In Meriwether's Footsteps

From Kooskia we rode out onto Highway 12, not strictly the best road for bicycles, and certainly not the one Adventure Cycling would have chosen for us. Labor Day traffic was heading home too, so the road was thick with trailers and boats, some of them passing close enough to leave me feeling a little like Vincent Van Gogh.

Even so, it was fine riding along the same stretch of the Columbia that had once carried Lewis and Clark and the rest of the Corps of Discovery, and I found myself trying to picture their faces as we rounded each bend, imagining they were simply glad, as I was, to have the mountains at their backs. We arrived at the aptly named twin towns of Lewiston, Idaho, and Clarkston, Washington, marking our first crossing into Washington state. We killed a few hours in town so as not to reach the campsite too early, a further six miles downriver. Two more cyclists joined us that night, splitting the cost of one pitch with us to make it a cheap deal all round. The showers ran on quarters, fifty cents for three minutes — I was done in two, which taught me exactly how efficient I can be when I put my mind to it.

In Washy.

We had a concert to catch in Portland in a few days’ time, which meant the ride from Clarkston to Walla Walla would be the first of a run of eighty-five-mile-plus days. That put us at the mercy of the wind, which our maps warned could blow fiercely from the west in this stretch. For once the cycling gods were kind, and it came straight out of the east instead.

Walla Walla is, as far as I can tell, the onion capital of America — you could taste it in the air and see it stretched across the fields. The only onions we consumed that night, though, were the ones piled on our pizza, and I couldn’t confirm whether they were local. All I know is that there ought to be wallabies in Walla Walla.

The scenery along the gorge, which we joined shortly after leaving Walla Walla, turned out to be a pleasant surprise. We were only following the Lewis and Clark trail as a means to an end, on our way to Portland, but it quickly became some of the most magnificent riding I have done anywhere in the US. A peach stand by the roadside was too tempting to pass on such a hot day, so I pulled over for a juicy fix. The man running it only seemed interested in selling six at a time; I was after just the one. He told me I could have it for free, and when I insisted on paying a dollar and he declined, I simply slipped the note under a tray on my way out.

I carried the peach with me until we crossed the Oregon state line and savoured it there by the baking roadside — almost too big to hold, the juice running down my shirt with every bite.

Eal caught up with me shortly before we crossed back into Washington to take the far side of the river. We hit a bad stretch of road where fresh oil had recently been laid and loose gravel poured over the top before it had time to bed in, which made for some shaky riding — five miles of it — before we could enjoy the rest of the scenic route toward Crow Butte state park. The showers were out of service that night, but the Columbia River was inviting enough for a dip, and warm too.

Onions littered the roadside (An Yang!)

Oregon but not for long.

Always nice to see a skull on the bike path…

The ACA maps flagged an eighty-mile stretch with limited services ahead, so a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich with bananas had to see me through to the first town on route, Roosevelt. Rolling in after thirty miles or so, there was no guarantee of a proper meal — most places seemed shut — until we reached the last building in town, a mini-mart with a surprisingly good little café inside. On the recommendation of the logbook other cyclists had filled in, I ordered the breakfast burrito, and it was incredible. What a find. The woman who served us said all the passing cyclists were delighted to discover the place, and I could well believe it. We rolled on with the wind behind us again, into what would become a hundred-and-fifteen-mile day. Eal and I got separated for about seventy miles of it after I passed up a half-mile detour to a gas station that he had taken. The riding along the gorge was stunning throughout, Mount Hood standing as a backdrop all afternoon. He caught up with me as we began riding through a series of small tunnels, each fitted with a button for cyclists to warn drivers of our presence — so small and fiddly that I stopped bothering to press it after the first few.

We camped by the river again that night, another dip included, in a tiny county park, free of charge. I got to talk to Flavia on the phone for a while, which was good, checking on her progress. We had already bought wine for the evening, and an older motorcyclist camped next to us produced a six-pack and gave Eal and me two each to share with him. Cheers, hombre. I almost feel guilty when I catch myself starting to take that kind of generosity for granted; American friendliness seems, at times, nearly inexhaustible.

Heaven sent…

First of many small tunnels.

With the promise of several rest days ahead, we pushed on toward Portland the next morning, where we would stay with my friend Emily and catch up with more friends from my TransAm trip, Stefaan and Tara. The wind carried us pleasantly down the gorge, with only a brief stop for lunch at a Safeway and a long-overdue haircut at Supercuts — cheap and cheerful.

The Evergreen Highway along the Washington side of the river was in poor shape for the last ten miles before we crossed back into Oregon, and we spent them dodging cracks and potholes. Eventually we picked up a bike path running down the centre of the interstate across the Columbia — a genuinely disorientating experience, with three lanes of traffic hurtling past in opposite directions on either side. Once in Portland I began to recognise street names and followed memory along Lombard toward the St Johns neighbourhood. It was wonderful to be back among familiar places and faces. Stefaan and Emily met us at a bar for a post-ride drink and a proper catch-up. We now had a few days off the bikes here, and hopefully a few more up in Seattle afterwards with Flavia.

Arriving in Portlandia via the freeway bikepath.