Joe's Stories from the Road

for the month of MAY '05

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The EGO: Lose Some, Win Some

Before going into Canada I wanted to get some of my money exchanged into Canadian currency.  I figured I would get a better exchange from a US bank so I decided to stay in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, before going on.  The banks would be open the next morning.  I stopped at the Kootenai Valley Motel.  Small motel with well kept yards and a lot of flowers.  You knew someone loved the place.  I was checking in and the lady at the desk, Diane, was filling out the paper work.  She asked some questions about the bicycle and I told her.  After a minute she slid the half filled out paper across the counter and said, “This one is on me.”  She wouldn’t let me pay for the room.  She has recently e-mailed and somehow I can’t pick up her e-mail to write back.  Diane, if you are reading this try again.  ridejoeride@mindspring.com.  And thanks for being a part of this incredible project.

The Canadian Customs people asked me a few questions and waved me on into Canada.  They did, however, doubt that I could ride a bicycle to Banff, Calgary, and back to Glacier National Park in Montana in seven days.  Well, I wasn’t sure either but this is day 6 and I should be in Montana in two more days.  So, I was only off a couple of days.

From the border to Radium Hot Springs I rode in a huge valley with snow-capped mountains on each side.  It wasn’t until I left Cranbrook, going to Fort Steele, that I got my first look at the Rockies on this trip.  The Rockies are distinctly different from the other mountains.  I was fairly certain that this is the way it would look for the next few days.  Wrong.  When I checked in at the entrance to Kooteney National Park, the lady said the elevation change would be about 2,700 feet and I thought she said 14 miles to the top.  Well, I rode through a very narrow cliff canyon where the road shares the narrow gap with a swift flowing creek.  And I started up.  Climb, climb, climb.  I was watching the odometer. Four miles.  Five miles.  Then seven.  “Wow,” I think to myself, “I’m halfway up.”  But in another mile I’m through the pass at almost 5,000 feet.  The attendant had told me the distance in kilometers but I had heard it in miles.  A pleasant surprise.

A mile down the other side I remember why I always wanted to come back to Kootenay.  There is no way to describe this beauty.  And it is wilderness.  There are snow-capped mountains on each side with the Kootney River flowing through the valley.  Tall evergreens point skyward by the millions.  On the ride through I saw several elk, one mule deer and a lot of small animals.  I stopped for lunch on the banks of the river just off the highway.  I laid my food out on the banks of the river and took photos of the river with the mountains in the background.  Then I set down to eat.  After a few minutes a man in a pickup stopped.  The guy was obviously nervous.  He yelled, “Hey buddy, there is a bear eating on the other side of the highway.  I walked up to the highway and there he was and he was big and black.  I knew that he probably liked peaches in the can but I was in no mood to share with him.  I hurriedly packed and rode up the highway while the truck driver stayed between us.  Later, I was told that the bear would not have bothered me but I didn’t know that at the time. Actually, I still don’t know that.  

At the north end of Kootenay I crossed the continental divide for the first time.  The divide is where rain (or snow) falling to the east goes to the Atlantic Ocean and rain falling to the west flows to the Pacific Ocean.  Cool.  I will cross the Divide probably 12 more times this summer on the bicycle.

When you leave the divide it is 25 miles downhill to Banff, Alberta.  Three miles out of town eight bicycle riders came up the ramp and rode with me into town.  It wasn’t planned.  It just happened.  Thanks men.  It may be the only bicycle escort I’ll get during the trip.

Before reaching Cockrane I met my first really serious bicycle adventurer.  He was Carlos Gonzales and was from Barcelona, Spain.  Carlos had bicycled from Chili, South America, to Cockrane.  He had covered nearly 18,000 miles in two years and was going to Prudo Bay, Alaska.  Speaking of my age and the fact that I had done this before he said, “I guess you never get this out your system?”  I guess not Carlos.  Carlos was 31 years old.  He saw Rocinante printed on my bicycle and laughed and said, “Oh, that’s ______’s horse”.  That was a first. (Editor’s note- Sorry. Figuring out whose horse is part of the story.)

I’m in bicycle country. The next day, I left Cockrane, Alberta, on a three-mile uphill climb out of town.   Two women passed me by.  That male ego just couldn’t handle it.  I laid into those pedals and stayed with them all the way up the climb.   I thought I was going to bust my heart.  At the top they stopped for a rest and drink.  They probably stopped just so I wouldn’t kill myself.  They were electrical engineers from Eastern Canada and both had run in the Boston Marathon.  They signed my book and I told them that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with them.  As if they didn’t already know that.

Then I got my turn.  Two young men in their twenties passed me.  They were riding with three young women.  One of the young men, as he passed, commented, “You’re kinda old pushing that much pack.  Aren’t you?”  I sized him up for a quarter mile.  Stayed real close.  Then I decided, “Yes.” I pulled up beside him and looked over and said, “See you in Calgary, big man.”  And I started pulling away from him and his little flock.  Twenty-four miles to Calgary.  I would check their position through my rear view mirror.  I would let them catch up then I would pour it on.  All the way to Calgary and he had to eat my dust.  I figured his problem was his women friends but I would have never told him that.  Of course, his women friends may have been as good as the engineers.  It may have been his problem.

