Day 13: Ione, Washington
I stopped for a rest day at Ione, so I had some time to poke around. More than many places I've visited, Ione left a peculiar impression on me. My first sight of Ione was the burned building on the southern edge of town. A prominent poster tacked to the ruin announced that the fire was caused by arson, and offered a reward for information. After visiting, I'm still unsure whether or not to consider it as an appropriate metaphor for the town.
Arson
Like a fish climbing up onto land, Ione (pop 400 something) appears to be a town at the cusp of a make-or-break evolutionary leap, struggling to metamorphose from a backwoods logging/mining town to a vacation destination. Decrepit houses sit empty as the old institutions of the town die off. Even the local Grange chapter, that bastion of rural social life, has been boarded up and its building put up for sale. But, among all the decaying single story buildings can be found a pair of new two-story motels. And indeed, Ione is ideally situated on a wide bend of the Pend Oreille river that is beautiful in summer. In Autumn, the local chapter of the Lion's Club fires up a historic train line for scenic tours. I don't know how the area fares for winter sports.
The view from the Riverview Motel
Porter's Plaza, the motel I stayed at, counted among its siblings a small pizzeria, a laundromat, a gas station mini-mart, and a car wash, all owned by the same local man. This enterprising fellow must have been employing half the teenagers in town during summer break. When I checked in to the motel (at the gas station), there were two girls minding a toddler behind the counter, and a teenage boy with a black eye in the back room.
(Speaking of teenage boys... nearly every young male that I passed in Ione gave me a look as if they were sizing me up; to see if they could take me, in case I threatened to diminish their already dwindling gene pool by carrying away one of their women. Perhaps not coincidentally, I overheard several conversations regarding recent fights and the characters who'd started them.)
My motel room was surprisingly well appointed, a bargain at fifty bucks. The motel has an A-frame roof, and the second story rooms each have loft spaces with second beds; just the sort of place to double up with friends for a ski weekend (assuming there's skiing in the area).
Downtown Ione
After checking in, I rode around town. Ione's downtown is only a few blocks square. You can see it all in under an hour. By bicycle, in a few minutes. It's telling that Wikipedia has nothing to offer about Ione but census information. The post you're reading is probably the longest thing written about it in some time.
With nothing else to do, I considered visiting the local bar: the Boots & Saddles Saloon. I'm not much of a drinker, and usually uncomfortable in bars unless I'm in a Santa suit, so I stood outside feeling ambivalent. The place sounded eerily quiet, and then loud voices were raised. Maybe not my kind of place. I pushed inside anyway.
The Boots & Saddles Saloon
The saloon was bigger than I'd expected, and far away in the opposite corner sat a small cluster of people, hunched over the bar smoking. I was surprised as much by their silence as I was to see people smoking indoors (c.f. Washington's smoking ban, enacted last year). I asked timidly, "Are you open?" The grumpy reply was, "No, we live here!" And then I was inspected by an enormous dog that padded over to me silently. I forget the breed(s), but it looked like a calico St. Bernard.
And so I sat down and joined them, the three men sitting at, and one woman behind, the bar. Fortunately, bicycling across the country is an amazing ice breaker, and soon I was part of the conversation. In fact, they all began talking at once, weaving the sort of conversation that is created by people with long familiarity. I was overwhelmed, and at first I thought they were all wildly drunk. They were all of them intense characters in their own unique way, but it took me a while to separate out the threads.
Barb was the dour, laconic bartender. To my left sat Doug, with thinning gray hair and a wry, quiet sense of humor. Beyond him sat Jeremy, a big man of about 30 and a nearly incomprehensible speaker, with one misty eye wide open in a fanatical stare and the other fixed half shut in a lupine wink. Danny sat at the far end, a grizzled, bearded scarecrow of indeterminate age, with a voice like hot embers being ground together under heavy pressure. The dog, which had gone back to its bed in the corner, belonged to Danny.
I asked Barb if she served cider. I was prepared for her sardonic stare, so raised my hands self-deprecatingly and shrugged. "We've got beer and wine. Some coolers. Mike's Hard Lemonade." I was happy to settle on a hard lemonade. After cycling all day, I downed the first one quickly and ordered another.
