Day 6: The Superfluous Bundle

Today was supposed to be an easy day, though some critical quality of easy appeared to be missing from it. The plan was to check gear, repack supplies, stock up on groceries, and ride a puny 20 miles, passing through Winthrop and on to Twisp, where we'd retire early before tackling Loup Loup Pass the next day. My only goals for the day were to make time to write, and mail off a handful of unused items we'd culled from our gear. Cumulatively, they were about the size of a bundle of groceries, and the space could be better used.

Breakfast at the Mazama Countryside Inn was nice enough, and we chatted with a pair of older recumbent bicyclists whom we'd seen on the road a few times, always ahead of us. After breakfast, we spent several lazy hours tending to our equipment, and we hit the road to Winthrop at noon.

Immediately, we were slammed with heat. Where yesterday the temperature climbed with us, today we stepped into its full force. We labored over every hill and broke in the narrow shade of lone pines. Mary took it hardest. By the time we reached the edges of Winthrop, she was nauseous from the heat. I left her in the cool grass of a shady park, while I scouted the area for services.

In Winthrop proper, which is basically a tourist strip, we looked for a UPS office and a wifi spot while we shopped for more supplies. We sat down for a light lunch to let Mary rest. It was just shy of 4pm when we realized that the whole town appeared to be shutting down. Leaving Mary to wait for our food, I ran down the street to ship our bundle, just in time to watch the lights go out at the frame store that doubled as a UPS drop-off.

Back at the cafe, I checked for public wifi spots, but the only one available had an obnoxious filter that showed only Methow Valley advertising. The two published wifi spots in town had shut down. We stopped for ice cream to cool Mary's heat anxiety and my frustrations.

The road from Winthrop to Twisp was packed with rural rush hour drivers; among the worst drivers for bicyclists, because they think they know every inch of the road, and they slow down for nothing. We passed the Post Office on the way out of Winthrop. It had shut its doors 25 minutes earlier.

We'd targeted an RV park with wifi in Twisp, and we found it, two miles shy of Twisp. We still needed groceries for the Loup Loup climb tomorrow, which meant me riding into Twisp and back while Mary set up camp. The day was fading rapidly. I took the bundle with me in case I might find some way to be ship it. Leaving the park, my right foot stuck in my cleat, and I fell into gravel.

I'm a good caretaker when it's required of me, and Mary's needs come first on this trip. I know this. There is no question in my mind about it. But I'm an introvert by nature, and caretaking comes with a cost. It's one of the reasons I let go of my massage license. (I had a client who liked 4-hour deep tissue sessions. After one of these I was ready to punch him.)

With Mary's needs secured, my own needs brim up from a well of frustration and percolate into a near fury. The need to write. The need to mail. This. Fucking. PACKAGE.

It comes as a splash of cold water when I find a UPS drop-box in front of Hank's Supermarket in Twisp. The drop-box includes supplies for mailing envelopes. I need a box. I strong-arm into the market, barrel straight through to the cavernous inventory bay. No one stops me or questions me. I find a box. I pull a roll of duct tape from the market's school supply section and rush back outside.

At the UPS drop-box, another cold splash. 'This box accepts packages up to 16" x 13" x 3".' My box is significantly bigger. And, I've just stolen duct tape. I pace back and forth, considering. A woman approaches me.

"Excuse me, do you need help?" she asks. "I've been watching you go back and forth, and you seem confused." She's an older woman, a bit airy, a bit hippy, with a sort of Julie Haggerty thing going on. I explain my problem, and she meanders on for a bit with unhelpful solutions, finally suggesting that I just leave my package on top of the drop-box, as "I've done it myself. No one takes them!"

I give this a flick of thought. My bundle contains my friend Nipper's radios. They are valuable to him. I cannot lose them. In the politest voice I am able to muster, I smile as I say, "I'm just not that trusting." I explain that I'm agitated, and she waves me a cheery good luck.

Back inside the market. I settle in to a dining area and rip and shred the cardboard box, cram my stuff inside, and tape it roughly rectangular. My mangled, stillborn package looks hideous, like something that contains a poorly written manifesto. Back to the school supply aisle for brown packing tape. Obsessively, I cover five out of six faces of the box almost entirely with brown packing tape, hiding everything but for the moisture stains on the front face. I am satisfied.

I walk back outside to the drop-box and slam open its metal flap. With all the pain in my soul, I heave my mutant package into the UPS box and emit a primal growl.

Exorcised, I return to the market, take a blue plastic hand cart, and begin shopping.

Day 6: Distressed facade capitol of the world

It was a hot afternoon when we biked into the outskirts of Winthrop, so we stopped at the first place we found, a shady park, with nothing but a couple of squat, unremarkable buildings in sight. I assumed that this was the town, and I only hoped there were enough services nearby to find Mary some comfort from the heat. And so, I was completely unprepared for what we found around the very next bend, which is why I bust out laughing when we arrived.

Winthrop is a tourist town writ large. Like a Disneyland pavilion, it has no other purpose than to attract visitors and their money. All of Winthrop's center is a faithfully maintained pioneer facade. Every store front is lovingly weathered, and the shops still bear rough hand painted signs for things like the Trading Post, Three Fingered Jack's Saloon, White Buck Trading Co.

Worth the drive! Just beware - the whole damned place shuts down at 4pm.