May 19

Vietnam- Different Perspectives

Sandpoint was another place where I would find an awesome American story.  At the beginning of this journal, I told you that I got on the bicycle rather than reenlist into the US Air Force because I knew they were going to send me straight to Vietnam.  And I didn’t want to go.  Over the years I had been bothered because I had not gone.  I had lost two good friends to the war in Vietnam.  And several other buddies had gone and not come back in good shape.  I felt guilty.  When my children were teenagers, we visited the Vietnam Veterans Wall in Washington, D.C.  My wife and children had walked to one end and left me alone with the name of one of my buddies on the wall.  I became emotional and was crying, just standing and looking at his name.  After a few minutes I felt an arm hug me around my shoulder.  I looked around and there stood a Vietnam Soldier, still wearing the green field jacket with the drawstring.  He had jeans on and tennis shoes and was wearing a two-year-old graying beard.  He looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “It is okay that your name is not up there on that wall.”  I cried more but I understood.  All of those emotions came back to me last night as I heard another Great American Story.

Remember down in California I told you about Jerry and Marcy Clausen who had seen a newspaper story a bout me and had found me and drove over a hundred miles to be with me for a few hours? I had stood up for them at their wedding forty years ago.  They brought photos of that wedding that I had never seen.  I had forgotten that at one time I was so young.  Well, at that visit they told me a little about their life.  Jerry had retired as a deputy sheriff for the Sonoma County Sheriff Department and Marcy had had a career as a nurse.  They had two biological children and over the years had adopted eight other children to raise.  I take my hat off to Jerry and Marcy.  They told me that one of their daughters who was from Vietnam lived in Sandpoint, Idaho, with her husband and two children.  They said that I had to stop and see them.  Well, I did and stayed all night and they took me to breakfast the next morning.  They were Les and Hien Clark and their children were Cohen and Faith, four and two years old. Very precious little boy and girl.

Here is their incredible story.  In 1975, the United States was doomed in Vietnam. It was a war that crumbled beyond our control.  President Gerald Ford, feeling a need to do something positive and at the encouragement of some very strong and faithful people committed two million dollars to go to Vietnam and rescue as many as 2,000 children who were part American and part French.  Our country knew that they would not fit in that culture and most probably be murdered anyway.  Three planes were to bring the children out of Saigon. It was named OPERATION BABY LIFT.  The first plane loaded but most of the children had not arrived from the orphanages yet.  The plane had to leave.  It was war.  Only 300 children were loaded.  Over a hundred were put in the top bay of the huge C5A Super Transporter.  The rest were strapped in on the belly of the big jet.  Pillows and quilts were laid down so they would have a safe way to fly.  The plane left Saigon and at 20,000 feet the back bay door began opening and tore most of the controls off of the plane.  The pilot turned back to Saigon with very little control.  He brought the plane down but bellied into the rice paddies.  The plane went airborne again and jumped over the river to hit the rice fields again.  This time the C5A broke apart.  The children in the floor of the plane were totally lost.  The section above broke apart and became a bobsled sliding at enormous speed across the rice paddies.  Those children made it.  The pilot and a nurse made it also.  Those children were loaded into trucks and were taken screaming to one of the other Transporters and put aboard again.  That time they flew to San Francisco.  One of the five to seven years old girls that was on the C5A that crashed and put on the other plane was my new friend Hien Clark of Sandpoint, Idaho, and the daughter of my friends, Jerry and Marcy Clausen.  I become emotional writing this for you.

We spent most of the night talking.  Hien thinks her father was from France because she spoke French as well as Vietnamese.  She said she remembered as a little girl climbing under furniture when the bombs would start going off.  They would go for hours.  She had a pet monkey and near their home a barbed wire fence had been put up to protect the children from the land mines.  Once her monkey went behind the fence and she went after him.  She didn’t get hurt.  When the nuns were rounding up these children to get out they were told they could only take children five years old or younger.  Marcy, Hien’s American mother, told her that they probably had faked her ID papers because she had all of her permanent teeth and she may have been six or seven. Jerry and Marcy had already adopted one Vietnam child.  So when OPERATION BABY LIFT arrived they were given another child and it was Hien.  A few years ago PBS made a documentary about OPERATION BABY LIFT and the Clarks had a copy of the video.  Before they put it into the TV they showed me photos that were taken by the Clausens shortly after Hien had come into their family.  The video started and there was Hien rushing across the tarmac to board one of the two planes that she had gotten on that day.

