Mormon crickets: Creepy as hell

Half over, the already scenic bike trip took a more dramatic turn for the scenic. Rivers were the hot topic, as I glided alongside the Snake, the Salmon, the Clearwater, and the Lochsa, bodies of water so beautiful (and so cold) it makes you wonder why Idaho’s reputation is so locked up in the potato. And I got to see a little human wonder too, from the unique point of view of someone who has broken down in a town with, at first glance, no bike parts. There was even a plague of locusts to avoid…

Here’s the route map of part two.

Day 8: Joseph, OR to Oxbow, OR - 68 miles     Craig had talked up the Hells Canyon Scenic Byway as the hardcore ride to end all rides, so after a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and quinona flakes (his specialty) I went to the grocery store and bought enough food to last me 48 hours outside of anything resembling civilization (such as a gas station convenience store). Thus fortified, I set out east in increasingly sweltering weather. Then I turned south, and onto a road that weaves through what is by Eastern Oregon standards, a very lush forest. The place is dotted with campgrounds that feature special racks on which to hang your game. The ride was intense, but not in the direction I was headed. Soon I was squarely in the Snake River drainage and coasting downhill toward the end of the canyon. Suddenly, the lush forest and sky that had turned a blessed overcast became that familiar backdrop of rolling brown hills, well heated. Toward 6 p.m., I found an excellent campground on the banks of the Snake that featured showers and some friendly retiree motorcyclists who advised me to get a job working for the federal government for the security and early retirement. Thanks, guys, but no thanks.

Day 9: Oxbow, OR to a Forest Service campground north of Council, ID: 69 miles     Rain started at 8 a.m. and contined in earnest into the early afternoon. The ride along the last stretch of Oregon road proved uneventful. I crossed into Idaho at the Brownlee Dam, and continued the soggy trek along the Snake, and then up a bunch of mountains, surviving only on will power and marshmallows. The weather, luckily, cleared up when I reached the top, and so I was able to head down the hill to Cambridge unmolested, unless you count the small army of Mormon crickets. These little buggers are at least two, often three, inches long, are jet back and make a buzzing/hissing sound. They also jump on legs. Thousands of them covered the road, and I could hear them jumping out of the way of the bike, although sometimes I just heard a squishing noise. Riding a bike is usually a quite affair, and that was not a blessing on this particular stretch of road. It was a big cricket orgy, with the insects alternately sunning themselves, eating the others who had been squashed, and, of course, gleefully starting the process of inflicting more crickets on the otherwise great state of Idaho. They are sometimes so thick as to be a hazard to drivers of cars, the lady at the Cambridge Post Office told me as she handed over my forwarded New Yorkers. But that had not been my experience. As I went mowing through one swarm, a driver noticed my terrified reaction when one cricket jumped on my leg. The guy, who had long hair and a beard, just thought the situation was funny as hell. Later that day, I also dodged plagues of frogs, boils, and the Angel of Death, who was coming to kill all first-born sons. I took my unleavened bread to a Forest Service campground called Evergreen in the hills north of Council. Whatever cricket essense remained was washed off in the Weiser (WEE-zer) River.

Day 10: The campground to Slate Creek, ID: 71 miles     Got a great night’s sleep. It was cold, thanks to the mountains and the previous day’s overcast skies, but the bag held up nicely. The days journey, after crossing the pass, followed the Little Salmon River downstream to Riggins, and the confluence with the Salmon proper, which is also cryptically known as the River of No Return. What would normally bas been a big screaming downhill adventure was spoiled by a fierce headwind. It may as well have been uphill. By late afternoon, I was forced to scale back my ambitious plans to reach Grangeville and instead settled for a small BLM campground on the river banks just south of Whitebird, which I was told was the start of an atrocious hill. At this ground, I met a Harley-loving bearded Vietnam-era badass from Sparks, Nevada. He gave me an MRE. An interesting note about this campground: Thanks to the fierce rivalry between the Forest Service and the BLM I almost didn’t know it existed. There is a Ranger Station one mile away but the receptionist there would discuss only Forest Service grounds unless pressed. There was also an Idaho Fish and Game ground a few miles up the road that she didn’t mention at all.

