It wasn't as bitter as a beetle, and only slightly crunchy. It must have been a leafhopper or a small cricket.

The mercury hit ninety-five in the shade that day -- I knew, because I carried a little thermometer with me. I sought a room for the night, but there was not a single vacancy left in Halfway. After all, it was the 4th of July weekend. Furthermore, the city park was closed off to camping because of the festivities. Fortunately for me, I was able to camp on the lawn of the Winter Creek Inn. The owner, Audrey Moore, was especially nice.

As usual, I did not ride on Sunday. I ate my breakfast of hamburger buns and V8 on a bench outside the motel, then went to church. The small Baptist church there had about 20 people in attendance. Everyone was wonderfully friendly. After church, we all went to an ice cream social. Actually, it was a joint event between all the churches in town. There were no denominational lines. Such a thing would have been rare in the city.

That afternoon, the BikeCentennial group rolled into town. I tried to socialize with them a little, but they weren't too friendly. Perhaps they were so self-sufficient, they had reduced needs for social contact. They seemed to have a well-established routine of setting up tents and cooking. I was somewhat glad, truthfully, that I had not gone with the guided tour. I would see far more adventure on my own.

At 11 PM, I called Merrianne back in San Jose. It was good to hear her voice, even though it had only been a few days. I went right to sleep after that, so I could get an early start across the border into Idaho.

Everyone I had met warned me to start early, to beat the heat in Hell's Canyon. Sufficiently frightened by the name alone, I started out at 5:48 am the next day. At about 10 am, I crested the summit, barely escaping the scorching Idaho heat.

There was a sense of deja vu as I passed through Cambridge at 12:30. Everything was closed, it being the Fourth of July. I continued on to Council, and puttered around there for the afternoon, trying to decide whether to take a motel room in town, or continue on to the campground 13 miles ahead.

On a side street, I came upon a shop called "Merry Anne's Gifts." This was a mandatory picture stop. As I focused on the sign, the couple that owned the store came out to say hello. I explained that my fiancee's name was Merrianne, and soon, we were talking as if we had known each other for years.

Tom and Marianne Lawrence invited me to stay at their bed and breakfast inn. How could I refuse? Their price was $10 for a bed, a shower, and two meals. I also wanted to hear the stories of the last few days, for by sheer coincidence, Peter and Diane, Norm and Linda, and Stewart and Stephanie had all stopped there.

Tom was quite handy with wood, having restored most of the Heartland Inn on his own. Marianne was a great cook; she made us macaroni and cheese from scratch.

They were Christians like myself, and I enjoyed sharing experiences with them. They gave me advice on my upcoming marriage: "remember the word: commitment." After dinner, they taught me the card game of Skee-bo. We ended at a reasonable hour, so that I would be able to get an early start the next day.

In the morning, Marianne made a wonderful breakfast of blintzes, pancakes, muffins, fresh fruit, bacon and eggs, juice, and home blended tea. Tom permitted me the honor of asking the Lord's blessing on our meal.

I decided to retape my handlebars that morning, so I wasn't ready to leave until 8:30. As it had been drizzling all morning, Tom and Marianne asked if I wouldn't want to stay another day. They were such great company, it was hard to decline, but I did, and I reluctantly started off again.

For the next two hours or so, I sloshed through cold, driving rain on a roller coaster road. I looked down at my thermometer and saw that it read 48 degrees. Of course, the wind-chill on a soaked body made it a bit cooler. I stopped at Pinehurst to warm myself by the fire in a country store. That was a mistake, as it was twice as cold when I got on the road again. After that, I didn't stop until lunch.

Riggins was my lunch stop. The lady at the restaurant said that a couple had passed through two days before, a couple whose description matched Stephanie and Stewart perfectly. Apparently, Stephanie needed to pick up General Delivery at White Bird. Inspiration! Maybe I could catch them.

It was sunny for a while along the Salmon River gorge as I continued on, but I could see the blackness in the distance. Within minutes, the full fury of the storm crashed into me. I clocked the headwinds at 15-20 mph, using the ride-in-reverse-direction-until-dead-air technique. That wasn't the bad part. The rain didn't come down in drops, or even sheets. It felt as if someone had turned a firehose on my face. That wasn't the bad part. Then the hail started. That was the bad part. There were no trees, not even rock overhangs for shelter. I had to keep going. If I stopped, I would face hypothermia.

Several miles down the road, I took shelter at Kilgore's Salmon River Fruit Company, a roadside stand. My entire body was cherry red from hail stings. I removed my wet shirt and tried to dry myself off as best I could with a saturated towel. After consuming about two pounds of fruit, I was ready to go again. By then, the rain had reduced to a heavy downpour.

Once again, I had warmed myself, and the rain felt painfully cold as I started again. I pedaled hard, hoping to get warm soon.

I had logged 87 miles on my cyclometer when I finally reached White Bird. Stewart and Stephanie were not there. No problem. I wouldn't expect them to sit around for a day doing nothing.