May 18

Bicycles, Cops, Cops on Bicycles

Bicycles have become a popular and efficient way to travel America if you have the time to put into it.  There are several thousand bicyclists who travel across America every year now.  Of course there was only one in 1967.  I’m sorry.  I just had to write that. Bicycles are efficient in other ways as well.  I had ridden over eighty miles into Sandpoint, Idaho.  It was late and I was taking a break in the their beautiful city park along the lake shore.  I was sitting on a rock near Rocinante and just watching the locals.  There was one carload of young men with their music so loud it was vibrating the boulder I was setting on.  They were trying to impress the girls in the car a few parking spaces down.  One young man in his red Corvette was turning doughnuts on the parking lot.  Never saw who he was trying to impress.  Then there was this unusual situation where a man was sitting on a ATV that was sitting up in the bed of a pickup truck that may have been four feet off the ground itself.  And he just kept sitting up there revving the ATV engine and looking around.  Now there were a lot of other people with their families who were being annoyed by these folks.  About this time, in unison, these three groups started getting in their autos.  They all quickly left the area, including the Corvette.  I looked over at the entrance to the park and there rode two police officers on bicycles.  Hey, that is cool, I thought.  Police on bicycles.  They rode casually through the park and then came back by where I was sitting on the boulder.  I asked them if Rocinante and I could have our photo taken with them.  Stephen Chamberlain was the taller one of the two and Chris Giese was his partner.  I wouldn’t want to tangle with either of them.  It was obvious that those others who thought themselves BAD didn’t want to tangle with them either.  They left.  

We had a great conversation.  They explained how effective the bicycles were.  They said that they had actually ridden up on crimes in progress because they were not noticed until it was too late.  Chris said when a criminal runs they just stay with him until he has worn himself out.  Then they take him down.  If they see the criminal going over a fence and may get away, they tackle.  I can just picture this.  A bicycle policeman bulldogs a criminal from a flying bicycle.  Hey, it’s rodeo time.  The next morning these friendly cops provided me with a bicycle cop sew-on patch and one for the Sandpoint Police.  Both patches will grace my 14,000 mile bicycle jacket. 

May 17

River Race, Apples, The Grand Coulee, and a  Cowboy Legend

The twenty-five mile climb into Stevens Pass took five hours.  For me, that was another passage.  Once over and down the other side, I had started the trip across America and the West Coast was behind me.   Pretty uneventful for twenty-five miles but then Rocinante and I came upon the Wenatchee River.  It became a race.  Have you ever raced with a river?  To my immediate left there were towering cliffs.  On my right was a twenty feet drop to a raging river on its race to meet with the Great Columbia.  We pulled in beside the white water just below us and the race was on.  For the next ten miles it was all out.  We got up to thirty miles an hour and looking down, the white water must have been dropping over boulders nearly as fast as we were spinning wheels.  The cliffs on the other side were wet from the spray of pounding water.

Suddenly we were out in a valley. The river turned right and we kept on going.  We had entered the Bavarian town of Leavenworth.  Leavenworth must look just like a German town.  Shops and restaurants were everywhere.  After a stop for food, Rocinante and I went on down into the Wenatchee Valley.  A short distance later, the Wenatchee River that we had raced came back out near the highway.  Only this time it was spread out and not as wild, yet still an untamed river.  The entire valley on both sides of the river that we crossed six or seven times was carpeted in fields of apple trees.  Near town the sign read, “Wenatchee, Apple Capitol of The World.”  And Mr. Ken Thompson, I’m really sorry but Watsonville is still NOT the Artichoke Capitol of The World.

After crossing the Columbia at Wenatchee I rode south as I did in 67 in order to ride up the Grand Coulee from Soap Lake, Washington.  The Grand Coulee is an ancient riverbed that was created during the receding ice age of centuries ago.  The coulee is probably a mile wide and is 600 feet deep.  On both sides of the coulee are these straight up 600-foot cliffs.  Inside the coulee are a series of lakes that are remnants of the old river.  In 67 there were maybe a dozen of these small lakes and the highway kinda went up the middle and moved back and forth to go around the lakes.  Now the coulee is a water storage area for irrigation and the highway goes up the side of the coulee.  After twenty fives miles it ends with high cliffs in front of you. It is somewhat a horseshoe of 600-foot tall cliffs.  Of course a highway has been chiseled up the side of the cliffs so you can drive to the upper coulee.  At the horseshoe cliffs are the dry waterfalls of eons ago that would have dwarfed all the waterfalls of the world.  It was formed during the ice age when the Columbia River was blocked by millions of tons of ice and the river was forced to reroute itself.  I bought a video so David could share this incredible story with our children who are participating in this school program.  

Sculpture and Grand Coulee Dam

After fifty miles of bicycling through the Grand Coulee I arrived at the Grand Coulee Dam on the Columbia.  Awesome, awesome, awesome.  It still is the largest concrete pour on earth.  And there at a viewing place of the dam, coming from two different automobiles, I met Tammy Nichols from Lexington and Brian Swail from Somerset.  Brian had his friend with him from Tennessee, Doug Smeleer. Small world.

Remember how I told you about incredible people I’ve met on this trip?  Well another one showed up in Creston, Washington.  I love horses and have been a horseman most of my life.  Had some years when I wasn’t around them but still had a great appreciation for them and the people who love them.  Back when I was just a kid I would go to my aunt and Jack Bowen’s home and watch TV.  We didn’t have television.  One of my favorite programs to watch was the rodeo championship.  I used to know some of the GREATS names but they have left me.  But since I had my own horse at the time and watched the rodeos on TV, I would dream that someday maybe I could ride a bronco in competition.  After all, I did break horses to ride.  Wayne Lee Hearne, from Stanton, was one of the people who I broke horses for. I earned $25.00 per horse.