Day 11: Slate Creek, ID to Stites/Kooskia, ID: 49 miles     The rumors about the hill, which are usually grossly exagerated, were actually true this time. White Bird Hill took about two hours, during which I listened to country music radio long enough to hear the same song (Kid Rock’s All Summer Long) repeat itself. The hill eventually dumped me in Grangeville, where I had lunch and met a man who enthusiastically recommended an alternative route to Stites, which is close to Kooskia (KOO-ski). At the end of that romp, a nearly traffic-free run through more amber waves of grain, I managed to break a spoke on my back wheel. Stites is a bad place to do this. No luck from the small engine repair guy, so I bought a new wheel from ACE Hardware. But the flywheel wouldn’t come off without a special tool. I was just about to get a motel or give up when Jerry Wilson came up and offered me a ride to Kooskie in his pickup trick. In the back, to be specific, with his dogs. Jerry’s landlady turned out to be an avid collector of junk, and she happened to have an old ten-speed back wheel. I switched them out in Jerry’s backyard, after a brief phone consultation with bike mechanic Dad, and Jerry proceeded to offer me his guest room for the night. No sense spending all that money on a motel, he said. He then regailed me with stories of his recent medical problems, his ex-wife, his current wife (who at some point in this conversation served us mashed potatoes, burgers, corn-on-the-cob and cottage cheese), his days in prison, his days doing meth, and his days driving trucks. Jerry likes to talk, but overall seems to be a good guy. He and wife Susan have a little son named Levi, but Jerry said he has six other kids as well. 

Day 12: Kooskia, ID to Lolo Hot Springs, MT: 109 miles     Had an allright but nervous sleep in the Wilson guest room. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the trip at this point, considering I almost saw it end in the middle of Idaho and was going forward with a dubious piece of equipment. Plus, Jerry’s friend who helps him steal cable came over in the middle of the nightand they were making noise. But it all looked fine in the morning, junkyard wheel attached and ready in all its wobbly glory. I thanked the Wilsons, said goodbye, and headed out of town, up Highway 12 east to the legendary Lolo Pass and Montana. After repairing a flat a few miles up the Clearwater River, the ride started to feel really good. The incline was just enough to get the blood pumping but not so much as to cause undue suffering. The “new” wheel wobbled and seemed in desperate need to oil, but I nad no trouble maintaining speeds of over 10 mph. Eventually, I decided to revise the plans and head to the very top of the pass, which was 100 miles from Kooskia. The last four miles proved greuling, but it was all worth it. At the rest stop on top, I had a little conversation with a chap named Steve, ate 1/3 of a bag of marshmallows, and then continued on. No sooner had I crossed into Montana when I saw a mountain lion - huge, dark, and sleek - crossing the road 25 yards in front of me. I’m told this is a rare site. In the next three miles I saw several groups of deer, but they didn’t seem to understand my attempts to warn them about the cat. At Lolo Hot Springs, ten miles into Montana, hot water never felt so good. I camped in the private ground across the street.

Day 13: Lolo Hot Springs, MT to Ronan, MT: 92 miles     Two centuries in two days? Why not, I thought. The ride to Lolo (the town) was blessedly downhill, but the old body was clearly in bad shape after the previous day’s epic . I slogged through Missoula, and took I-90 to Highway 93, where I soon got a flat. At fault was a back tire that clearly needed replacing. I resolved to stop for the day as soon as possible. But the ride got a little smoother and the wind a little more favorable, and I started to enjoy the trek through the little towns of the Flathead Valley, with the Mission Mountains to the east. I continued to see many signs promoting the presidential candidacy of Ron Paul, and it occured to me that I hadn’t yet seen one for McCain, despite the fact that the trip went through almost exclusively Republican counties. The goal was Polson, on the south shores of Flathead Lake, but the problem tire gave up, conveniently enough, in front of a campground in Ronan. I celebrated my good luck with a double cheeseburger from Dairy Queen. Not exactly a century, but it is if you take the two day average.

Day 14: Ronan, MT to West Glacier, MT: 98 miles     A bored retired Marine drove me into the ACE Hardware fore a new tire in Ronan while he told me stories of evaluating security procedured at U.S. embassies in Latin America. The day itself turned into a get-it-over-with slog. I got to see a great deal of Flathead Lake from a very up-and-down Highway 93. Kalispell looked like a nice town, from what little I saw. I ate some chicken and potatoes from a grocery store in Columbia Falls, and eventually found an RV park/campground about two miles outside the park. I ended the day by spending a total of $4.50 to call the Mexican girlfriend (U.S. phonebooths could not possibly be more unhelpful) and then chatted with an Oregonian about environmental policy.

Day 15: West Glacier to Apgar Village, Glacier National Park: 2 miles     A declared day of doing absolutely nothing was disrupted by the need to switch from my current expensive campsite to a cheaper one in Glacier Park. That was accomplished without any sort of victorious feeling. The high point of the trip, literally and figuratively, was the top of Lolo Pass. At the end, I just wanted to spend the afternoon reading and napping by a glacial lake. And that’s precicely what I did.