"Interiors" are some poems by Rande Mack, that arrived at my e-mail box at christmas time. I met Rande and his family on this journey,in the small village of Manhattan, Montana, on my way to the rocky mountains, and had the pleasure to be his guest in his house.
Thank you Rande, even if my life at the moment is more a "outdoors" one, its always inspiring reading,and I would like to share it with everyone...
Nuno
"Interiors"
inside a man is a room filled with corners
on sleepless nights he searches this room for sleep
on many nights the quest is the best he can do
inside this room the intersections of lives accumulate
illuminate coagulate conjugate disintegrate into
what could and what should and what wide eyed is
inside a man is a sky demanding horizons
under wispy certainties he improvises revelations
grateful that a sky can fit in the soul of a man
inside the distance beyond horizons a mumble of thunder
sometimes a man dissolves in his own weather
unable to shelter both longing and what’s left of his faith
inside a man is a pond reflecting constellations
incarnations of timeless possibilities shimmering
in the simple wakes of moon boned migrations
inside the pond is a river yearning to tumble and bend
with galaxies of slippery iotas chasing its current
as shadows of vanished seasons settle slowly to the bottom
inside a man is a toolbox filled with eternity
his angel of wrenches almost tightens convictions
trues the wobble and fine tunes the fictions
inside the toolbox a prayer for every sort of consternation
dimensions to gauge the cusp of every consequence
the sharpest tools sheathed between layers of sure things
inside a man is the fruit and the root
an orchard built with hatchets and spades
a thicket concealing his ancestral nest
inside the nest is a seed undigested by generations
a pebble never splattered by any clatter of light
a glint of hope winking from the gone of what’s missing
inside a man is furthermore fashioned from doubt
a shelf on which to place his best now on
a thin curtain to keep the fading of the day out
inside every little bit of letting go a reaching
believing bleaching reasons shrouded in every man
the paradox of echoes returning the irretrievable
Rande Mack
2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
3 Iberian ciclists in Hollywood (USA)
Dia 134
Km 9210
That morning I woke up decided to continue my journey south. I was already 8 days in San Francisco, and even if I was enjoying the town atmosphere and the break in the saddle, it was time to move on. I still had 17000 kms in front of me, and hundreds of other towns to visit. I had my bike in the entrance hall of the tortoise hostel, through the glass door I could see the rain falling outside. I put the 4 panniers on the bike, the sleeping bad in between the saddle and the metallic support, and the brand new tent that I bought the previous day ( the one I had had the zips broken, the fabric was tearing apart and one of the poles was broken) and tight all together with 2 elastic cords.
My panniers represent a bit the way I travel on this journey. The 2 front panniers are the organized and tidy Nuno. On it I have all my cloths well packed and folded, my books: a travel journal, a note book, a guide to the USA, a field book of plants and animals north America, a mini-atlas of the world a log book where I register all the daily mileages altitudes etc, and several maps. As if it was not enough weight, I added to the load a brand new guide to Mexico, the size of a bible and with the absurd weight of more then a kilogram. On the front panniers also travel my inflatable mattress, a pair of solar panels and a bag meticulously kept, full with flyer's, Cd's and small kids books and other stuff from the special children of APPC-Leiria, to give away once I enter the Latin America. On the front panniers, I found easily what I´m looking for.
The rear panniers are the disorganized and chaotic Nuno, on them I have my kitchen that includes a petrol stove pans pots and plates, condiments, etc. Spare parts travel next to groceries, or the fishing gear next to the water filter. Amongst other travel equipment I carry also a hammock, that I expect to use as a bed between 2 trees further south when the temperatures rise a bit. a sewing kit, cables and ropes, I-pod and speakers, and a small piece of wood with Our Lady of Fatima carved on it, that my mother insisted on me to bring as a protection to the difficulties of the life on the road. Everything floats between the 2 panniers and I always have trouble to found what I´m looking for.
I verify that everything is well tight together, and climb the stairs of the hostel and leave the keys with the receptionist. The Internet was free in the hostel, so I decided to check my e-mail for one last time. I received an e-mail from Sheila.that e-mail would help me to decide on the rest of my itinerary in the United States. Sheila was an young American cyclist from Pennsylvania that I met in a state park 2 weeks ago in north California. She had spend 9 years of military service. 4 in a military academy, plus 5 years of service in the US coast guard, and after a summer spent in Alaska guiding bike tours, decided to release the rigid discipline of so many years of service, by riding her bike along the entire west coast of the USA. She was in San Francisco and invited me to ride with her until San Diego, where she would finish her solo cycling journey. I took the panniers of my bike and climbed the stairs once again, and payed the surprised receptionist for one more night. After all is was raining outside and what would be another day amongst a few hundred?
At 7am Sheila was knocking at the door of my room. It was a beautiful day and the exit of San Francisco was made without any fuss and at a good pace. That afternoon, already on highway 1, that follows the sea shore, we had 5 flat tires. Me 2 and Sheila 3. Next day Sheila had 3 more. Could it be that together we emitted some sort of negative energy? Or was it a bad karma, because I said that the schwalbe marathon tires are the best for cycling road trips? whatever the explanation for so many punctures in such short period of time, Sheila decided to change the tires of her bike for two specialized armadillo, in the next town of Santa Cruz.
The days that followed, it was a pleasure to ride along the "Big Sur", an area between Monterrey and Cambria, where the highway 1 twists along the high cliffs with the surf crashing against the shore, and offering spectacular views.
We stop for lunch on the side of the road by a grocery store. Across the road was a church of the "Christian scientists". Throughout every village and town I cycled in the States, regardless how small the community is, there is always the choice of 4 or 5 churchs from different beliefs. Almost every religion in the world is represented here. And some of the born here, like the Jehovah followers, the Adventists of the seventh day, the Amish, Mormons, and the Christian scientists.
Cristian fundamentalism is an American phenomenon, which makes people in other countries suspect that Americans can´t be that sophisticated. Fundamentalism is found in other parts of the world, like the Jewish occupation of the Palestine or in certain fanatic Islamic sects, but it always seems surprising to found it in a modern country like the united states. Maybe Americans are so religious because their country is simply too big complicated and violent, and the only way to combat that alienation is to join a local church to feel part of smaller and save community. American are amongst the highly educated people on earth, superb literature, unrivaled scientific inventions, great thinkers in every academic field. But why don´t they educate themselves to learn about the rest of the world??
Its easy to the rest of us to became annoyed with the American ignorance, specially when their foreign policies affect the entire world. Most the American I´ve met, don´t fit this image. The average American may be ignorant in world geography, but when on holidays in Lisbon, he doesn´t advertise his ignorance at 15 decibels in the "Monosteiro dos jeronimos". To avoid embarrassing situations, some times, I add the word "Europe" to Portugal, this, after people positioned Portugal in all the world´s continents except Oceania. On the following day by causality, we met again Bernardo and Diego in Morro Bay state park. We traveled the 4 of us for the rest of my stay in the United States.
Days later we arrived at Santa Monica. One of the 88 satellite cities of the mega-metropolis of Los Angeles.
Waiting for us was Cassandra, Laura and Xavier, our young hosts that would show us around LA in the 4 days we stayed there. The house where we stayed was situated in one of the rich quarters of the city-beach of Santa Monica, and belonged to Betty Lucier, the grandmother of Cassandra. An American with 82 years old, but with an energy to envy many, and with a very interesting life. Author of the book "Amid my alien corn", Lucier had been spy in Madrid during the cold war. In one of the shelves of her great library was a french edition of Mario Soares´s book "Le Portugal baillonne". Our young hosts where all recently graduated in cinema, and trying their luck in the cinematographic jungle of Hollywood. They participated in the technical team of a horror movie (that will be called 30 griffin lane), the filming had finished and the director was offering a cocktail party at his house, and we where invited!!