There is a reason for telling you all of this.  I stopped at a café in Creston and struck up a conversation with locals, Jack and Jo Robertson.  I told them what I was doing and Jo told me that I had to meet a local hero and that he only live about a block away.  The man I was looking for was Deb Copenhaver.  Because of my interest in horses and in those rodeos of long ago, I wanted to meet this man.  At his doorstep I said, “Hi, Mr. Copenhaver.  I’m Joe Bowen from Kentucky.”  “Yah, I know about Kentucky.” he replied.  He invited me in since Jack and Jo had recommended that we talk.  On his dining room wall was a Kentucky Colonel commission.  His son-in-law was from Pikeville.  He invited me to take a ride with him out to his horse barn where he had a brand new foal.  There I took some photos of the 80-year-old cowboy in the barn with the mare and new colt.  

Back at the house we got into why I was so interested in talking to him.  In 1955 and 1956 he was the World Championship Rodeo Bronco Rider.  During his career he rode in all the great events of the International Rodeo Association.  He rode them at the Calgary Stampede. Pendleton, San Francisco’s Cow Palace, Madison Square Gardens, Cheyenne and Reno to mention a few. Deb is featured in six Cowboy Hall of Fame Museums around the country.  I had my photo taken with him and the 1955 World Champion Bronco Rider saddle.  Deb, who is a very spiritual person and a man of Faith and his beautiful wife, Cheryl, invited me to stay all night.  Deb fixed my breakfast the next morning.  I don’t know for sure why I got to do this, but meeting The Great Bronc Rider, Deb Copenhaver, was a  real treat and I’m thankful.

May 15

Natalie, Kentucky Horses, Rain, $69 plus tax

Thursday, Cindy and I took the Airporter to the Seattle Tacoma Airport to pick up my youngest daughter, Natalie.  Once together, we got in her rental car and drove to the Space Needle. It is a 600 foot tower with a restaurant on top.  That was our lunch stop.  After leaving the tower I got turned around several times trying to get out of downtown and to the ferry that would take us to Bremerton.  I became helpless.  I couldn’t figure out how they had arranged the one-way streets.  Impossible. I saw a Seattle Police car parked and I walked over and told her my problem.  She said, “You follow me and I’ll take you to the ferry.  She was Tracy Beemster and she took us to the ferry.  I asked if I could mention her name on the web and said it was okay.  Seattle streets may be a mess for a country boy from a town of a few hundred people but their police officers are very helpful.  Thanks.  

It was great being with Natalie- especially up in the US Northwest country.  We talked a lot about David and her making me Papa Joe one more time.  That is the best title I’ve ever had.  We took the ferry across the inland waterway at Port Angeles over to Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada.  Once on the ferry at Port Angeles we were looking at a monstrous super-tanker ship being serviced.  I just didn’t know they were so big.  Across the entire length of the ship were these huge letters,  NO SMOKING.

We didn’t schedule very well and got to Bowen Island in British Columbia, Canada, about an hour too late to talk to the children at Bowen Island School.  To anyone from Bowen Island who is reading this, I now have another excuse to come back to Bowen Island and visit the school and tell you about Bowen, Kentucky.  Some of the children at Bowen, Kentucky, already know about you.  And Natalie fell in love with Bowen Island.  Said she had to take David back to visit your beautiful island.  When the ferryboat landed at Snug Cove Natalie told me that it was like a fairy tale.  Oh, by the way, your ferryboat in 1967 carried maybe a dozen  cars.  There must have been sixty on it Friday.  I guess you folks are growing just like everyone else.  I was kinda hoping that they wouldn’t find Bowen Island.

The only problem with Natalie’s visit was that it was much too short.  What an incredible young woman.  Love you, Nat.  

Natalie and I had one more stop to make before Nat dropped me off at a hotel to drive to the SEATAC Airport for the long flight home.  In ‘67, I stopped and visited Aulney and Verna Brown and stayed several days.  I wanted Natalie to meet them and for them to meet Natalie.  Aulney was raised at Rogers Chapel in Powell County, Kentucky, about five miles from Bowen.  He left in 1936 and has never returned to live.  Verna had us a big meal prepared when we got there and we talked for hours about home in Kentucky.  Natalie was amazed that an 86-year-old man could still remember so many people and events of Powell County.  

Born, bred, trained, and developed in Eastern KY. Both of them.

I rode out of the Seattle suburbs today in a rain.  I stopped by the home of my friend, Mark Smith, in Duvall, Washington. The rain let up for about an hour so I could do something that I have been looking forward to since I knew I was going to do the bicycle trip again.  I mounted this beautiful Rocky Mountain Saddle Horse and rode for an hour.  And that horse was born, raised and trained at the Van Bert Farm in Stanton, Kentucky, about five miles from my Kentucky home.  That is soooo cool.  Thanks Mark, and thanks to you, too, HT Derickson and Wilda.  Your Rocky Mountain Saddle Horses make the green hills of Seattle look mighty good.  There are several farms in Oregon and Washington that own horses that have come from the Van Bert Farm or one line down from those beautiful horses.  HT and Wilda, it makes me really proud to see your beautiful horses up here in the Northwest.

