Intro

Welcome to a story, or stories I should say. A compilation of adventure tales. An ongoing itch to see, smell, and touch the world, or at least the deserted roads and rarely trampled mountains of America. Characters within the descriptive paragraphs of these stories carve out the coming and going companions in life; vital life people and pieces that parallel a universe for moments, days, years. And then spear off, leaving granules of magnificent memories of magical places. They leave a lasting trace, a gained sense of courage to stand tall on oxygen deprived mountains and shout absurdities like: I love you Ralph! Ralph is a teenage reindeer stuffed of the finest synthetic polyester fiber poof; he says made in Indonesia but really tells me he is from the North Pole. Delivered through a chimney one December night 20 years ago, we instantly became cuddle buddies upon that morning's sunrise. He is the instigator. The inspiration. And the imagination. He breathes creativity. Laughter. His is a dear companion. And yes, at 4lbs he tags along atop a pack or strapped to a rack. In delirium of 107 degree heat, the small possession of material belongings gain a persona. Innate objects become friends of the road and trails. And as for the humans who accompany, their presence reads priceless. Without O'Reilly, a 29 year old New Hampshirian with superior taste buds, the mathematical six foot four inch tall German, or handful of organic peanut butter and 99 cent jam eating munchkins, there would be a lot less excitement. The encounters we make with our specie, encapsulating the world with their awkward ways and over consumerist love, somehow we have managed to become overly adored creatures. Their generous hearts restore a faith that goodness prevails in the upheaval of a sometimes lost humanity. As for myself, I'm just the navigator, paddling up the stream of life munching on Clif Bars, with an iPhone documenting the frailties and goodies underneath all the simplified complexities in the world we reside. So again, I welcome you to get lost and dream a little through this typed text and your imagination. My name is Kristen Gentilucci. I live in Berkeley California and I love dogs.


Sunday, August 3, 2014

Day 21. Canadians and Ketchup

Miles: 97
Elevation gain: 4500 perhaps 
Temperature: low 90s 

We had settled into 11 hours of sleep Saturday night, but by midnight the lightening storm stole a few of those hours back. Glacier peak and Logan Pass must have been married on that rainy night, lights flashed like it was their wedding day. Thunder wasn't the word for the anger that erupted from the sky. It moved mountains, rumbled the ground, and crackled like a ball flying in a pinball machine, echoing off every granule of rock formation and jumping over peaks and through valleys. 

The morning was off to a slow start, as Action Boy was causing quite a ruckus. Flat fire at .01 of a mile, the list went on as if he had turned into one of those little monsters from yesterday. Zeb too, sprained ankle, creaked his crank all day turn after turn. It was one of those early sleeping mornings where tea was out of the question and coffee was a necessity of life. I get it, the coffee craze. A simple cup of brown water and suddenly the day is tackleable. But the shakes came on in the coffee shop of a tiny Montana town. Thinking I was tripping balls, I was staring at an ex lover and still friend, Mr. Zack and his best friend. Really thinking I must have lost my mind, was this a dream, did I do too many drugs as a kid and all had caught up to me at age 29? Nearly having a panic attack cause by too much coffee and starting to question reality, O'Reilly must have thought I'd seen a ghost upon return to our caffine table. "Pinch me, are we in Whitefish Montana?" It hurt. Ok this is not a dream, I've not lost my mind, and I was drinking black caffine in a town of maybe 5,000 while biking to Canada and ran into my old friends. Nothing abnormal about that. Reality questioned itself again while passing a turquoise blue fat lake of unreal water. It glistened in the light like New Mexican jewelry. We were Skipper and Gillian on a grand island of our own, never yet found.  

Days of long miles began again and O'Reilly and Ralph started quite a feud. I have to say, I side with the reindeer on this one. It went on all day and started over ketchup, our favorite condiment. The question being, which is more similar: mashed potatoes and French fries or French fries and corn tortillas? The obvious answer being the two items that are fried and dipable of course. Calling the mediator, our famous Chef Alia, it was confirmed potatoes are to polenta. Road life must have gotten the best of O'Reilly, a trained chef. And on a normal day, I would agree with his culinary judgment. But the past few days have been sore on the taste buds, dousing boxed Chardonnay with maple syrup, mashed potatoes with Dijon and cliff bars smashed between bagels. Scolding me for my dried fruit and nut trail mix sandwiches, we really had lost our minds, and Ralph was the witness. 

We hit Canada at 5pm with passports ready, and Ralph was explicitly told to play dead. He's very good at that command. The next minute we were interrogated by an officer of the law; where we were going, how much money we had, why in the world we would be on bicycles, and finally asking for Ralph's passport? He never got one, due to the fact the US government had some strict rules about American citizens. So there he was, stuck between two government systems and considered an invasive specie, to be left at the immigrations office. There was only one option, turn around, and ride home. A mile backwards, we picked up our hidden stash of "medicinal" carrots and things, and sat drinking beers and dining on free buckets of peanuts to celebrate. 

Suddenly this country that I was fed up of felt like home again. People in their oversized mobile homes, grossly overweight and living the consumeristic American dream in drug laden, uneducated cities. We had the friendliest of strangers and most beautifully laid countryside around. Canada would have been neat, a lot of trees I can imagine, but so were the comforts that come with  riding back in the homeland of my loved by hated country. And so, the trek began, 1400 miles back to the coast and down the famous HWY 1. 

Funny how life works out, when you can freely give up expections and fly with what is presented on the unpredictable platter. Sometimes familiarity, with all it's flaws and trade offs, is too overwhelming comforting. And at moments of hate, wanting to toss it all down the drain, the other side shines though and all the good forgotten is exposed. 

We made it!

Pure happiness! 

We bribed the officer for one photo with his sign:

Best campsite yet:

O'Reilly's New pair of Skin Shorts
color code: tanlines

Field notes: leaving Whitefish, hwy 93N has no shoulder and sucks. 20 miles in the shoulder widens and it's not as bad.