I dressed my best attire: my mountain boots, a pair of army trousers, which the original green had turned yellowish by the sun and that I didn´t wash for several weeks, an orange t-shirt, clean, but a bit rugged, and a grey and black wind proof sleeveless jacket, with a big red stamp on the right side saying "wind-proof", which I thought it could be mistaken by the label of an unknown brand of a Milan boutique. I felt a bit uncomfortable as we entered the house situated in a "in" area of Long Beach, on the outskirts of LA... But the delicious free buffet in the garden, and the bar stocked with every sort of booze, put me More at ease in no time. And it didn´t take long for all the guest to know of the presence of 3 adventure (and beard) cyclist from the Iberian peninsula. After the 3th Scottish whiskey, I found myself involved in a entertaining conversation with the assistant of the director while, Diego was dancing with 2 of the actress in the lounge and Bernardo was talking with the camera man. On the good Iberian style, we where the last ones to leave the party, and with the cinematographic adrenaline reaching our heads, we went with our hosts to Hollywood boulevard for more drinks....
On the fourth day, still intoxicated by the atmosphere of LA, we set sail again cycling all day long without leaving the gigantic city of LA (12 million), and spend the night, ironically, in Long beach. On the following morning we met up with Sheila again, that had stayed with some friends nearby.
The roughly 250 kms that separated LA and San Diego, where the least interesting of my itinerary in the states. City after city of luxurious Maisons, roads with heavy traffic and pollution. Some times, bike paths along the sea shore,took us trough small and picturesque villages,and would alleviate the felling of cycling on a continuous city for 3 days. At a certain point we left the main road and followed a bike path that took us to the "camp pendleton US marine corps". The naval base was an authentic city with restaurants, shops, supermarkets, shopping centers and condominiums for the troops. Cyclist where authorised to cross it to run away from the heavy traffic of the main roads. They asked us for ID and ordered us to wear the helmet (probably the first time Bernardo used his in the states, if not at all!). We would have passed without any difficulty, if it wasn´t the brilliant idea of Diego to start filming. Sheila had to interfere showing her military ID and by making herself responsible for us, and because she was of a greater rank, inhibited us of any trouble.
San Diego is just a few kms from the Mexican town of Tijuana. On the other side of the border is the peninsula of baja California, my next leg on this journey south. It will be about 1500 kms to La Paz at the other end of the peninsula, trou white sandy beaches and blue sea. But in between is the dry and arid desert of Baja, where I will spend Christmas and new year.
Even after 4 and 1/2 months on the road, I feel very excited with the passage to the Latin world, and with the feeling that this trip is just about to begin...
Nuno Brilhanre Pedrosa, in San Diego, California, USA
Km 9210
That morning I woke up decided to continue my journey south. I was already 8 days in San Francisco, and even if I was enjoying the town atmosphere and the break in the saddle, it was time to move on. I still had 17000 kms in front of me, and hundreds of other towns to visit. I had my bike in the entrance hall of the tortoise hostel, through the glass door I could see the rain falling outside. I put the 4 panniers on the bike, the sleeping bad in between the saddle and the metallic support, and the brand new tent that I bought the previous day ( the one I had had the zips broken, the fabric was tearing apart and one of the poles was broken) and tight all together with 2 elastic cords.
My panniers represent a bit the way I travel on this journey. The 2 front panniers are the organized and tidy Nuno. On it I have all my cloths well packed and folded, my books: a travel journal, a note book, a guide to the USA, a field book of plants and animals north America, a mini-atlas of the world a log book where I register all the daily mileages altitudes etc, and several maps. As if it was not enough weight, I added to the load a brand new guide to Mexico, the size of a bible and with the absurd weight of more then a kilogram. On the front panniers also travel my inflatable mattress, a pair of solar panels and a bag meticulously kept, full with flyer's, Cd's and small kids books and other stuff from the special children of APPC-Leiria, to give away once I enter the Latin America. On the front panniers, I found easily what I´m looking for.
The rear panniers are the disorganized and chaotic Nuno, on them I have my kitchen that includes a petrol stove pans pots and plates, condiments, etc. Spare parts travel next to groceries, or the fishing gear next to the water filter. Amongst other travel equipment I carry also a hammock, that I expect to use as a bed between 2 trees further south when the temperatures rise a bit. a sewing kit, cables and ropes, I-pod and speakers, and a small piece of wood with Our Lady of Fatima carved on it, that my mother insisted on me to bring as a protection to the difficulties of the life on the road. Everything floats between the 2 panniers and I always have trouble to found what I´m looking for.
I verify that everything is well tight together, and climb the stairs of the hostel and leave the keys with the receptionist. The Internet was free in the hostel, so I decided to check my e-mail for one last time. I received an e-mail from Sheila.that e-mail would help me to decide on the rest of my itinerary in the United States. Sheila was an young American cyclist from Pennsylvania that I met in a state park 2 weeks ago in north California. She had spend 9 years of military service. 4 in a military academy, plus 5 years of service in the US coast guard, and after a summer spent in Alaska guiding bike tours, decided to release the rigid discipline of so many years of service, by riding her bike along the entire west coast of the USA. She was in San Francisco and invited me to ride with her until San Diego, where she would finish her solo cycling journey. I took the panniers of my bike and climbed the stairs once again, and payed the surprised receptionist for one more night. After all is was raining outside and what would be another day amongst a few hundred?
At 7am Sheila was knocking at the door of my room. It was a beautiful day and the exit of San Francisco was made without any fuss and at a good pace. That afternoon, already on highway 1, that follows the sea shore, we had 5 flat tires. Me 2 and Sheila 3. Next day Sheila had 3 more. Could it be that together we emitted some sort of negative energy? Or was it a bad karma, because I said that the schwalbe marathon tires are the best for cycling road trips? whatever the explanation for so many punctures in such short period of time, Sheila decided to change the tires of her bike for two specialized armadillo, in the next town of Santa Cruz.
The days that followed, it was a pleasure to ride along the "Big Sur", an area between Monterrey and Cambria, where the highway 1 twists along the high cliffs with the surf crashing against the shore, and offering spectacular views.
We stop for lunch on the side of the road by a grocery store. Across the road was a church of the "Christian scientists". Throughout every village and town I cycled in the States, regardless how small the community is, there is always the choice of 4 or 5 churchs from different beliefs. Almost every religion in the world is represented here. And some of the born here, like the Jehovah followers, the Adventists of the seventh day, the Amish, Mormons, and the Christian scientists.
Cristian fundamentalism is an American phenomenon, which makes people in other countries suspect that Americans can´t be that sophisticated. Fundamentalism is found in other parts of the world, like the Jewish occupation of the Palestine or in certain fanatic Islamic sects, but it always seems surprising to found it in a modern country like the united states. Maybe Americans are so religious because their country is simply too big complicated and violent, and the only way to combat that alienation is to join a local church to feel part of smaller and save community. American are amongst the highly educated people on earth, superb literature, unrivaled scientific inventions, great thinkers in every academic field. But why don´t they educate themselves to learn about the rest of the world??