Mark took me to lunch. Afterward, I pedaled in the rain toward Stevens Pass.  That Pass has always been a distinct memory from the ‘67 bicycle ride.  I’ve been anxious to be on that highway again.  I knew I would be on it for two days.  My plans were to stop at Gold Bar and get a room at the only motel there.  It was raining and getting near to dark.  The sign on the entrance read, $39.00.  I walked in to get a room.  The lady told me the price was sixty-nine dollars plus tax.  I told her what was on the sign.  She repeated, “Sixty nine plus tax”.  I told her, “Ma’am, I’ll sleep in the rain in the weeds before I give you sixty nine plus tax.”  Then I left.  And I knew pretty much that I was going to have a miserable night in the rain in the weeds.

Elma and Brianna

May 12

Elma, Cousin Cindy, an Ode to Cliff, and a Kentucky Teacher in a Tree House

There are special people all around the bicycle trip.  It happened in Kentucky when we were preparing to come to California.  We met them in Lompoc before we left.  And they just keep showing up.  There is no way that we can write about all of them.  But I must tell you about one we met on our way into the Washington Capitol Building.

Cliff and I stopped at a restaurant on Mothers Day for lunch.  An Hispanic lady and her little six year old daughter were sitting at the table nearest us.  They were only three feet away in a crowded restaurant.  Elma Castillo and daughter, Brianna, were their names.  Soon after we set down we asked the waitress how to get to the capitol building.  She was in a kidding mood and told us she wasn’t going to tell us.  Elma smiled over at us and said, “I know and I’ll tell you.”

That started a conversation and we ended up sitting at her table.  We told her and Brianna about the school children in Eastern Kentucky that we were going to be bringing America to by bicycle.  Cliff made up with Brianna and asked her some questions about her school.  We soon learned that Elma was one of seven children of migrant worker family.  Her father insisted that they were not immigrants but were citizens of the United States of America. He never would let them think any other way.

So, thinking herself as a citizen instead of a migrant worker she decided she could have the American Dream for herself.  She worked herself through school and became a registered vascular specialist.  Now, with a good paycheck, she and her daughter live the American Dream.  Several times during our conversation with her she became emotional.  She told us she had been hugely blessed and that she thanked God ever day. 

She got up from the table when we were engaged in conversation with Brianna.  I saw her talking to the waitress.  I got Cliff’s attention. “You know what she is doing.”  He said, “Joe we can’t let her do that.”  I told Cliff, “We can’t not let her do that.”  She walked back to our table smiling and Cliff was chastising her.  “I’m rich and I’m blessed,” was her response.  She had paid for our lunch on Mothers Day.   I asked her if I could write about her and give out her address and e-mail.  She said, “Yes.”

If you want to communicate with a wonderful person who is an AMERICAN write or e-mail her and Brianna at Elma Castillo, P.O. Box 12557, Olympia, WA 98508 or e-mail her at olysky@msn.com.  Tell her we think she is awesome and thanks again for Mothers Day Lunch.   

How many people get to ride their bicycles inside state capitols?

Half hour later, Rocinante and I were permitted to enter the Washington State Capitol Building and have our photos taken with a bronze statue of President George Washington. We both had to go through the x-ray machine.  Speaking of Rocinante, I was talking to a friend who reads our reports and didn’t realize that Rocinante was actually a horse, I mean a bicycle.  So I must get better at telling my stories.   Usually I mount Rocinante from the left side by throwing my right leg over.  That is the same way you do it with any horse.  Well, a couple of weeks back I had parked Rocinante the wrong way, with the left side against the wall.  So I led, I mean rolled, him out onto the pavement and attempted to mount from the left side.  I threw my 62-year-old right leg up over Rocinante and ended up on my butt with Rocinante on top of me.  Cliff didn’t even check to see if I was hurt.  He hustled out his camera so he could get a shot.  I was laughing so hard I couldn’t get up for five minutes.

I’ve been watching the kychaingang@blogspot.com site hoping to hear from my buddy Cliff about us having to say goodbye.  I haven’t been able to get on-line for three days so maybe he has written something.  I can’t send this tonight but tomorrow night I will.  Hopefully, he will have talked to you by then.   

Hey, Cliff- This one's for you!

Anyway, the day that I was to go visit my long lost cousin Cindy Pore in Port Orchard, Washington, we got up to go to breakfast.  Cliff told me that he was going to catch the AmTrack and go to his daughter Sally’s graduation.  She graduated from Berkley with a PhD.  I struggled to get through college in four years.  Can’t imagine a PhD.  It was not easy seeing Cliff go.  I had spent a month with him I learned a lot from him, not only about computers and the GPS.  He’s got to be one of the most generous people I’ve ever been around.  Everyone he met got at least one compliment and generally two or three.  He was generous with the waiters and waitress and people who helped him at the hotels.  He loves children.  Talked to them every time we walked by a table where a child was present. He bragged on the older women and they referred to him as “young man”.  He was older than most of them but they didn’t know it or didn’t want to know it.  I never saw him get frustrated with a person the whole trip.  He is just an incredible man.  He was always polite in all of his dealings.  So, Cliff, if you are reading this I really enjoyed your company and you are one powerful bicycle rider.  When I get to be 65 years old I want to be just like you.  The best to you on all your projects and thanks a million times for choosing to come back to Eastern Kentucky to live.  You have some great ideas about our part of the country and I believe that the local people will embrace you.  Thanks.