The rain had either soaked or frozen my camera; it didn't work anymore. All I got was the low battery warning. All the high-tech advantages of my Olympus Quickshooter Zoom had been instantly nullified. I knew that simpler technology of a mechanical camera would have survived the rain. I wasn't about to be discouraged. I had the ultimate in simple and robust technology right at my fingertips. I took out my pen, and sketched the scenery. This turned out to be my only sketch for the entire trip.

White Bird was so small, it didn't even have a restaurant. Fortunately, it was large enough to have a motel and a general store. I sat in my $18 motel room, eating my dinner of rolls, crackers, and deviled ham, planning what I would do the next day. Fantasies of catching up with Stewart and Stephanie spun through my head. Stewart alone I could never catch. But perhaps Steph had slowed him down. Was she slow? I didn't know. She was a pretty tough lady.

The next morning, I took the scenic route up Old White Bird Road, a long, steep road that had been an engineering marvel in its day. It was washed out in many places, covered only by gravel. However, because of this, not many cars were present. For the entire climb, I only saw one car. In fact, that one car pulled over to chat with me for a while.

Even though I never saw any cleanup crews, Idaho had hardly any litter on the road. Perhaps the people there were taught to pick up their things when they were little.

The fingers of modern technology seemed to be encroaching on even the most isolated heartland of America. Every farm seemed to have a satellite dish, and even the most rural general stores rented videos.

I stopped at Three Rivers campground in Lowell. It was there that a pattern began to emerge: Good SamParks, like that one, were good places to stay, with reasonable prices. KOAs, on the other hand were rip-offs. Oh, the KOAs had everything necessary for living, but they were all so commercialized.

On my cycling map, there was a special box with a warning printed in it: "NO SERVICES NEXT 66 MILES." This seemed intimidating during the preparations for the trip. After all, why would BikeCentennial put such a warning on the map unless it was a big deal? There were no other such warnings in the whole set.

Other cyclists had warned me that the danger on that stretch was not the uncivilized distance, but the logging trucks on the road. Fortunately for me, there was a mill strike on when I passed through that Thursday, and there were very few trucks on the road. In fact, there were very few vehicles, period. This stretch of road, originally part of Lewis and Clark's route, was one of the most pleasant on the whole trip. Except for the pavement, there were absolutely no signs of civilization. The road was fairly flat, following the streambed, and I was going upstream, which meant that I had a slight tailwind (the wind always seems to go opposite to flowing water). Before I knew it, the services started again. I stopped at Lochsa lodge.

Just as I came out the door of the general store, who should come rolling up but Stewart Lee. He had hooked up with Stephanie on the previous Friday, which explained why he wasn't about 500 miles further down the trail. Apparently, Steph had made quite an impression on Stewart. He talked about changing his lifestyle, living more simply, and less selfishly. Was this the yuppie who owned a condo? He claimed that he had to break away, because he was starting to like Stephanie.

Stewart tried to convince me to stay at Lochsa, to keep Steph company (she was supposed to be lagging behind). I decided that I would rather tag along with Stewart, instead. He wanted to make Missoula, Montana, by nightfall. As this was still 40 miles away at 4 PM (over Lolo pass, no less), I was less enthusiastic about this goal.

Lolo pass wasn't very bad, as mountain passes go. What was bad was taking it at Stewart's pace. I couldn't maintain 10 mph on the grade, especially not with full packs. About one-and-a-half miles from the crest, Stewart started to pull away, and I gave up. Between gasps, I shouted good-bye to him as the gap between us widened. Stewart wasn't even breathing hard.

Just over the Montana border, I stopped at a campground. It was still near the top of Lolo pass. The campground was green and mossy. Cute little birds flitted among the bushes. Chipmunks and furry little rabbits danced between the tents. I felt like I was in the middle of a Disney movie.

As I was talking with the rangers, a car sped up to us and came to a scraping halt. The frantic woman inside pleaded, "Can you help me!! My little girl is lost!"

She had taken her eyes off her two year old daughter at a distant campground, and the daughter had vanished. I got to take part in the rescue effort. As the rangers drove along, I scanned the wilderness for signs of a little girl, especially in the river. We went in about four miles into the wilderness, then came to a tree lying in the road. Clearly this would have been unpassable by their family as they went camping. We turned around.

Thank God, the little girl was all right. She had just wandered over to the stream, and was totally oblivious to the panic in the family. By the time we found the campsite, everyone was back together again.

At the chilly campground, my dinner companion was my usual reading material: the backs of the cans. I had a can of spaghetti, which claimed, '2 servings.' Likewise, the ordinary can of fruit cocktail also said '2 servings'. I had 1.6 servings of tuna, according to the can. I was still starving. I wondered if there wasn't some tiny mouse in the corporate headquarters of General Foods deciding how many servings were in each can.

Knowing that I had a short ride ahead, I stayed in my tent until 7:30 in the morning. Even so, it was 40 degrees inside the tent, according to the little thermometer attached to my pack.