Its easy to the rest of us to became annoyed with the American ignorance, specially when their foreign policies affect the entire world. Most the American I´ve met, don´t fit this image. The average American may be ignorant in world geography, but when on holidays in Lisbon, he doesn´t advertise his ignorance at 15 decibels in the "Monosteiro dos jeronimos". To avoid embarrassing situations, some times, I add the word "Europe" to Portugal, this, after people positioned Portugal in all the world´s continents except Oceania. On the following day by causality, we met again Bernardo and Diego in Morro Bay state park. We traveled the 4 of us for the rest of my stay in the United States.
Days later we arrived at Santa Monica. One of the 88 satellite cities of the mega-metropolis of Los Angeles.
Waiting for us was Cassandra, Laura and Xavier, our young hosts that would show us around LA in the 4 days we stayed there. The house where we stayed was situated in one of the rich quarters of the city-beach of Santa Monica, and belonged to Betty Lucier, the grandmother of Cassandra. An American with 82 years old, but with an energy to envy many, and with a very interesting life. Author of the book "Amid my alien corn", Lucier had been spy in Madrid during the cold war. In one of the shelves of her great library was a french edition of Mario Soares´s book "Le Portugal baillonne". Our young hosts where all recently graduated in cinema, and trying their luck in the cinematographic jungle of Hollywood. They participated in the technical team of a horror movie (that will be called 30 griffin lane), the filming had finished and the director was offering a cocktail party at his house, and we where invited!!
I dressed my best attire: my mountain boots, a pair of army trousers, which the original green had turned yellowish by the sun and that I didn´t wash for several weeks, an orange t-shirt, clean, but a bit rugged, and a grey and black wind proof sleeveless jacket, with a big red stamp on the right side saying "wind-proof", which I thought it could be mistaken by the label of an unknown brand of a Milan boutique. I felt a bit uncomfortable as we entered the house situated in a "in" area of Long Beach, on the outskirts of LA... But the delicious free buffet in the garden, and the bar stocked with every sort of booze, put me More at ease in no time. And it didn´t take long for all the guest to know of the presence of 3 adventure (and beard) cyclist from the Iberian peninsula. After the 3th Scottish whiskey, I found myself involved in a entertaining conversation with the assistant of the director while, Diego was dancing with 2 of the actress in the lounge and Bernardo was talking with the camera man. On the good Iberian style, we where the last ones to leave the party, and with the cinematographic adrenaline reaching our heads, we went with our hosts to Hollywood boulevard for more drinks....
On the fourth day, still intoxicated by the atmosphere of LA, we set sail again cycling all day long without leaving the gigantic city of LA (12 million), and spend the night, ironically, in Long beach. On the following morning we met up with Sheila again, that had stayed with some friends nearby.
The roughly 250 kms that separated LA and San Diego, where the least interesting of my itinerary in the states. City after city of luxurious Maisons, roads with heavy traffic and pollution. Some times, bike paths along the sea shore,took us trough small and picturesque villages,and would alleviate the felling of cycling on a continuous city for 3 days. At a certain point we left the main road and followed a bike path that took us to the "camp pendleton US marine corps". The naval base was an authentic city with restaurants, shops, supermarkets, shopping centers and condominiums for the troops. Cyclist where authorised to cross it to run away from the heavy traffic of the main roads. They asked us for ID and ordered us to wear the helmet (probably the first time Bernardo used his in the states, if not at all!). We would have passed without any difficulty, if it wasn´t the brilliant idea of Diego to start filming. Sheila had to interfere showing her military ID and by making herself responsible for us, and because she was of a greater rank, inhibited us of any trouble.
San Diego is just a few kms from the Mexican town of Tijuana. On the other side of the border is the peninsula of baja California, my next leg on this journey south. It will be about 1500 kms to La Paz at the other end of the peninsula, trou white sandy beaches and blue sea. But in between is the dry and arid desert of Baja, where I will spend Christmas and new year.
Even after 4 and 1/2 months on the road, I feel very excited with the passage to the Latin world, and with the feeling that this trip is just about to begin...
Nuno Brilhanre Pedrosa, in San Diego, California, USA
Friday, November 24, 2006
Riding with the giants (USA)
Day 114
Km 8144
"Welcome to California", said a signal by the side of the road.
California,land of the organic, light, defatted,decaffeinated capuchinos, made with soy milk and served hot or cold, at every town street corner. In California everyone seems to live for a healthy cause, been it vegetarianism, vegan, organic, puritanism, or follower of some obscure Buddhist sect, only found in some hidden mountain of the Himalayas.
I was only expecting to found a lot of sun, a mild climate, palm trees, and blonds in Rollerblades on the side walks. But in the first few days of cycling in the biggest and most dynamic of the American states, I found only a lot of rain, but also a beautifully coast.
My progress south through the Pan American highway (highway 101), on the Oregon coast, was very slow, due to the sea storms that attack the northwest of the States at this time of the year.
A few times I had no other option, then to take refuge in motels, that made some damage to my budget.
The difference between a Motel and a Hotel, is that on a Motel, one can drive the car all the way to the room door, in the hotel you can't!
In this country, everything seems to spine around the automobile. What I call a "society of convenience". There is "drive throu's" for every taste: fast food restaurants drive throu, pharmacies drive throu, coffee shops, cinemas in parking lots, etc, etc. Once I'm travelling in THE fast food country, the other day I didn't resist in trying a Mac Donald's drive throu....on my bicycle. I join the car que, and when was my turn, I spoke to a microphone carved in a pillar, and ordered a big mac meal. A lady inside the building, with a wireless headset, was putting the ingredients together,and at the same time talking to me. I could not hide a smile, when I saw her surprised face, when she handed over my meal through the small window of the bulding. The difference is, that in your car, you eat your meal as you drive to work, I had to look for a bench in a garden. Next time I see a cinema drive throu, I thought, I'm going to see a movie on my bike. Just to have a laugh at people's faces, when they see a cyclist in a cinema....for cars.
207 million cars roam the streets of America (37% of the world's total!!).
It's hard to imagine, what would be of this country, if one day, the petrol tap, dries out!
The highway 101 twists around the Pacific shore, and even with the dark and rainy days, it was a joy to ride along the forested coast, after so many days in the boredom of the desert. The low pressions originating in the pacific, that enter the Continent, usual came with intervals that vary between 0 and 3 days. The only way to make any progress south, was to take advantage of those intervals.
I had spend the night in a hostel, so that morning, I didn't have to pack up my stuff, or dismount my tent, so I started to cycle with the sunrise. It wasn't raining much, but the humidity at almost 80%, glued the Gore-Tex to my body, but even with the discomfort, I was in a good mood. I was cycling through a beautiful landscape of cliffs, with the surf crashing against the shore. The road twisted along the rugged coast,and sometimes disappeared inside the ancient forests of the redwoods,the sequoias sempervirens (from the Latin live forever).
California claims to it self, not only the largest trees in the world, but also the highest.The so called redwoods,higher then the statue of liberty,and with a longevity that exceeds 2000 years, they are found only in the coastal forests of northern California, and are only rivaled by one other specimen in China.
Further south, in the west slopes of sierra Nevada, its the only place in the world where one can still found the giant sequoias. One of the oldest living animal on the planet, with over 3000 years old, they are a bit shorter then its cousins of the north, but can have up to 12 meters in diameter.
I could not stop imagine, looking at the forest of giants that surrounded me, the amount of history that this almost immortal beings, have been through.I say immortal,because they have no enemies (apart from humans),they are resistant to fire, insects and other animals. There is enough wood in one single tree,to build several houses.
I even saw a "drive throu" giant tree!!
Halfway trough the morning,I met Diego and Bernardo,2 spaniards from Madrid,travelling by bicycle in north America, making a documentary about adventure cycling for the Spanish TV. As we where all going south, we decided to travel together that day..