The other three continued talking over each other... except that, I realized, Doug was actually talking under the other two, speaking to me in a steady, quiet way that cut like a drill beneath the cartoonish raised voices of the others. He warned me not to veer off course, and then shared a story about driving to New Mexico, where he and a compatriot acquired a five gallon gas can full of home brewed Tequila, which ended with them drunkenly driving 500 miles off course. He warned me about the Indians in Utah's Mojave desert, resorting to old ways as the US economy fell. Barb caught this, and insisted that "I'm sure he's planned this out!" During one of Danny's outbursts, Doug quietly asked me, "Did you understand a word of that?" Laughing, I admitted I had not.
Doug was the first to leave, sharing a comment and a hug with Barb that suggested they were old friends, or perhaps even a couple. In the absence of Doug's piercingly direct dialog, I was able to get a better sense of the two other men. I also learned that Barb had worked with the logging crews as well; had lived in Arlington and Seattle, and returned to Ione just a few years ago. I told her how I admired the saloon, and lamented the loss of such character in Seattle; she agreed that even Arlington had grown past what she'd once known.
Jeremy and Danny
Jeremy's conversation became slightly more comprehensible as I made an effort to follow him. He'd been a logger, worked a variety of jobs, and now was working "the Mex'can backhoe", which he repeated excitedly. I didn't understand the "Mex'can" part, but I did know what a backhoe was, and Barb confirmed that he operated one. (The Urban Dictionary defines "Mexican backhoe" as someone who digs with a shovel, because they have no backhoes in Mexico. This gives you some clue to Jeremy's sense of humor.) Jeremy asked if I'd seen any pretty women on my trip, and of course I told him I was married, and that I'd seen some, but hadn't done anything with them. He blushed as Barb reprimanded him. Jeremy offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined, as Barb reprimanded him again, "He's riding a bicycle, he don't need that!" Jeremy defended himself, saying "I offered! I offered!" as if it had been pointed out that sharing was a grace lost from among his manners.
Jeremy was missing at least one finger from his left hand. I assumed he'd lost it in a logging accident, and asked him about it. He was uncharacteristically shamed for a moment, and then said, "Shotgun." He pointed to a dimple in his left temple that I had noticed, and tried to point out a line along his scalp beneath his hair, checking with Barb for confirmation. She agreed that he had a line across his scalp, though it didn't show beneath his hair. I didn't know how to respond. "But how?" I asked. "Drugs," he said, "It was drugs. That's all I'll say." I raised my bottle to him and said, "Congratulations. You're a lucky man to still be here." A moment later he said, "It was meth. I did some bad things. But no more." Jeremy's behavior was explained. I raised my bottle a second time, congratulated him again, let him know that I was not judging him.
And Danny. Danny was a true American archetype, a wizened John Henry, a mountain man who'd spent his life felling trees and mining the earth. Danny was small in size, but gargantuan in character. His throat must have been scarred by his years beneath the ground; he spoke like a rasp against stone, in an animated voice that rose and fell like a tumbling log. He laughed heartily and often. I tried to follow the train of his conversation, though I was often bucked off. He spoke about owning his own business, and working jobs all over the country, but always being drawn back home by the trees. We both agreed that money was not worth happiness. He told me I was strong for pursuing my trek across the country; I held up my soft, white hands and told him that he was strong. We settled on "determined" for me.
Danny bore a strong facial resemblance to a girl I know in Seattle. I asked him, "Danny, what's your last name?" "Boggs!" he croaked. "Do you have any Steadmans in your family?" He looked confused, and I repeated the question. "None that I know of," he said. I continued, "Because you look an awful lot like a girl I know in Seattle, she's about 30." Barb laughed as Danny considered the notion of a girl with his face. "Does she have a beard?" he asked. "No," I said, "I think it's in the eyes and the nose."
At some point Danny bought another round, and I submitted to a third Mike's Hard Lemonade. Between the drink and the day's cycling, I was ready to drop. I felt that I owed a round, and I made my apologies and thanked Danny, Jeremy and Barb for the evening. I'd entered the bar timidly, feeling like a deep outsider, an anthropologist on expedition. I left it feeling heady and excited with the discovery of new country.