I  got on the ferry boat and rode over to Vashon Island.  The island is about 15 miles long, north and south.  One of the men that worked on the boat noticed the Kentucky Unbridled Spirit and started talking to me about Kentucky and horses.  Said he had always wanted to visit Kentucky and see the Horse Farms.  When the boat landed we were still talking and one of the people working with him encouraged him to let me go.  I pushed Rocinante up the ramp and then mounted up to ride off.  At that time an eighteen-year young man yelled over at me, “are you going long distance?”  “Fourteen thousand miles,” I answered.  The boatmen were rushing me.  About thirty minutes out two young men rode up beside me on their bicycles.  One was the young man who had yelled at me at the landing.  Their first names were Josiah and Nathaniel.  They were great young men and rode with me for several miles.  They were very impressive young men.  I had my photo taken with them and our bicycles and they wrote in my journal.

I started talking to some bicyclist at the next landing and followed them onto the wrong ferry.  I went to Seattle and then had to catch other ferries to get back to Southworth where my cousin Cindy was waiting on me.  She had to wait over an hour longer.  I asked her if she was worried about me.  She thought that I probably was talking and had missed my ferry.

The day after I arrived, Cindy took me and Rocinante to Bainbridge Island where I spoke to some children at the Island Wood School.  The children were great.  One young boy was of particular interest because he knew more about Jack London than I do.  The other really cool thing was that a Wolfe County woman works at the school and it was she that invited me.  A great young woman and I encouraged her to come back to Wolfe Country and teach.  We are missing a lot by not having Brannin Musser in our school system.  She is talking about going to Denver, Colorado to teach.  Maybe she will still come back to Eastern Kentucky someday.  Thanks, Brannin, for a great visit and for letting me talk to the children and visit your awesome tree house at Island Wood. 

May 7

Lotta Lumber, London Bridge (really), and a Rocket Car

Before Kentucky made the law that the coal trucks had to tarp their loads, one would know what the major industry was by looking on the roadsides of the Bert T Combs Mountain Parkway.  You could know visually in what direction the coal was being shipped and never see a coal truck.  On the west bound lanes the highway shoulders were black from the fine pieces of coal that had blown off the trucks.  And it was almost humorous that you could tell which bridges were in need of repair.  When the big trucks roared across the ends of the bridges that needed leveling the trucks lost more pieces of coal while crossing the bump.  The black coal was thick at each end of these bridges.  For several days here in Oregon and several miles of California you knew what the industry was without seeing a truck.  Small and large pieces of tree bark lined each side of the road.  They are in the lumber business- big time. 

Riding from Portland to Longview, Washington, it became more obvious.  The tree bark was thick on the sides of the highway.  When we got to the Longview Bridge crossing the Columbia River we saw where the logs were being hauled.  Back in 1967, the river was full of logs that a tug pulled down the river.  That is not done as much now as back then.  The local people filled us in on that subject.  Crossing the big bridge, which is tall enough for major ocean going ships to pass under, I stopped several times to photograph the log yards.  I have a friend in Morehead, Kentucky, who is in the lumber business, Richard White and his mother and father.  They have very large log yards, but Richard, if you are reading this, these loggers out here have you beat.  Log yards are on both sides of the river but the one in Washington had to cover at least 400 acres.  And I could see the entire operation from the top of the bridge.  Look for photographs on this later.

We stopped in St Helens on the way to the Longview Bridge and talked to the local newspaper people.  In 1967 when I rode through St. Helens, Oregon, the a local news reporter came out on the highway and interviewed me and took a photo with me and my bicycle in front of a Lewis and Clark Trail historical marker.  It is interesting that Lewis and Clark came up and down that side of the Columbia 200 years ago.  This time the newspaper reporter looked up the old copy about me cycling through there and they took a photo in front of the same historic road sign.   The reporter told me that I looked a little different. We both laughed and I told him that 38 years makes a big difference in some folks.  They are going to try to run the old and new photos together.  And they said they would send me a copy.

When we came down off of Mount Hood, we came from early spring to full spring.  It was warmer and the flowers were in bloom along with the dogwoods.  The broad leaf trees are completely filled out.  For the last three days we have been hearing and seeing weed-eaters and lawnmowers.  Almost like back home- but it isn’t the same.  The people are good to me but they are not the people that I have lived with all my life.  I miss my people and the Red River Valley and Taylorsville.