Later in the afternoon, we enter a supermarket, to buy that evening's dinner. It continued to rain, and at that point, we had no idea where to spent that night..
I engaged in a conversation with a man, and after a brief talk, he was drawing a map of the village in a piece of paper, and explaining how to get to his house.
I have to go to Eureka, he said, but make yourselves comfortable till I arrive. After a damp and rainy day, it was like a gift from the Gods of the touring cyclists, that invitation. The
wooden red house, was situated in one of the hills in the east part of the village of Trinidad. The garage door was open and the fire place was lighted.And just like Eric said, we made our selves at home, and had an excellent shower. We made a load of laundry, with extra washing powder, to ensure the cleaning of the odors ( "Eau the road" ), commons to a travelling cyclist. Diego pulls a Cd out of the big collecting and plays it. We spent the rest of the day staring at the fire and talking about the advantages and disadvantages of travelling by bicycle.Someone knocks on the door.It was Eric's neighbour with a pumpkin pie in her ands for us. She made us some tea, and after a short talk, left the house,to return a bit latter with some vegetarian sandwiches of cheese and vegetables.
In the evening arrives the owner. Eric, a tattooist by profession,lives by himself,and is recovering from a liver transplant. The result of an"agitated" life. A traveller himself, but by Harley Davidson.-I know how its like to be on the road, he said, putting a giant pizza in the oven, -its always good to give it back.
I will be right back, he said, leaving again with his neighbour. Less then half hour latter, they return with a container of 5 litters of beer, and a bag full with more sandwiches for us to take next day. We couldn't believe it,just 3 hours earlier we where all soaked in water , and without knowing where to sleep. People like Eric, and so many others I met on the road, are making me change my opinion about this country. Where all this kindness comes from? Is it because I'm cycling?
When we arrived in Eureka, we stop by a petrol station, our favorite place to fill up the bottles with free water. Diego pulls out a conversation with a man, that identifies himself as manager of a supermarket of organic foods, and invites us to try some delicious organic and energetic smoothies. What he didn't say was, that he was going to call the local press. The reporter of the local newspaper, appeared in the municipal library, where we stop to check our e-mail, and after a short interview we left in search of that supermarket, and our free organic smoothie...
In the end of the day, we found a small forest of redwoods, near a river, in the small village of Scotia. It sounded like a perfect place to spend the night. It was a dark night, without Moon. And under the gigantic trees, the only light came from the our lights attached to our heads, with an elastic stripe. We must have looked like 3 disorientated Martians,with the beams of light in constant move.
The village convenience store, didn't have much choice of ingredients, so we decided to cook, what the cyclist call "pasta SOS", spaghetti with "something on sale". We where about to set up our stoves, when 2 cars of the fire brigade arrived. Someone had tipped off the "Martians", and we where expelled from our improvised camping ground. It was around 6 o'clock and absolutely dark. where would we found a place to camp at that time of the evening?
-where is Eric?, said Bernardo as a joke.
One of the drivers, James Silva, son of a Portuguese, was the solution. After speaking with my country man, James called the firechief. From the other side of the line came an authorisation to camp in front of the fire depot. We put all our stuff in the cars, including our bikes and the tents half dismounted, and paraded ourselves, trough the streets of the village. While we set up the tents, once again, this time in smooth grass,James disappeared, to reappear half hour later, with a surprise for us.
We ended up that evening in the fire brigade canteen, drinking red wine, and enjoying some "chouricas" (Portuguese sausages). Some time later, James son appears with some cookies, still hot. Next morning, the firebrigade's chief was on duty. He offered some coffee, and showed us a copy of the newspaper "The Eureka Reporter". We had made that day's front page.
Ifound it funny, that the journalist, used us, 3 European cyclists, to make political propaganda, when she wrote, that we haven't met anyone that voted for George Bush.
John Broadstock apart from been fire chief, was also in charge of the security of the energy plant adjacent to it. He told me that the village of Scotia, was a rare case in the American modern society. Itwas a private village. All the houses, shops, buildings, including the fire depot building, belonged to PALCO, a power plant of sustainable energy. He called it a "company town". The plant produces energy from forest residuals, not only enough to feed the entire village but with excess for sale.
The owners of the plant (and the entire village), are a corporation from Texas,and that morning some people from the corporation headquarters came for an inspection. They where introduced to us, as we where having breakfast in thecanteen. We where about to leave, when one of the inspectors, comes inside the kitchen, and looking at me with a not so friendly face, says: -I read the article about you. Just to let you know, that I was one of the people tha tvoted for George Bush.
When he left, we cracked out laughing. Its better to leave the area of distribution of this newspaper, said Diego joking...
We grabbed our bicycles and left through the streets of the "private" village. A lady comes out of her house waving a copy of the newspaper.
-hey, She shouted. -good luck.Have a nicejourney!
Because my Iberian partners where a bit slower then me, in part due to the time they stop for filming, I decided to go ahead, and travel faster, because I already planed to met up with Danina, an Australian friend, by Saturday, and I was still quiet far.
The 3 days that took to do the almost 400 km to San Francisco, where the hardest 3 consecutive days of the journey so far. A real test to my physical endurance.
If someone tell you that,cycling near the coast is easier, don't believe them!
I leave you with some statistics of those 3 days.
Day one: I've done 118km, accumulating a vertical climb of 1627 meters. highest altitude 604 meters (highest point in the American west coast). On the second day, until fort Ross, I done 120.6 km, accumulating 1563 meters of vertical climb, and with max. altitude of just 105 meters. On the third day, from Fort Ross to San Francisco, 151.6 km, done in 9h58m, accumulating 2041 meters, but the highest point was only 192 meters!
The numbers may give an idea, of the ups and downs of this stretch of road (mostly on highway 1), just north of San Francisco. I've crossed the golden gate bridge (that shares a lot of similarities with the "25 de abril" bridge, over the Tagus river, in Portugal), well into the night.
The"burra", is locked into the rails, in this hostel, the tortoise hostel, in San Francisco's china town, in a well deserved few days rest.
San Francisco, is one of the American towns with its own character. The city landscape, with its many hills, European architecture, the many different ethnic quarters, and the from-around-the-world emigrants, all mix up in an almost toxic cocktail, it deserves a few days of visiting.
San Francisco, is also an important mark on this Odyssey on 2 wheels, as its the"bridge", between the 4 seasons of the north, and the progressive approach tothe semi-tropical and tropical zones of central America. In another words:No more winter!
The remaining time of my journey in the United States, is still to be drawn. I'm debating between the options of coastal roads, Los Angeles and Tijuana, or crossing the border inland at Nogales,via Las Vegas and more desert.
Whichever route I take, I already can start to feel the smell of the Mexican food, its music, the tropical temperatures, and the margaritas by the warm blue sea....
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, in San Francisco, California, USA
Km 8144
"Welcome to California", said a signal by the side of the road.
California,land of the organic, light, defatted,decaffeinated capuchinos, made with soy milk and served hot or cold, at every town street corner. In California everyone seems to live for a healthy cause, been it vegetarianism, vegan, organic, puritanism, or follower of some obscure Buddhist sect, only found in some hidden mountain of the Himalayas.
I was only expecting to found a lot of sun, a mild climate, palm trees, and blonds in Rollerblades on the side walks. But in the first few days of cycling in the biggest and most dynamic of the American states, I found only a lot of rain, but also a beautifully coast.
