Chicken-fried steak in all its glory; some people like this quite a bit – it seems I am not among their number…

For all you doubting Thomases:

Yeah, I know it looks like a Bigfoot video, but I really was chasing a moose down the bike trail…

As I turned onto the eastern edge of the main avenue running through Colfax, down where the human scale of the old town still held its own before the street debouched into the river of commercial sameness that marks anywhere America, a determined old fellow hustled to the curb and, fearing that my pace would prove too much for him, threw out a hand, craned forward and called out “safe journey, traveler!”

At the end of a hard day’s ride, this unexpected benediction, with its endearing archaism, was most welcome. Thanks, unknown well-wisher – simple acts are often of surprising effect.

Yesterday’s ride from Pomeroy to Colfax continued our journey through the eastern portion of Washington known as the Palouse. I never knew anything about it, but you should at least Wikipedia it because it is interesting and beautiful.

The bursting of glacial dams sculpted and scoured the land leaving behind deep deposits of rich soil. Most of the hills are wheat fields, but the Palouse also lays claim to being the lentil and pea capital (of the US, I suspect).

Though I never got any pictures, it was fun to watch the deer bounding through the wheat and up the steep hills after being disturbed by our passing (I came to recognize existing deer trails through the wheat and occasionally had the opportunity to watch one follow its course all the way up to the crest).

It is great country for biking even though the terrain is too steep and sprawling for much in the way of rollers:

Our quest for interesting and relatively untraveled roads once again led us down (or rather up) the gravel path. This time we were led astray by the kindness of strangers whose desire to be helpful was undone by their lack of practical bike experience.

Grinding up a gravel road constantly on alert for the stone that may puncture your tire as you simultaneously scan for the clearer way forward is tiring enough, but when you find yourself in fresh new deep gravel the piteous sigh you hear on the wind is coming from you my friend. Damn this gravel jam; it hurts my legs to go so slow.

And then – biker good fortune in the person of Roger Koller.

Not only did he provide us with much-needed water but Roger volunteered to drive us down the road so we could see the no-maintenance four-wheel drive plunge to the Snake River we could take as a shortcut down to the dam. (For the EFI club, we were driven down but returned to Roger’s house to collect our bikes and ride down to the trail).

The view of the Snake River (well west of Knievel’s antics) was pretty sweet and the trail down was crazy fun – thanks Roger!

It’s the Army’s Way or the Highway!

With our goal finally at hand, we approached the Lower Granite Dam on the Snake River with our spirits renewed only to come into contact with Army regulations b/c of course the dam was built and is run by the Army Corps of Engineers.

No one we had talked with had thought that riding a bike across the big wide dam could be dangerous – but evidently the Army did. Apparently there are a few short grates here and there that were deemed to be hazardous.

So there we were like Dorothy and her trio of companions barred admittance to the Emerald City after having come so far and through so much. In our case, the role of the gatekeeper was played by an affable ex-Army guy named Jeremy.

While Dorothy’s tears worked for her, I knew Roger’s indignation was not likely to produce a similar result (Sartre somewhere writes about emotions being magical responses to problems). I took a more conversational tack with Jeremy to see what our options might be.

But unbeknownst to us, Jeremy, Neil and Garry were already putting a work-around into play. They knew there was no reasoning with the Army – a regulation is a regulation; no matter how petty or foolish, there is no debating it.

So they did what the Yossarians have always done with the institutions that have given us fubar, snafu and hurry up and wait. In our case, it was a simple matter of Garry, the guard at the other gate, driving over in a pick-up and taking us across.

This incident, and our response to it, is perhaps another small sign of the ongoing cultural shift produced by going to an all-volunteer military. With a draft, even those of us who might not have served would be more likely to know well some who did and therefore would not be quite so distant from the Army’s absurdities. Or perhaps it’s simply another indicator of our country’s social divisions and the different ways we encounter, exercise or are subject to authority.

Onward and Upward

After getting across the dam, we had to climb up the other side – some 1200 feet in about four long and slow miles. This is what the Snake River looked like from above:

But when I’m doing a long slow climb that goes on forever and I can’t bear to look ahead at how steep it is or to find out what eternity looks like, this is what I see:

So you can imagine how wonderful that old man’s greeting sounded as I reached the ride’s end.

Rain. Temp. steady in low 50s. Winds SW 20 to 25 mph; gusting to 37 mph.

Time for a rest day?