I bicycled tipsily back to my motel, and only woke once to take painkillers for my incipient hangover.
Arson
Like a fish climbing up onto land, Ione (pop 400 something) appears to be a town at the cusp of a make-or-break evolutionary leap, struggling to metamorphose from a backwoods logging/mining town to a vacation destination. Decrepit houses sit empty as the old institutions of the town die off. Even the local Grange chapter, that bastion of rural social life, has been boarded up and its building put up for sale. But, among all the decaying single story buildings can be found a pair of new two-story motels. And indeed, Ione is ideally situated on a wide bend of the Pend Oreille river that is beautiful in summer. In Autumn, the local chapter of the Lion's Club fires up a historic train line for scenic tours. I don't know how the area fares for winter sports.
The view from the Riverview Motel
Porter's Plaza, the motel I stayed at, counted among its siblings a small pizzeria, a laundromat, a gas station mini-mart, and a car wash, all owned by the same local man. This enterprising fellow must have been employing half the teenagers in town during summer break. When I checked in to the motel (at the gas station), there were two girls minding a toddler behind the counter, and a teenage boy with a black eye in the back room.
(Speaking of teenage boys... nearly every young male that I passed in Ione gave me a look as if they were sizing me up; to see if they could take me, in case I threatened to diminish their already dwindling gene pool by carrying away one of their women. Perhaps not coincidentally, I overheard several conversations regarding recent fights and the characters who'd started them.)
My motel room was surprisingly well appointed, a bargain at fifty bucks. The motel has an A-frame roof, and the second story rooms each have loft spaces with second beds; just the sort of place to double up with friends for a ski weekend (assuming there's skiing in the area).
Downtown Ione
After checking in, I rode around town. Ione's downtown is only a few blocks square. You can see it all in under an hour. By bicycle, in a few minutes. It's telling that Wikipedia has nothing to offer about Ione but census information. The post you're reading is probably the longest thing written about it in some time.
With nothing else to do, I considered visiting the local bar: the Boots & Saddles Saloon. I'm not much of a drinker, and usually uncomfortable in bars unless I'm in a Santa suit, so I stood outside feeling ambivalent. The place sounded eerily quiet, and then loud voices were raised. Maybe not my kind of place. I pushed inside anyway.
The Boots & Saddles Saloon
The saloon was bigger than I'd expected, and far away in the opposite corner sat a small cluster of people, hunched over the bar smoking. I was surprised as much by their silence as I was to see people smoking indoors (c.f. Washington's smoking ban, enacted last year). I asked timidly, "Are you open?" The grumpy reply was, "No, we live here!" And then I was inspected by an enormous dog that padded over to me silently. I forget the breed(s), but it looked like a calico St. Bernard.
And so I sat down and joined them, the three men sitting at, and one woman behind, the bar. Fortunately, bicycling across the country is an amazing ice breaker, and soon I was part of the conversation. In fact, they all began talking at once, weaving the sort of conversation that is created by people with long familiarity. I was overwhelmed, and at first I thought they were all wildly drunk. They were all of them intense characters in their own unique way, but it took me a while to separate out the threads.
Barb was the dour, laconic bartender. To my left sat Doug, with thinning gray hair and a wry, quiet sense of humor. Beyond him sat Jeremy, a big man of about 30 and a nearly incomprehensible speaker, with one misty eye wide open in a fanatical stare and the other fixed half shut in a lupine wink. Danny sat at the far end, a grizzled, bearded scarecrow of indeterminate age, with a voice like hot embers being ground together under heavy pressure. The dog, which had gone back to its bed in the corner, belonged to Danny.
I asked Barb if she served cider. I was prepared for her sardonic stare, so raised my hands self-deprecatingly and shrugged. "We've got beer and wine. Some coolers. Mike's Hard Lemonade." I was happy to settle on a hard lemonade. After cycling all day, I downed the first one quickly and ordered another.
