Miles: 66
Elevation gain: massive rolling hills. 4000ft perhaps?
Temperature: low 90s with an after storm rolling by
in wifebeater, business women in high heals with bleached blond hair and the perfectly crimped curls tantalizing men while they order vente non fat vanilla lattes, old men with dense glasses hidden in newspapers, and students in jean cut offs and pink jansport backpacks jotting away in college ruled notebooks. Athletic moms with pre teen daughters type away at fancy phones waiting to order and suited bachelors rush into the hot sun with trays of labeled coffees. Thinking we must have seen the whole town walk through this corporation, and getting overly annoyed with the fake smily faces and high pitched personalized name call of the green aproned staff, it was time to pedal.
Leaving the city was treacherous. Chaos and confinement within a cement cavity, cars whizzing by, intercepting HWYs laced with hairy roads made over cafinated stomachs anxious. Sense of direction was twisted like a drunken haze, and escape seemed like a mountain range away. 20 miles from the ungodly chatter of dirty noise, we hit blue glacier like mountains nestled in summer-weathered, long-gassed, pale and smooth mustard fields. They chirped with millions of wild playing crickets, and we soared like birds through a vast Indian reservation.
The weather just gets to you out here. The mornings are temperate, but the heat of the day hits at 6pm, and at 9:30 it's still 90 degrees outside. In this kind of misery, midday stops are a necessity. Walking into the only AC in miles, candy lined the isles of gas station heaven. There they were staring back, the first inclination should have been ice water, but these round bean shapes sugary flavored morels call out like a whining toddler. 2 minutes later, perched on shady cement, pear exploded on taste buds. It is a weird concept, Jelly Bellys. Something about packing bursts of fake flavor into a bean shape, was like an unreal hallucinogenic mouth sensation. Finding those moments that scream America, this ranked as like the prize winning pig at a county fair. Sometimes you just gotta let thoes absurdities wander through the towns this country was built on and enjoy that sugary glee with laughter.
We become spoiled, lazy yuppies, tent camping at these RV parks. But the thought of flushable toilets, fresh teeth brushing water, and soapy showers makes for too sound good nights sleep. Leaving the hunt for a hidden sleeping post in the woods, desolate Canada days lay less than 150 miles ahead. So we soak up this American life in leisure.
Field notes: hwy 93N starting 6 miles outside of Missoula all the way to Flathead Lake has a very sketchy shoulder in some places. It is worth taking an extra day or 100 miles to reroute this whole section. It was pretty, but the traffic was so bad views couldn't be enjoyed.