Elevation gain: a lot of downhill
Temperature: high mid 90s.
Gotta love the Amish for doing some things seriously borderline perfect. Stumbling across a town population of 350, a little gem called The Pantry grabbed us off the road with its coffee and raw milk signage. We had walked into the 1920s: young women in bonnets kneading fresh bread in the kitchen with wild huckleberry pies plated piping hot from the oven. Hand churned butter stacked in bounty in the fridge and an endless assortment of spices, grains, and dehydrated veggies were perfectly packaged to specific sizes. Raw milk right out of the cow cost a mere $1.79 a pint and coffee cups sat next to a papa bear sized Henry oozing with local honey. The Amish lawn chairs lining the historic street were crafted like a hug, snuggling tired limbs as if it were nap time once again. Even after round two of black caffine, time lapsed and Ralph and I were deep into shady dreamland until the chatter of voices and men munching on sandwiches seeped into canals of ears. Piecing the puzzle together as sleepiness washed away, O'Reilly returned, Red Bull in hand, refreshed and off we trotted. Giant trees of pine shot upwards to the sky, and the snaking river pulled us downstream all day.
But the naps just never ended. Sprawled on the cool cement at 5pm behind the bagel re-supply stop of Safeway, clenched by the heat of the day, the grips of sleep took over once again. Surrounded by O'Reilly's head buried deep in bookland, sticky BBQ packets, and ants looking for scraps of the nuggets, dreamland overtook with a drool. The ability to fall asleep as fast as a trained dog will sit for an animal biscuit is coming in quite handy.
A kind, motorcycle traveling Canadian shared his over spacious campsite with us. Exchanging life stories of winters reaching negative 50 degrees, we were enlightened from the Canadian source that Banff was flooded with the worst influx of tourists, a hell trap. Knowing these motercycle gals and gents share the same attitude out here, the decision to head home was confirmed with authority. Our two wheeled, motercycle friends are like teachers. The locals know the roads, hate the trucks, cheer us on, and similarity are seeking blissful silence and solitude. They all smile and wave, Ralph gleaming with waves right back at them.
Routine has kicked in and we operate like a well choreographed ballet. O'Reilly's brews morning coffee, Ralph scavengs for bagels and toothpaste, left is the honor of putting our house back into its tiny little bag, and the two-wheeled boys get the morning off to gear up for a long hot day. The miles that drag are not the first or the last, but when that aweful number 30 hits. Still too many handfuls away from ending, the sun breaks over the mountain, bagel sugars have long been eaten up, and defeat almost sets in. But the day lingers on and progress is made, and finally headed west again, we chase the sun and follow sunsets. When that quiet period of dusk falls, the wrath of the day lifts and a cool breeze drifts between the wild grasses, all the miserable parts are forgotten.
One of the million lakes that followed us all day:
Field notes: hwy 56 S is amazing. Medium shoulder, cradled by giant pines. Limited stops for 44 miles. Hwy200 more traffic, but good shoulder. Stop at the pantry in fort, yum! Hwy 2 out of standpoint is a busy road with a wide shoulder. There is a bike path from standpoint to the next town Dover.