The other three continued talking over each other... except that, I realized, Doug was actually talking under the other two, speaking to me in a steady, quiet way that cut like a drill beneath the cartoonish raised voices of the others. He warned me not to veer off course, and then shared a story about driving to New Mexico, where he and a compatriot acquired a five gallon gas can full of home brewed Tequila, which ended with them drunkenly driving 500 miles off course. He warned me about the Indians in Utah's Mojave desert, resorting to old ways as the US economy fell. Barb caught this, and insisted that "I'm sure he's planned this out!" During one of Danny's outbursts, Doug quietly asked me, "Did you understand a word of that?" Laughing, I admitted I had not.
Doug was the first to leave, sharing a comment and a hug with Barb that suggested they were old friends, or perhaps even a couple. In the absence of Doug's piercingly direct dialog, I was able to get a better sense of the two other men. I also learned that Barb had worked with the logging crews as well; had lived in Arlington and Seattle, and returned to Ione just a few years ago. I told her how I admired the saloon, and lamented the loss of such character in Seattle; she agreed that even Arlington had grown past what she'd once known.
Jeremy and Danny
Jeremy's conversation became slightly more comprehensible as I made an effort to follow him. He'd been a logger, worked a variety of jobs, and now was working "the Mex'can backhoe", which he repeated excitedly. I didn't understand the "Mex'can" part, but I did know what a backhoe was, and Barb confirmed that he operated one. (The Urban Dictionary defines "Mexican backhoe" as someone who digs with a shovel, because they have no backhoes in Mexico. This gives you some clue to Jeremy's sense of humor.) Jeremy asked if I'd seen any pretty women on my trip, and of course I told him I was married, and that I'd seen some, but hadn't done anything with them. He blushed as Barb reprimanded him. Jeremy offered me a cigarette, which I politely declined, as Barb reprimanded him again, "He's riding a bicycle, he don't need that!" Jeremy defended himself, saying "I offered! I offered!" as if it had been pointed out that sharing was a grace lost from among his manners.
Jeremy was missing at least one finger from his left hand. I assumed he'd lost it in a logging accident, and asked him about it. He was uncharacteristically shamed for a moment, and then said, "Shotgun." He pointed to a dimple in his left temple that I had noticed, and tried to point out a line along his scalp beneath his hair, checking with Barb for confirmation. She agreed that he had a line across his scalp, though it didn't show beneath his hair. I didn't know how to respond. "But how?" I asked. "Drugs," he said, "It was drugs. That's all I'll say." I raised my bottle to him and said, "Congratulations. You're a lucky man to still be here." A moment later he said, "It was meth. I did some bad things. But no more." Jeremy's behavior was explained. I raised my bottle a second time, congratulated him again, let him know that I was not judging him.
And Danny. Danny was a true American archetype, a wizened John Henry, a mountain man who'd spent his life felling trees and mining the earth. Danny was small in size, but gargantuan in character. His throat must have been scarred by his years beneath the ground; he spoke like a rasp against stone, in an animated voice that rose and fell like a tumbling log. He laughed heartily and often. I tried to follow the train of his conversation, though I was often bucked off. He spoke about owning his own business, and working jobs all over the country, but always being drawn back home by the trees. We both agreed that money was not worth happiness. He told me I was strong for pursuing my trek across the country; I held up my soft, white hands and told him that he was strong. We settled on "determined" for me.
Danny bore a strong facial resemblance to a girl I know in Seattle. I asked him, "Danny, what's your last name?" "Boggs!" he croaked. "Do you have any Steadmans in your family?" He looked confused, and I repeated the question. "None that I know of," he said. I continued, "Because you look an awful lot like a girl I know in Seattle, she's about 30." Barb laughed as Danny considered the notion of a girl with his face. "Does she have a beard?" he asked. "No," I said, "I think it's in the eyes and the nose."
At some point Danny bought another round, and I submitted to a third Mike's Hard Lemonade. Between the drink and the day's cycling, I was ready to drop. I felt that I owed a round, and I made my apologies and thanked Danny, Jeremy and Barb for the evening. I'd entered the bar timidly, feeling like a deep outsider, an anthropologist on expedition. I left it feeling heady and excited with the discovery of new country.
I bicycled tipsily back to my motel, and only woke once to take painkillers for my incipient hangover.
posted by Ivan at
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