Day 4: When Mary met her mountain

It'd been an easy ride until Newhalem. We'd been coasting for miles now, downhill from Darrington to Rockport, Rockport to Newhalem. We hit our first real climb just past Newhalem, and that's when Mary met her mountain.

How's that for steep?

The Newhalem climb was unpleasant, even for me. The road up the gorge from Newhalem is viciously steep; the afternoon had become swelteringly hot; and at 5pm, all the weekenders on the North Cascades Highway were on their way home. As if that weren't enough, there's a tunnel.

Mary and the tunnel of doom

I can type the word "tunnel", and you may read it, but it can't convey to you the proper visceral reaction. You'll have to trust me when I say that this was no ordinary tunnel. A sign above the archway read, "SLOW TO 30 WHEN BICYCLISTS IN TUNNEL" Before the arch was a button for bicyclists, just like a pedestrian walk button. We didn't know exactly what it would do, or how long the effect would last. So, we pulled up next to it, caught our breaths, drank some water, and prepared as best we could before pressing the button.

Your fate awaits you

The button didn't stop traffic, oh no. No red lights for us. Instead, it turned on a set of blinking yellow lights above the tunnel entrance, and an intimidating ribbon of yellow lights along the tunnel floor. We dashed into the tunnel. It had barely any shoulder. The rough, dark walls were hewn from the very mountain rock, lacking any civilized concrete veneer. There were no lights but the yellow ribbon, and the literal light at the end of the tunnel. An oncoming car in the opposite lane honked, whether at us or merely to hear the echo, I don't know. In short, it was terrifying.

I followed behind Mary, always watching to be sure that she was still hugging the right side, still moving forward, still all right. The tunnel was not actually very long, and we came through it. We pulled aside where the road widened and stood by the guard rail, panting.

Though the worst hurdle was behind us, the day was still hot, the climb steep, and the road choked with vehicles. We broke for frequent rests. The road followed the Skagit river gorge, giving us beautiful views of verdant green waters, vivid enough to compare with the lush crystalline blues of the Mediterranean. We reached a scenic viewpoint above the Ross Lake Reservoir, which feeds the Seattle City Light hydroelectric plant, and dozed on mossy ground near the rest stop's pit toilets.

The lady and the lake

Eventually we reached a peak, and rolled down the cool shadow side to the campgrounds at El Diablo Lake, where we pitched tent for the night.

Though the day was over, we knew we had an entire day of climbing ahead of us, as we ascended toward Rainy and Washington passes. Mary had spent the afternoon hot, tired, aching, miserable, and full of self-doubt. She had begun to look with real fear toward the following day. In short, we had reached the foothills of Mary's mountain.

Day 4: The Bunny Whisperers

We ate breakfast this morning at The Eatery, a country inn attached to a small resort settlement called Clark's Skagit River Resort. The food was good and the setting pleasant, but what really caught my attention was the menu. It featured stories about the resort's history. The best - and funniest - of these was the one that explained the history of the rabbits living in and around the grounds.

In short, the story tells of the exploding population of domestic rabbits released in Friday Harbor in the 60's, and the obvious solution, which was: huntin' expeditions. A couple of the resort's owners captured a few live rabbits and began raising them in hutches. From there, the story outlines the cyclic rise and fall of the rabbit population at the resort, as the bunnies are variously preyed upon by hawks, owls, bobcats, cougar, coyote and bear.

The thing that entertained me so much about this was the laissez faire attitude toward the rabbits. They are, after all, not valued pets, but simply a part of the food chain. This passage in particular cracked me up:

One year a bobcat came around; she took all but 11 rabbits for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Later a big old black bear paid several visits, as ornery and crazy as he could be. Our dog, Teddy always let us know when he was around. He came once about 10pm and again at 4am for three nights in a row. He could smell the apples and vegetables in our utility room - and he was determined to get in. During this time he destroyed the hutches and slaughtered at least half of the rabbits. The other half got away. Mr. Bear returned again - and now he's the living room rug, but that's another story.

The whole story put me in mind of the domestic rabbits now multiplying fiercely in Seattle's Greenlake Park. These rabbits, with few or no natural predators, have become enough of a nuisance to warrant some sort of civic measures... but, because of the cute and cuddly factor, liberal hand wringers have roadblocked the obvious course of action. The last time I read about it, some of the bunnies were being humanely removed to a retirement park somewhere.

I like to think that Clark Resort's bunny story puts the Greenlake issue into perspective. I've said this before, but it's worth repeating: Edible invasive species? Kill two birds with one stone and feed 'em to the homeless. Spoken as a 25-year vegetarian, no less. Let's at least be practical, people.

Day 4: Big Lou

The road to breakfast

I was reminded today of a joke I heard from my best friend in college, Joe Caffrey. Rather than try to dredge up a half remembered mishmash, I went straight to the source. In the words and Manhattan accent of my old friend Joe (with some edits for punctuation):

A man (I'll call him Mike - Ivan) is drinking alone in a crowded bar, when suddenly the door pops open and in steps a well-dressed man, who says "Hello, everybody!" The entire crowd except for Mike turns and says, "Hi, Big Lou!" Big Lou sees Mike, who didn't say hello, and sits beside him.

"Hi, friend," he says, "I'm Big Lou, and now that I know you, I know everybody." Mike looks at him and says, "Get lost. Nobody knows everybody." Big Lou says, "I do. I know everybody. Who do you want to meet?" Mike says, "Do you know the Mayor?"

And so, to make a long story a bit shorter, Big Lou takes Mike to see, each in turn, the Mayor, and then the Governor, and then the President. Each time, Mike counters lamely, "Ok, maybe you do know..." etc.

Then, after meeting the President, while in the DC airport, Mike is still not convinced, and Big Lou asks him, "Ok, who do I have to take you to, to convince you that I know everyone?" Mike looks up and sees a travel poster of the Vatican and says, "Do you know the Pope?"

Big Lou flies him to Rome, and it so happens that it is Thursday, the day when the Pope addresses the crowd in St. Peter's Square. Big Lou takes Mike to the edge of the crowd and says, "Look... you wait here, I'll make my way through the crowd, and in ten minutes I'll come out on that balcony with the Pope."

Ten minutes later, Big Lou appears on the balcony, arm in arm with the Pope; and he looks out into the crowd and sees that Mike has fainted. He makes his excuses to the Pope and rejoins Mike, who by this time is revived.

"What happened?" Big Lou asks. "Why did you faint, because I know the Pope?"

"No," says Mike, "because the guy next to me said, "Who's that with Big Lou?"

This joke came to mind because, during breakfast at a randomly chosen diner, several miles from Rockport, four days ride from home, a friend of mine walked in the door. It was Roselie Rasmussen, a girl with whom I went to massage school in 2003-04. I knew that Roselie was raised in Darrington, through which we passed just yesterday, but I hadn't seen her in several years, and the last time I heard from her she was stationed at the South Pole (not a joke)...

Roselie entered with her parents, whom I'd met before, and her guy Tom, whom I hadn't. They joined us at table, and we had a nice time catching up. Roselie's dad, an energetic character, is a local chiropractor. I forget her mom's calling, but I know that she's heavily involved with Darrington politics. Tom had useful advice about our next day's ride. And Roselie was just as I remembered her - a quiet, friendly, shy girl, with a passionate interest in her world.