During the trip we meet all kinds of people and most of the time they are interested in what we are doing.  Many have had dreams of adventure but just never got around to doing their dream.  And so far I have met several moderate adventurers but only three awesome adventurers.  The first one we met was a man and woman that Barbara and I met on the London Bridge at Lake Havasu.  I told a friend about this meeting and he didn’t know that the London Bridge is now in the United States.  He thought that the London Bridge was in London, England.  Not so.  It was moved to the United States over 25 years ago.  Back to adventurers.  It was very appropriate that we meet this couple on the London Bridge since they were from England.  Their names were Pat Watson and Helen Antcliff from Leicester, England.  They were traveling by motorcycle.  At the time we met them they had been on the road since September l5, 2001 and had traveled 65,000 miles visiting over 50 countries.  I told them at the time that I would encourage the readers of this web site to contact them by e-mail.  So, will you drop them an encouraging line. Their e-mail addresses are  www.patandhelen.co.uk and the other is   patandhippy@postmaster.co.uk.   I would appreciate you trying to contact them.  Here is a photo of them and their motorcycle on the London Bridge.  

After today there is another adventurer that stands out.  And he has grey hair like Cliff and me.  Well, not Cliff.  He has no hair, but if he did it would be grey. We stop at a little market in the Washington town of Toledo.  A young man dressed in a red jump suit was standing in front of me.  He looked like he may be a member of a racing team.  So I asked him what he was doing.  He told me that he was on the team of the North American Eagle.  That is a jet car that is trying to beat the land speed record.  He said that the team had the rocket car on a local airport runway and was going to do a test run this afternoon and invited us to stop by and see it for ourselves.  And we did. 

I couldn’t believe it.  There was this huge long red Bullitt that was really the fuselage of an Air Force fighter jet.   On the side was an eagle and the words, “North American Eagle.”  They are the world land speed challengers.  They believe that within a year they will have this baby cruising at 800 miles an hour. That will break the land speed record.  If no one minds, I will stick to bicycling.  Once we were on the grounds the whole team welcomed us.  Cliff told them about the bicycle trip and also that I had broken the stilt walking record by 1200 miles.  They thought that was cool.  They all understand breaking records.  The adventurer that this dream belongs to is Ed Shadler.  I was introduced to Ed and he posed with me and Rocinante in front of his rocket car, North American Eagle.  Rocinante is a privileged character.  Of course I think that I am, too, sometimes when I think about getting to do this 14,000-mile bicycle trip again and meeting all these wonderful people and seeing this great country again from the seat of a bicycle.  And it is going to be a great privilege telling the school children about all of this and encouraging them to dream big dreams.  

May 4

From the Mountains to a Yacht

From Canby, where our old cowboy friend Jim lives, to the timberline of Mount Hood was cold bicycling.  The tulips were still in small buds and the Easter lilies were just blooming.  Still, not hardly spring.  When we got into Madras we had dropped, I guess, 1000 feet in elevation.  During the day my right knee, which has a bit of arthritis, had been acting up a little and a muscle near my shoulder blade had turned to a small knot and was bothering me.  We found a drugstore for some medicine.  The next morning I felt much better. 

The day is starting out awesome.  We are on the East side of the Cascades and sun is bright.  What a day to be bicycling.  We had to climb probably 500 vertical feet out of the Madras valley.  Now I’m giving up these guesses.  I have a GPS on board and if I got up and went to the bicycle and got my gear out I could tell you exactly the elevation.  But I’m just going to guess.  The children that do the study course with Bicycle Joe will have all that information.

We got up above town onto relatively flat farm country.  The hay fields ran for miles along the highway and miles away from the road, too.  I kept watching several snow capped peaks to the west.  Once out where I could get good photos without buildings and trees in the way, I stopped and got the camera and a brochure.  To the far south there were three snow-capped peaks with the tops 3 to 4000 feet covered with snow.  The mountain range below them was massive but too low enough to have snow.  These three peaks standing together were named the Three Sisters by the early settlers.  Then, due west of us was another massive snow covered peak, maybe taller than the Three Sisters.  Its name was Mount Jefferson.  And far north and a bit east of us was another peak .  This peak had a little more class.  It was more perfect even though it was much farther away.  That peak was Mount Hood.  Seeing these majestic mountain peaks while standing in one place is not possible for me to describe to you.

Every mile up the highway I would look back to check on each of these mountains.  After about an hour I noticed that a bank of clouds had cloaked Mount Hood. I would only get to see the snow at the base for the rest of the day. 

Another mile or two goes by and I noticed we have turned west.  I had thought that we would be riding in a direct line toward Mount Hood since that is where we had planned to get to before nightfall.  In a few minutes I am flying down into the Deschutes River Gorge.  Four miles of downhill and there is the green water, fast moving river in a narrow gorge that appears surrounded by desert.  I had just left green hayfields up above.  We crossed the river after a few miles and found ourselves on the Warm Springs Indian Reservation.  Their Indian Museum was awesome and they let me take photos of the lumber mill operation up the highway.

After climbing nearly 5000 feet in elevation we made it to the side of Mount Hood and stayed at Huckleberry Inn at Government Camp.

And then the next morning we are going down, down, down, down, and down on the bicycles.  It was the pay off for all the climbing the day before.  By mid afternoon we are looking at the mighty Columbia River and we are on the Lewis and Clark Trail.  They were two other adventurers of a much higher caliber than us.  For them, there were no Marriotts, no McDonalds or Denny’s, no rubber tires or asphalt.  And definitely there were no laptops like I’m using right now to communicate with you.  