My progress south through the Pan American highway (highway 101), on the Oregon coast, was very slow, due to the sea storms that attack the northwest of the States at this time of the year.
A few times I had no other option, then to take refuge in motels, that made some damage to my budget.
The difference between a Motel and a Hotel, is that on a Motel, one can drive the car all the way to the room door, in the hotel you can't!
In this country, everything seems to spine around the automobile. What I call a "society of convenience". There is "drive throu's" for every taste: fast food restaurants drive throu, pharmacies drive throu, coffee shops, cinemas in parking lots, etc, etc. Once I'm travelling in THE fast food country, the other day I didn't resist in trying a Mac Donald's drive throu....on my bicycle. I join the car que, and when was my turn, I spoke to a microphone carved in a pillar, and ordered a big mac meal. A lady inside the building, with a wireless headset, was putting the ingredients together,and at the same time talking to me. I could not hide a smile, when I saw her surprised face, when she handed over my meal through the small window of the bulding. The difference is, that in your car, you eat your meal as you drive to work, I had to look for a bench in a garden. Next time I see a cinema drive throu, I thought, I'm going to see a movie on my bike. Just to have a laugh at people's faces, when they see a cyclist in a cinema....for cars.
207 million cars roam the streets of America (37% of the world's total!!).
It's hard to imagine, what would be of this country, if one day, the petrol tap, dries out!
The highway 101 twists around the Pacific shore, and even with the dark and rainy days, it was a joy to ride along the forested coast, after so many days in the boredom of the desert. The low pressions originating in the pacific, that enter the Continent, usual came with intervals that vary between 0 and 3 days. The only way to make any progress south, was to take advantage of those intervals.
I had spend the night in a hostel, so that morning, I didn't have to pack up my stuff, or dismount my tent, so I started to cycle with the sunrise. It wasn't raining much, but the humidity at almost 80%, glued the Gore-Tex to my body, but even with the discomfort, I was in a good mood. I was cycling through a beautiful landscape of cliffs, with the surf crashing against the shore. The road twisted along the rugged coast,and sometimes disappeared inside the ancient forests of the redwoods,the sequoias sempervirens (from the Latin live forever).
California claims to it self, not only the largest trees in the world, but also the highest.The so called redwoods,higher then the statue of liberty,and with a longevity that exceeds 2000 years, they are found only in the coastal forests of northern California, and are only rivaled by one other specimen in China.
Further south, in the west slopes of sierra Nevada, its the only place in the world where one can still found the giant sequoias. One of the oldest living animal on the planet, with over 3000 years old, they are a bit shorter then its cousins of the north, but can have up to 12 meters in diameter.
I could not stop imagine, looking at the forest of giants that surrounded me, the amount of history that this almost immortal beings, have been through.I say immortal,because they have no enemies (apart from humans),they are resistant to fire, insects and other animals. There is enough wood in one single tree,to build several houses.
I even saw a "drive throu" giant tree!!
Halfway trough the morning,I met Diego and Bernardo,2 spaniards from Madrid,travelling by bicycle in north America, making a documentary about adventure cycling for the Spanish TV. As we where all going south, we decided to travel together that day..
Later in the afternoon, we enter a supermarket, to buy that evening's dinner. It continued to rain, and at that point, we had no idea where to spent that night..
I engaged in a conversation with a man, and after a brief talk, he was drawing a map of the village in a piece of paper, and explaining how to get to his house.
I have to go to Eureka, he said, but make yourselves comfortable till I arrive. After a damp and rainy day, it was like a gift from the Gods of the touring cyclists, that invitation. The
wooden red house, was situated in one of the hills in the east part of the village of Trinidad. The garage door was open and the fire place was lighted.And just like Eric said, we made our selves at home, and had an excellent shower. We made a load of laundry, with extra washing powder, to ensure the cleaning of the odors ( "Eau the road" ), commons to a travelling cyclist. Diego pulls a Cd out of the big collecting and plays it. We spent the rest of the day staring at the fire and talking about the advantages and disadvantages of travelling by bicycle.Someone knocks on the door.It was Eric's neighbour with a pumpkin pie in her ands for us. She made us some tea, and after a short talk, left the house,to return a bit latter with some vegetarian sandwiches of cheese and vegetables.
In the evening arrives the owner. Eric, a tattooist by profession,lives by himself,and is recovering from a liver transplant. The result of an"agitated" life. A traveller himself, but by Harley Davidson.-I know how its like to be on the road, he said, putting a giant pizza in the oven, -its always good to give it back.
I will be right back, he said, leaving again with his neighbour. Less then half hour latter, they return with a container of 5 litters of beer, and a bag full with more sandwiches for us to take next day. We couldn't believe it,just 3 hours earlier we where all soaked in water , and without knowing where to sleep. People like Eric, and so many others I met on the road, are making me change my opinion about this country. Where all this kindness comes from? Is it because I'm cycling?
When we arrived in Eureka, we stop by a petrol station, our favorite place to fill up the bottles with free water. Diego pulls out a conversation with a man, that identifies himself as manager of a supermarket of organic foods, and invites us to try some delicious organic and energetic smoothies. What he didn't say was, that he was going to call the local press. The reporter of the local newspaper, appeared in the municipal library, where we stop to check our e-mail, and after a short interview we left in search of that supermarket, and our free organic smoothie...
In the end of the day, we found a small forest of redwoods, near a river, in the small village of Scotia. It sounded like a perfect place to spend the night. It was a dark night, without Moon. And under the gigantic trees, the only light came from the our lights attached to our heads, with an elastic stripe. We must have looked like 3 disorientated Martians,with the beams of light in constant move.
The village convenience store, didn't have much choice of ingredients, so we decided to cook, what the cyclist call "pasta SOS", spaghetti with "something on sale". We where about to set up our stoves, when 2 cars of the fire brigade arrived. Someone had tipped off the "Martians", and we where expelled from our improvised camping ground. It was around 6 o'clock and absolutely dark. where would we found a place to camp at that time of the evening?
-where is Eric?, said Bernardo as a joke.
One of the drivers, James Silva, son of a Portuguese, was the solution. After speaking with my country man, James called the firechief. From the other side of the line came an authorisation to camp in front of the fire depot. We put all our stuff in the cars, including our bikes and the tents half dismounted, and paraded ourselves, trough the streets of the village. While we set up the tents, once again, this time in smooth grass,James disappeared, to reappear half hour later, with a surprise for us.
We ended up that evening in the fire brigade canteen, drinking red wine, and enjoying some "chouricas" (Portuguese sausages). Some time later, James son appears with some cookies, still hot. Next morning, the firebrigade's chief was on duty. He offered some coffee, and showed us a copy of the newspaper "The Eureka Reporter". We had made that day's front page.
Ifound it funny, that the journalist, used us, 3 European cyclists, to make political propaganda, when she wrote, that we haven't met anyone that voted for George Bush.
John Broadstock apart from been fire chief, was also in charge of the security of the energy plant adjacent to it. He told me that the village of Scotia, was a rare case in the American modern society. Itwas a private village. All the houses, shops, buildings, including the fire depot building, belonged to PALCO, a power plant of sustainable energy. He called it a "company town". The plant produces energy from forest residuals, not only enough to feed the entire village but with excess for sale.
The owners of the plant (and the entire village), are a corporation from Texas,and that morning some people from the corporation headquarters came for an inspection. They where introduced to us, as we where having breakfast in thecanteen. We where about to leave, when one of the inspectors, comes inside the kitchen, and looking at me with a not so friendly face, says: -I read the article about you. Just to let you know, that I was one of the people tha tvoted for George Bush.
