Alive in: Colville, WA

Long day. Tired. Bed. More tomorrow.

Day 11: Sherman's March

Having learned my lesson from Wauconda, I did not dawdle in Republic, and sleeping in wasn't an option. After I'd rolled up my bedroll, I walked stiffly into the next door gas station's mini-mart. The lady clerk inside asked, "Sprinklers startle you?" I had an egg muffin, a doughnut, and coffee for breakfast. It was another long day that extended into night, but it can't be said that I got a late start, or that it was Sherman that confounded me.


Sherman's a pleasant old fellow.
Let's forget that whole "burning of the south".

Sherman Pass is advertised as the steepest of the bunch; and while it may be, it is also one of the shortest. If Wauconda was the sly sadist, Sherman is the grand old gentleman, open and inviting. Where Wauconda's narrow, twisty passages hid the road around every bend, Sherman's broad slopes gently revealed the road ahead. The day was cool and breezy, and being a Monday, the ratio of cars to me was considerably more in my favor.


A skeletal nursery

Toward the top I passed through an area that must have burned in the past few years. Tall, skeletal husks stand guard over the lush nursery below, the bright growth springing up from the boneyard. I stopped at the White Mountain Fire Overlook to survey the extent of the burn zone. It spread as far as I could see.


Sherman Pass, elevation 5,575

Sherman's 17 mile climb passed quickly. In fact, with regular stops for rest breaks, I reached the top of the pass by early afternoon. By then the afternoon had turned chilly, and I realized I hadn't eaten anything more than a Clif Bar, a plum, and some goo since breakfast.

I stopped for lunch at a trailhead near the top. With this constant exercise, I don't feel the usual pangs of hunger. Instead, I know it's time to eat when my body stops functioning, and my arm extends like a pseudopod to draw nourishment into me. In short order I had eaten a handful of baby carrots, a large avocado, half a jar of baby dill pickles, a double handful of crackers, a quarter pound of veggie sausage meat, a length of string cheese, an orange, and two Tiger's Milk bars. Afterwards I felt sated, but not overfull. I also felt sleepy, but it was too cold on the pass to nap. I decided to ride down to a sunnier spot.

Leaving the trailhead, I met two cyclists who'd just come the east side. They were a couple, male / female. They'd come 3,200 miles. They were tall, lean, and golden, dressed in bright yet tasteful colors, like angels. It made me miss Mary. I'd begun telling people that my wife had enough after one week and went home. It sounded so easy and painless when stated so simply, devoid of the sorrow and second guessing. I wondered if we also would have become golden angels after 3,200 miles.


How fast is too fast?

I began the slide down the east side. The fitful night and the heavy lunch caught up with me and I felt sleepy. I was adrenalized, yet yawning, and my reactions were sluggish and exaggerated. The steep downhill carried me past 30mph, but the strong uphill draft threatened to throw me off balance. I throttled the brakes and looked for a cultivated turnoff to nap.

The day warmed as I descended, and a ways down, I found Camp Crowden, a historic site. Crowden was one of Roosevelt's New Deal children, a home to the Civilian Conservation Corps. The CCC took up young men by the hundreds of thousands and put them to work building roads, hiking trails, dams and fire lookouts. I lay down on a picnic table and slept. Afterwards, I explored.


The sluice is loose!

The course of the pass follows Sherman Creek, which flows through Camp Crowden. There I found a sluice which channeled the river for a short distance through a buried concrete culvert, which let out in a small reservoir. I climbed down into the reservoir and up through the culvert, so thick with fish they bumped my legs, to find the hidden waterfall beneath the sluice.


I hope there are no C.H.U.D.


Closer. Closer. Closer still!


Under ground waterfall

Rested, I resumed the long downhill slide. With breaks for poking around, writing, taking photos, it was nearly 5pm when I reached the bridge to Kettle Falls. It had taken me six hours to climb the pass, and another four to come down off it.


The Columbia River


The Bridge to Kettle Falls

Kettle Falls somehow got the better of me, and it took another four hours before I saw the end of this tiny town.


The Boise Log Mill

The bike route I was following circumnavigated Kettle Falls, following the Columbia River past an enormous logging facility and up into the hills that skirt the town.


Well, I'll just go around anyway.

Following the map, I reached a dead end: a road closure with no detour signs posted.


Uh oh.

I bumped around the sign, figuring whatever had closed the road, that I could pass by it.


Bridge? What bridge?

The bridge spanned the river beneath a hydroelectric dam, and it was being replaced. The new bridge hadn't yet been connected to the old road. There was a five foot span of earthworks on either side. I saw a pair of motorcyclists across the other side, also trying to find a way around. They yelled across to say that the detour was some ten miles around. I had no energy for a ten mile detour. I unpacked my bike and carried all my gear, piece by piece, up and over the earthworks, across the unfinished bridge, and down the other side.


Rock and roll heaven

The road beyond the bridge climbed one more steep hill and then let me out into heaven. It was the golden hour, that special moment before sunset when the sun pours down liquid amber, and I ascended into an expansive grassy plain. High tailed deer loped through the waves of grain.

I was so awed by the vision of this new landscape that I rode right past the detour signs leading to my turn. Of course, since I was coming from a closed road, there were no signs facing in my direction. There, I have given you the gift of suspense. You know something I didn't, and it only remains to be seen how long it took me to figure it out.


The road to heaven is closed. Go away.

I pedalled through heaven, basking in the amber light, passing a jogging couple, an older woman on a bicycle, another couple out for a stroll. Rounding a bend, the road split into two gravel roads. Neither of these seemed likely to be mine. Between the gravel road and the closed bridge, I thought that the occupants of heaven must be trying to keep out the riff raff. I dragged my bike a mile up that gravel road before I gave up. Above heaven was a cluttered farm, littered with old vehicles and barking dogs, with no one home to ask for directions.

I rolled carefully back down the gravel road to the paved road of heaven. Past the golden hour, heaven had lost its shine. I found directions. Night was falling. Again.


God dammit. Night again. It's like it happens every day.

The road from Kettle Falls to Colville put me back on 20 / 395, a major highway, busy with traffic, before returning to country roads. I hated riding in the dark on a highway; but the country road took me a mile or two out of the way, circling around the back side of town. I sweated every last bit of those final miles, riding through the descending dark, gritting my teeth, wishing I'd stayed on the highway.

If I hadn't followed the back road, I wouldn't have likely seen the meteorite. Not just a distant white streak, it was close enough that I could see it gutter and flare before it came to rest just the next field over.

I made Colville at 9:30, and considered sleeping on a lawn again, but oh, how I needed a shower. I pulled my bike into the first motel I sighted. The office had closed, but four teenagers hanging out in the lot let me into a room. Apparently it was a transient motel, and the room was worn beyond belief, stained by water, fire, mildew, use and age, but at least it had a bed and a shower.

When I left in the morning, two of the teenagers were again (still?) in the lot, but the office was still not open. I left $40 and a note beneath the office door, and wasted no time leaving Colville.