Mt. Hood and the Columbia River

What happened next is why we are never tied to an absolute schedule.  We were riding around Portland on their bicycle path when a woman on a bicycle passed me while I was taking a photo of a plane landing at Portland International.  We saw her later and spoke.  She asked what we were doing and after telling her she told us that we should stop by her friend’s coffee shop for a cup of coffee.  She was Deb Johnson from Summerland, British Columbia.  Her friend Kim Swenson at the coffee shop, Channel’s Edge, called her better half, Bob.  Soon we were visiting them at their home down on the water.  After telling them about doing the project with the school children they invited us to go out on the great Columbia River with them on their sailboat.   Sitting on their front porch at their home right down on the river, we saw a couple of friends of theirs going up the channel in a beautiful, large sailboat. (Forty-foot yacht in my estimation.)  They pulled over and we all boarded.  I met Deb’s friend Blain Goold and the two men on the sailboat, Charlie McDonald and Larry Johnson.  The boat belonged to Larry and within minutes he invited me to take the controls.  I didn’t tell him, but I was afraid I might wipe out three or four homes and a couple other sailboats.  Didn’t mention it to Larry because I didn’t want him to change his mind.  We went up the Columbia for probably an hour and Larry guided us into a spot where I could photograph Mount Hood with a sailboat and the Columbia River in the foreground.  A great bunch of good folks took us two Kentucky country boys and showed us the class of Portland people.  By the way, Kim was from Jeffersonville, Indiana, and the first thing she told me was who was running in the Kentucky Derby and that the Delta Queen was not in the Great Steamboat Race this year.

May 1

Some Folks Live with Volcanoes, Logging

Tonight finds me in Bend, Oregon.  We left Klamath Falls two days ago after having to put spokes in my back wheel.  We rode about 40 miles up the east side of Klamath Lake.  Very large lake with the Cascade Mountains behind the lake to the west.  Past Crater Lake mountain.  We watched it several hours as we bicycled up the east side of it in the valley.  

The local people in their conversations let us know that they are very much aware of the possibility of a disaster with the volcanic actions in the mountains from Northern California on up through this section of Oregon.  The old lava beds are strung out up and down this section.  The ancient lava flows are right up close to the highways in areas.  Mount Lassen, Mount Hood and Shasta still have steam coming out of their centers.  Interesting listening to the local folks talk about the possibilities.

I'm not sure when one ends and the other begins but the inner mountain range of California is called the High Sierras and somewhere at the state line they begin to be referred to as the Cascade Range.  If I had the time I would look the information up and share it with you.  Maybe someone out there can explain this to me.  In California, the mountain range near the coast is named the Las Padres.  In Oregon they are referred to as the Coastal Range.

After we rode north of Klamath Lake we entered evergreen timber country.  Most of the times it is so thick we are not able to see east or west beyond the large beautiful trees.  Occasionally we would see the signs of forest fires.  When they have a forest fire here there is nothing left but a few burned out stumps and dirt.  In places we saw where the forest service or others came in and chainsawed the stumps down and re-seeded. 

After lunch yesterday we came up on the Collier Logging Museum.  What a sight.  While walking from exhibit to exhibit, I couldn't keep from thinking of Larry Meadows.  Larry is the man responsible for the Red River Museum in Clay City, Kentucky.  Of course he has a lot of help from the local people.  But as I was walking through this camp/museum I thought, boy if Larry could spend some time with these people he would talk them out of three or four tractor and trailer loads of their collection.  One thing becomes obvious real quick.  These people were dealing with much larger logs than the old loggers did in Eastern Kentucky.  Some of their trees were eight and ten feet in diameter.  And their tools to pull them to the mills were fascinating

There was one piece of literature that I have to share with you.  It is painted on a large sign on the grounds.  

" OH STRANGER, PONDER WELL, WHAT BREED OF MEN WERE THESE CRUISERS, FALLERS, SKINNERS, OX, HORSE AND "CAT", CHOKESETTERS AND THE REST WHO USED THESE TOOLS.

NO SUMMERS SEARING DUST COULD PARCH THEIR SOULS, NOR BITTER BREATH OF WINTER CHILL THEIR HEARTS.

'TWAS NEVER SAID, "THEY WORKED FOR PAY ALONE." THO IT WAS GOOD AND FREELY SPENT.

TOUGH JOBS TO LICK THEY WELCOMED WITH EACH DAY, "WE'LL BURY THAT OLD MILL IN LOGS,"  THEIR BOAST.

SUCH MEN AS THEY HAVE MADE THIS COUNTRY GREAT, BEYOND THE GRASP OF SMALLER, MEANER MEN.

PRAY GOD, OH STRANGER, OTHERS YET BE BORN WORTHY AS THEY TO WEAR A "LOGGERS BOOTS".                                                                                                  by:  Nelson Reed

Tomorrow we will be watching the towering snow capped peak of Mount Hood.  And then watch it for several days.

On May 12 I get a real treat.  After visiting a long lost cousin, Cindy Spore, in Port Orchard, Washington which is a treat in itself, my youngest daughter, Natalie Anne, is flying to Seattle to spend four days with me.  We plan on renting a car and seeing the Northwest and Bowen Island, British Columbia, Canada.