When he left, we cracked out laughing. Its better to leave the area of distribution of this newspaper, said Diego joking...
We grabbed our bicycles and left through the streets of the "private" village. A lady comes out of her house waving a copy of the newspaper.
-hey, She shouted. -good luck.Have a nicejourney!
Because my Iberian partners where a bit slower then me, in part due to the time they stop for filming, I decided to go ahead, and travel faster, because I already planed to met up with Danina, an Australian friend, by Saturday, and I was still quiet far.
The 3 days that took to do the almost 400 km to San Francisco, where the hardest 3 consecutive days of the journey so far. A real test to my physical endurance.
If someone tell you that,cycling near the coast is easier, don't believe them!
I leave you with some statistics of those 3 days.
Day one: I've done 118km, accumulating a vertical climb of 1627 meters. highest altitude 604 meters (highest point in the American west coast). On the second day, until fort Ross, I done 120.6 km, accumulating 1563 meters of vertical climb, and with max. altitude of just 105 meters. On the third day, from Fort Ross to San Francisco, 151.6 km, done in 9h58m, accumulating 2041 meters, but the highest point was only 192 meters!
The numbers may give an idea, of the ups and downs of this stretch of road (mostly on highway 1), just north of San Francisco. I've crossed the golden gate bridge (that shares a lot of similarities with the "25 de abril" bridge, over the Tagus river, in Portugal), well into the night.
The"burra", is locked into the rails, in this hostel, the tortoise hostel, in San Francisco's china town, in a well deserved few days rest.
San Francisco, is one of the American towns with its own character. The city landscape, with its many hills, European architecture, the many different ethnic quarters, and the from-around-the-world emigrants, all mix up in an almost toxic cocktail, it deserves a few days of visiting.
San Francisco, is also an important mark on this Odyssey on 2 wheels, as its the"bridge", between the 4 seasons of the north, and the progressive approach tothe semi-tropical and tropical zones of central America. In another words:No more winter!
The remaining time of my journey in the United States, is still to be drawn. I'm debating between the options of coastal roads, Los Angeles and Tijuana, or crossing the border inland at Nogales,via Las Vegas and more desert.
Whichever route I take, I already can start to feel the smell of the Mexican food, its music, the tropical temperatures, and the margaritas by the warm blue sea....
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, in San Francisco, California, USA
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
On the Oregon trail to the Pacific (USA)
day 99
km 7080
The pacific welcomed me with 60 km/h winds and torrential rain. the left overs of a tyfon that inundated houses, broke trees, put electric poles to the floor, and made my day's ride just a misery.
the Fox TV presenter, tells me trough the screen of the television,in this motel room in Newport, that there is another storm in the ocean waiting for this one to pass, to attack the Oregon coast. Robin, a truck driver, told me that, this is the norm at this time of the year. With so much rain, I didn't have the chance to see the pacific, but I'm happy to be here.
I just finished what was probably the hardest stretch of my journey so far. And I never miscalculated the time and distances so much, like on this part of the trip, between the rocky mountains and the pacific coast. What I initially thought it would be just over 1000 km or 10 days, turned out to be 15 days and 1536 km.
the highway 20, that would take me to the coast, crosses vast high plateaus of desert or semi-desert above 1300 meters in altitude. on some valleys, where the land is More fertile, there are agricultural towns. mono cultures that extend for dozen of miles.
I've passed trough Idaho Falls, another typical American town. A blinding ugliness of neon strip malls, that goes on for miles, with the same chain store in every town. What distinguishes this town from the next?
I'm getting already too familiar with the approach to those towns, with the same Mac Donald's, Burger King, KFC, Wal-Mart, etc, etc. Jungles of concrete, with no character or color.
The American malls, seem to be filled with the same kids on every town, watching the same lousy Hollywood movies, wearing the same fashion, and eating the same junk food. Such a diverse country, united by the American "pop" culture.
In the states you can buy a gun at a local department store. And if you break your arm and aren't covered by private health insurance, you have to pay the bill yourself!!
After Idaho Falls, highway 20 crosses a desert high plateau that extends for over 100 km, the first of several desert areas, that I would cross on my way to the pacific, almost always trough the Oregon trail.
A signal on the road said: " you are entering Idaho national laboratory". at first I didn't understand....a laboratory in the desert?
2 km after, another sign reads: "Visit INB-I, world's first nuclear plant". I looked around me, and the only thing I saw,,was desert!
I cycled all day trough this immense flat land, where on both sides of the road, I could see, every 10/15 meters, small signs that read:"NO TRESPASSING, property of the American government, up to 5000 dollars fine, INL".
Even with all the emptiness, it seemed reasonable to respect the signs, so I cycled till late in search of a place to camp. Finally, already after sunset,I found a place near, or better, inside the lost river. An appropriated name,as it was a dry river, which I used to pitch my tent, protecting myself from the wind, and that I shared with the desert wild life; Pygmy rabbits, coyotes, and in particular, with certain new specimen to me, an hybrid between a squirrel and a mice that visit the tent during the night.
At sunset, something written in another road sign, was the central focus of that night's dreams ( or nightmares?!); since 1949 more then 50 nuclear reactors have been built in the desert around me, more then anywhere else on earth.
On the following day, I've made just 70 km to the craters of the moon national monument, stopping for lunch along the way in the small town of Arco, lost in the middle of the desert.
Atomic burger was one of the house specialities, I opted for a cheese melt, another variation of burger, camouflaged with a different name and served on toasted bread. The young girl that served it , said, that Arco was the first town in the world to be illuminated with atomic energy.
Craters of the moon national monument gained its name due to its unusual geological formations. An huge area of volcanic activity that perpetuated its activities, leaving an almost lunar landscape. Its a touristic place, but yet again, I'm travelling out of season ( I didn't know that there where tourist seasons in the desert!) , and camped in the "lunar" campground, with only 2 other RV travellers.
The days that followed, where very difficult, not because of the rugged landscape ( it was mostly flat!), but because of the almost cyclonic wind and some of the coldest nights I ever camped.
The monotony of the landscape, didn't help either. Some times I had the feeling that, the bicycle was lifted from the floor, and no matter how much I paddle, the landscape was always the same.
At times, it was such a boring ride that I had trouble to keep myself busy with rational thoughts, so, I would entertain myself with the most silly things, like: how many strokes I did every 100 meters ( I concluded that by the end of the trip, I would have given 15 million), or how many km of road in a straight line, or the sounds of an invisible insect, that like a certain bird in Canada, enjoyed riding along side me, making a noise similar to a motorcycle, and even seemed to shift gears, as It's sounds would change according to its speed. And that wasn't a desert aluccination, as I've heard that insect before in the Rockies.
Parts of highway 20 follow the Oregon trail. The famous route taken by the European emigrants, in search of more fertile lands to settle. A route of more then 2000 km from the town of Independence in Missouri to Oregon city near the Pacific coast. It would take more then 6 months to do, over arid desert and hostile Indian natives. Between 1840 and 1870 more then 240.000 colons used that trail.
It was near the craters of the moon, that Tim Goodale, a well known mountain man, gathered a wagon train with 1095 people, 338 waggons and 2700 heads of live stock, and braved the wild west hostilities.
On the following day, me too, would brave the hostilities of the wild west, not in the form of confronts with some local native tribe, or rocky roads, but with an almost cyclonic wind, that forced me to take refuge in the small town of mountain home. One of the many agricultural cities of the fertile valley of Boise, known by the locals by the "treasure valley". I prefer to call it the onion valley, as I cycled trough endless cultivations of it. 24000 trucks full of onions roam the American roads every season. The "onion valley", took me 3 days to cross trough back country roads trying to avoid the strong winds from northwest.
