Day 12: Superheroes

Stubbs ground me down and reopened old wounds as I cycled by rough roads torn by dust devils. I revisited a line of thought that began during last year's ride to Black Rock and bled out this passage:

It's hard work being a superhero, but if it's the only way to get your dad's attention, you do it anyway. Or you give up and stop talking to him, like I did. I'd hardly spoken to him in three years, when he called on his birthday to tell me that his own father had just died. Two weeks later, on Thanksgiving, he died himself. I would never be a superhero now.

You see, one of the main reasons I'm out here is to write a novel about coming to grips with my dad's death. It's a sincere story with an overlay of social satire. I've been struggling for a year with the opening sentence, and there it is. I haven't cried over him in that year, and I thought that enough time had passed, but stringing those words together so plainly rips it out of me all over again. The truth hurts. This trip is my ode to him. Maybe I can still be a superhero in his memory.

As a revered comic book artist, my dad was an old legend in a minor pantheon of deified celebrities. I've heard it said that the child can't surpass the parent until the parent dies. (Alright, it was on Battlestar Galactica, you fucking geeks. Shut up!) I don't know that it's true, but since my dad died, I've let go of old feuds, married, and bought a house. My sense of priorities has certainly shifted. Could just be that ol' sense of impending mortality showing me how little time I have to get serious about achieving my goals.

So now you know, I'm out here writing a book on a bicycle. I concentrate best when my body's active and in motion, and the constant physical effort of it has a way of tearing away the comforting white lies and baring the soul, so I'm crossing the country to find the time and freedom and inspiration to say what needs to be said. It's what drives me to finish this trip and maintain this blog so rigorously.

Day 12: Stubbs, the Evil Clown

The five advertised passes through the northern Cascades are Rainy and Washington, Loup Loup, Wauconda, and Sherman. Rainy and Washington are kissing cousins, just a few miles apart, so for most purposes count as one. All in all, four days of climbing. But there's another, unadvertised climb; the hump of land between Colville and Ione, which I've named Stubbs.

While Stubbs lacks the "pass" designation, the sneaky bastard climbs as high as Loup Loup and lies as long as Wauconda. It's 30 miles of climbing, and the downhill side is windy enough to keep you peddling. Stubbs is a pass in every regard but for the elevation marker that grants the affirming opportunity to stamp your feet in triumph and shout, "There!"

If Wauconda is the sly, smiling sadist, and Sherman the tender hearted old Don, then Stubbs is the malicious prankster who clutches your shirt sleeve until you turn to pull away, and then delivers a belittling sideswipe up your backside, sending you stumbling into a pile of trash on your way to the curb.

In short, it was another long day.



I had many small impressions of the morning as I passed by fields of yellow wildflowers and people shoeing horses, and was passed by red tailed hawks and click clacking cicadas. I took frequent breaks at fence posts bordering tall, grassy fields, occasionally chatting with owners who meandered out to pick up the day's mail.

I rode past a house with at least a dozen dogs chained up in the yard, placed equidistantly apart from each other at chain's length, every dog bouncing and barking at me in a terrible cacophony, the lone "Beware of Dog" sign an amusing understatement. It wasn't so much a kennel as a dog garden. I imagined the home owner's train of thought: "Need more security. Another dog, yeah, another dog, that'll show those fuckers." I could hear answering barks behind me, over the hills in the distance, though whether merely echoes or another dog garden, I couldn't tell.



In another amusing dog moment, I was passed by a car with dogs hanging out both side windows, barking at a column of motorcyclists riding behind. Shortly after that I was passed by two logging trucks, each fully loaded, passing each other in opposite directions, which left me with questions about the efficiency of such a system.

Along about mid-afternoon I was pushing my bike up a hill when my attention was captured by the damnedest metal... thing. Glimpsed from the road was a teardrop shaped, rusting silo. It looked like a Mercury capsule, with paneled sides and a mesh dome. Between me and it was a metal guard rail, a steep embankment, and a couple hundred yards of wooded property. Farther up the hill, I found the property entrance, its gate decorated with an imposing NO TRESPASSING sign, below which squatted an ominous, weathered barn.


Keep Out. No, really.

I wanted a closer look at that silo. I reconsidered the embankment. At the bottom was a barbed wire fence, its brittle, wooden posts faded and falling. It was clear that many people had come this way over the years. I imagined area teenagers sneaking out to the silo for private purposes. I placed a foot on the least erect fencepost, and it bent further toward the ground. I tightroped across it as it yielded to my weight, careful not to let it bite me in the ass as I stepped off it.


What's he building in there?

Old dirt roads overgrown with grass laced the property, and I followed one toward the silo. I could make out the decrepit farm building through the trees to my left. To my right, a tantalizing view of other rusting structures. Suddenly, I found myself in line of sight of the farm building. Through an open bay door, I saw afternoon light reflecting off the polished grill of a modern vehicle. Sharply aware of my contrasting white / black bike clothes, I stepped back out of sight.

I was trespassing, there were no two ways about it. If someone with a meth lab was in a shooting mood, I was a highly visible target. I scanned the open doors and windows of the farm building for motion. That was where my courage / foolishness ended. I wouldn't pass through the building's line of sight, and while there were other roads around the far side of the property, every passing minute diminished any credibility in my claims of ignorance. Sadly, I retraced my steps past the fence and up the embankment.

As I recrossed the front gate, I contemplated the NO TRESPASSING sign. With all the fascinating old gear rusting in their back forty, they might as well have posted a sign that said FREE CANDY. I imagined that they might have made money by opening the place for public viewing.


The view from the falls

Later in the afternoon I took a break at a scenic lookout over Crystal Falls, a minor falls in a deep, worn canyon. The viewing area was enclosed by metal fencing, but the interesting views were all down below, so I hiked down to the mouth of the falls for the falls-eye view.



Four bikers arrived shortly after me, and left slightly before. A passing mini-van made a sudden u-turn, and the woman driver pulled alongside the drivers to deliver a message, which they passed to me in turn. The message: "She said to watch for cows down at the bottom." (Four hours and ten miles later, I would meet those cows, clustered in the road.)


Oh grow up

I was still climbing Stubbs two hours later when I reached the Beaver Lodge resort & campground, where I took a break to swim in Lake Gillette with the presumptive beavers. I continued on, refreshed and ready for Stubbs' final leg.


Presumptive Beavers

I finally broke free of Stubbs' clutching grip and stumbled to the curb of the Pend Oreille river. I sank down into the Pend Oreille river valley with tears on my face; at last, I had crossed the Cascades. At the bottom of that hill was a left turn and a flat, four mile finish into Ione.


The golden hour strikes

As I rolled down the last hill, I spotted a deer in a field on my left. It also saw me, froze, and then tore across the field, scrambling to reach the road ahead of me. If I was a car, I'd've hit it. As it was, it disappeared into the brush on the right side of the road, leaving me with a flash of white and a small glimpse into deer psychology.

The area I had just reached is called Tiger, and I stopped short of the turn to Ione to admire the signs for the Tiger Store, the Tiger Historical Center, and Tiger Physical Therapy. While I was stopped, a young blond woman stepped from a white compact car with Canadian plates, and crossed the street to ask my help finding "ponderay". This was my first time I had heard "Pend Oreille" pronounced; I greeted her with a blank stare.


The great plains recumbent