The highway 20 climbs the valley and enter again the desert, in the high plateau, already in Oregon, called the "high desert" with more then 400 km wide, is one of those parts of a journey, that most people prefer not to do, or do at 100 km/h, preferable during the night. For a cyclist that has no other choice, is one of those parts of a trip that drunken the mind and numbs the bottom.
Km upon Km of nothing.
But even in that " nothingness" there is some beauty, and some times when the rumble of the trucks fades in the distance, I stop the bike and listen to the silence or the whistler of the wind and contemplated the vastness of the desert around me. Like Wallaice Stegner once said: "to understand the wild west, you have to get over the color green, you have to quit associating beauty with garden and lawns".
And then, there is the unexpected encounters of the desert, that break the monotony of the saddle, like one day, a car approaches me from beyond, and without stopping, the window lowers to revel a face of a black man, that with a very strong accent from the states of the deep south, asks me:
-do you know where is the prison, man?
a prison, around here? I thought.
no, I'm on vacation pal! the dark face disappears beyond the window, and the car accelerated, leaving a black cloud of smoke in my face. What made him think that a cyclist loaded with 20 Kg of junk,would know where that prison was? Did it occurred to him that I ran way from it on the bicycle?
In the end of the day. I looked for a place to camp,which shouldn't be difficult with so much "nothingness".
On my bike trip though the middle east in 2000, I camped many times in the desert, and I knew, that the nights can be very cold, but nothing prepared me for that night. It was so cold that I decided to cook inside the tent. I sleep with my clothes on (my sleeping bad goes to -7c comfort), but even so, during the night I wake up shivering. I look at my bike computer. It indicated minus 10 Celsius (inside the tent!!) I turn the central heating on (my stove) and decided to make a coffee, but the water was frozen. With my Swiss army knife, I cut the plastic and remove the bloc of solid water. As the ice melted away on top of my stove, I thought on what to do next. It was still dark outside, but I grabbed some pieces of dry death trees and made a fire. But while the fire warmed up a part of my body, the cold would freeze the other, so I went back inside of my sleeping bag in the "comfort" of the central heating, and waited for sunrise. that morning at 8.30, even with the effort of the sun to warm up the earth, it was -5 Celsius.
I packed up and left through the desert road.
just a few Km from the place where I camped, and like that morning God's gift to me, I see a petrol station with a restaurant. As I enter the restaurant, the owner greets me:" good morning survivor, coffee I bet?
- did you know you camped at minus 15?, she said.
I had already 2 days without speaking to no one, apart with myself and the short talk in my brief encounter with the black guy, so I spent all morning chatting away with the restaurant owner and with some truck drivers that passed trough.
that afternoon, my back wheel cracked in the rim. Great! just what I needed.
After sleeping inside a fridge the night before, when I arrived in Bend, I didn't even hesitated to look for a motel.
It was Halloween night, a much celebrated holiday in the American calendar.
Next morning I took the Kona fire mountain to a bike shop, to change the wheel that cracked with no apparent explanation, and made me ride the last 80 km without rear breaks. That same wheel already made the entire trip from Portugal to Egypt without alterations plus 6000 km on this trip. I also changed the back tire to the front wheel, an put a new one in the back (another shwalbe marathon)
On the following morning, completely reestablished, I attacked the last pass of this part of my journey that seemed endless, the Santiam pass at 1517 meters, that crosses the cascade range, the mountains that separate the pacific coast with the high plateaus of Oregon and Washington.
From the top of the pass, it was over 40 km of downhill, of which 18 km at 6% without interruption.
The landscape changed once again. From scrub and dry land to dense humid forests...and a lot of rain.
The generous American hospitality, has played a big roll in this harder moments of the trip, like Skip and Kelly in Corvallis and the Dobson family in Newport. Excellent hosts in this country, not always painted with the colors that deserves.
I'm back on the pan American highway (in the states is highway 101), and California with its Mediterranean climate , is not far from here.
that's my next move in this journey to the land of fire....
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa,in Newport,Oregon, USA
km 7080
The pacific welcomed me with 60 km/h winds and torrential rain. the left overs of a tyfon that inundated houses, broke trees, put electric poles to the floor, and made my day's ride just a misery.
the Fox TV presenter, tells me trough the screen of the television,in this motel room in Newport, that there is another storm in the ocean waiting for this one to pass, to attack the Oregon coast. Robin, a truck driver, told me that, this is the norm at this time of the year. With so much rain, I didn't have the chance to see the pacific, but I'm happy to be here.
I just finished what was probably the hardest stretch of my journey so far. And I never miscalculated the time and distances so much, like on this part of the trip, between the rocky mountains and the pacific coast. What I initially thought it would be just over 1000 km or 10 days, turned out to be 15 days and 1536 km.
the highway 20, that would take me to the coast, crosses vast high plateaus of desert or semi-desert above 1300 meters in altitude. on some valleys, where the land is More fertile, there are agricultural towns. mono cultures that extend for dozen of miles.
I've passed trough Idaho Falls, another typical American town. A blinding ugliness of neon strip malls, that goes on for miles, with the same chain store in every town. What distinguishes this town from the next?
I'm getting already too familiar with the approach to those towns, with the same Mac Donald's, Burger King, KFC, Wal-Mart, etc, etc. Jungles of concrete, with no character or color.
The American malls, seem to be filled with the same kids on every town, watching the same lousy Hollywood movies, wearing the same fashion, and eating the same junk food. Such a diverse country, united by the American "pop" culture.
In the states you can buy a gun at a local department store. And if you break your arm and aren't covered by private health insurance, you have to pay the bill yourself!!
After Idaho Falls, highway 20 crosses a desert high plateau that extends for over 100 km, the first of several desert areas, that I would cross on my way to the pacific, almost always trough the Oregon trail.
A signal on the road said: " you are entering Idaho national laboratory". at first I didn't understand....a laboratory in the desert?
2 km after, another sign reads: "Visit INB-I, world's first nuclear plant". I looked around me, and the only thing I saw,,was desert!
I cycled all day trough this immense flat land, where on both sides of the road, I could see, every 10/15 meters, small signs that read:"NO TRESPASSING, property of the American government, up to 5000 dollars fine, INL".
Even with all the emptiness, it seemed reasonable to respect the signs, so I cycled till late in search of a place to camp. Finally, already after sunset,I found a place near, or better, inside the lost river. An appropriated name,as it was a dry river, which I used to pitch my tent, protecting myself from the wind, and that I shared with the desert wild life; Pygmy rabbits, coyotes, and in particular, with certain new specimen to me, an hybrid between a squirrel and a mice that visit the tent during the night.
At sunset, something written in another road sign, was the central focus of that night's dreams ( or nightmares?!); since 1949 more then 50 nuclear reactors have been built in the desert around me, more then anywhere else on earth.
On the following day, I've made just 70 km to the craters of the moon national monument, stopping for lunch along the way in the small town of Arco, lost in the middle of the desert.
Atomic burger was one of the house specialities, I opted for a cheese melt, another variation of burger, camouflaged with a different name and served on toasted bread. The young girl that served it , said, that Arco was the first town in the world to be illuminated with atomic energy.
Craters of the moon national monument gained its name due to its unusual geological formations. An huge area of volcanic activity that perpetuated its activities, leaving an almost lunar landscape. Its a touristic place, but yet again, I'm travelling out of season ( I didn't know that there where tourist seasons in the desert!) , and camped in the "lunar" campground, with only 2 other RV travellers.
The days that followed, where very difficult, not because of the rugged landscape ( it was mostly flat!), but because of the almost cyclonic wind and some of the coldest nights I ever camped.
The monotony of the landscape, didn't help either. Some times I had the feeling that, the bicycle was lifted from the floor, and no matter how much I paddle, the landscape was always the same.
At times, it was such a boring ride that I had trouble to keep myself busy with rational thoughts, so, I would entertain myself with the most silly things, like: how many strokes I did every 100 meters ( I concluded that by the end of the trip, I would have given 15 million), or how many km of road in a straight line, or the sounds of an invisible insect, that like a certain bird in Canada, enjoyed riding along side me, making a noise similar to a motorcycle, and even seemed to shift gears, as It's sounds would change according to its speed. And that wasn't a desert aluccination, as I've heard that insect before in the Rockies.
Parts of highway 20 follow the Oregon trail. The famous route taken by the European emigrants, in search of more fertile lands to settle. A route of more then 2000 km from the town of Independence in Missouri to Oregon city near the Pacific coast. It would take more then 6 months to do, over arid desert and hostile Indian natives. Between 1840 and 1870 more then 240.000 colons used that trail.
It was near the craters of the moon, that Tim Goodale, a well known mountain man, gathered a wagon train with 1095 people, 338 waggons and 2700 heads of live stock, and braved the wild west hostilities.
On the following day, me too, would brave the hostilities of the wild west, not in the form of confronts with some local native tribe, or rocky roads, but with an almost cyclonic wind, that forced me to take refuge in the small town of mountain home. One of the many agricultural cities of the fertile valley of Boise, known by the locals by the "treasure valley". I prefer to call it the onion valley, as I cycled trough endless cultivations of it. 24000 trucks full of onions roam the American roads every season. The "onion valley", took me 3 days to cross trough back country roads trying to avoid the strong winds from northwest.
The highway 20 climbs the valley and enter again the desert, in the high plateau, already in Oregon, called the "high desert" with more then 400 km wide, is one of those parts of a journey, that most people prefer not to do, or do at 100 km/h, preferable during the night. For a cyclist that has no other choice, is one of those parts of a trip that drunken the mind and numbs the bottom.
Km upon Km of nothing.
But even in that " nothingness" there is some beauty, and some times when the rumble of the trucks fades in the distance, I stop the bike and listen to the silence or the whistler of the wind and contemplated the vastness of the desert around me. Like Wallaice Stegner once said: "to understand the wild west, you have to get over the color green, you have to quit associating beauty with garden and lawns".
And then, there is the unexpected encounters of the desert, that break the monotony of the saddle, like one day, a car approaches me from beyond, and without stopping, the window lowers to revel a face of a black man, that with a very strong accent from the states of the deep south, asks me:
-do you know where is the prison, man?
a prison, around here? I thought.
no, I'm on vacation pal! the dark face disappears beyond the window, and the car accelerated, leaving a black cloud of smoke in my face. What made him think that a cyclist loaded with 20 Kg of junk,would know where that prison was? Did it occurred to him that I ran way from it on the bicycle?
In the end of the day. I looked for a place to camp,which shouldn't be difficult with so much "nothingness".
On my bike trip though the middle east in 2000, I camped many times in the desert, and I knew, that the nights can be very cold, but nothing prepared me for that night. It was so cold that I decided to cook inside the tent. I sleep with my clothes on (my sleeping bad goes to -7c comfort), but even so, during the night I wake up shivering. I look at my bike computer. It indicated minus 10 Celsius (inside the tent!!) I turn the central heating on (my stove) and decided to make a coffee, but the water was frozen. With my Swiss army knife, I cut the plastic and remove the bloc of solid water. As the ice melted away on top of my stove, I thought on what to do next. It was still dark outside, but I grabbed some pieces of dry death trees and made a fire. But while the fire warmed up a part of my body, the cold would freeze the other, so I went back inside of my sleeping bag in the "comfort" of the central heating, and waited for sunrise. that morning at 8.30, even with the effort of the sun to warm up the earth, it was -5 Celsius.
I packed up and left through the desert road.
just a few Km from the place where I camped, and like that morning God's gift to me, I see a petrol station with a restaurant. As I enter the restaurant, the owner greets me:" good morning survivor, coffee I bet?
- did you know you camped at minus 15?, she said.
I had already 2 days without speaking to no one, apart with myself and the short talk in my brief encounter with the black guy, so I spent all morning chatting away with the restaurant owner and with some truck drivers that passed trough.
that afternoon, my back wheel cracked in the rim. Great! just what I needed.
After sleeping inside a fridge the night before, when I arrived in Bend, I didn't even hesitated to look for a motel.
It was Halloween night, a much celebrated holiday in the American calendar.
Next morning I took the Kona fire mountain to a bike shop, to change the wheel that cracked with no apparent explanation, and made me ride the last 80 km without rear breaks. That same wheel already made the entire trip from Portugal to Egypt without alterations plus 6000 km on this trip. I also changed the back tire to the front wheel, an put a new one in the back (another shwalbe marathon)
On the following morning, completely reestablished, I attacked the last pass of this part of my journey that seemed endless, the Santiam pass at 1517 meters, that crosses the cascade range, the mountains that separate the pacific coast with the high plateaus of Oregon and Washington.
From the top of the pass, it was over 40 km of downhill, of which 18 km at 6% without interruption.
The landscape changed once again. From scrub and dry land to dense humid forests...and a lot of rain.
The generous American hospitality, has played a big roll in this harder moments of the trip, like Skip and Kelly in Corvallis and the Dobson family in Newport. Excellent hosts in this country, not always painted with the colors that deserves.
I'm back on the pan American highway (in the states is highway 101), and California with its Mediterranean climate , is not far from here.
that's my next move in this journey to the land of fire....
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa,in Newport,Oregon, USA
Friday, October 20, 2006
Into the rockies, once again (USA)
Day 80
Km 5544
The Yellowstone national park was the first park to be established in the world in 1872, and probably the greatest American contribution to the world’s culture:
The creation of the national park concept.
They exist now all over the world, and protect ecosystems, that otherwise would be destroyed by the greatest predator of all: man itself.
Yellowstone is a huge park, which to cycle around, one needs a few days. It has 4 distinct areas; mammoth hot springs to the northwest, the remote and mountainous area to the northeast, the alpine lake of Yellowstone to the southeast, and the geysers basins to the southwest. The 4 areas are connected by a 300 km loop road. Most of the park facilities where already closed for the season, so I had to carry food for several days.
It’s a high altitude park above 2300 meters and with some good grades. I’ve registered the highest altitude so far (2583m), and it wasn’t even a pass, but an elevation of the road trough the rim of the gigantic grand caldera, one of the biggest craters in the world. Due to one of the roads to the north been already closed and the upcoming unsettled weather, I’ve decided to do only the lower loop though the geysers basins, Yellowstone grand canyon, and the alpine lake, on my way out into the next park of the grand Teton.
Yellowstone is a great place to see wild life. I’ve seen, amongst others, many elk, antelopes, one black bear, one wolf (just recently reintroduced), and a lots of bison, some a bit too close!
The weather was pressing on me, and as I head south on my way to the grand Teton national park, known for the enormous craggy volcanic mountains. I look trough the mirror of my bike, and watch the dark and heavy clouds to the north on the horizon. It was another 160 km until Jackson Hole and no facilities at all on the way. Everything closed for the season.
On a normal situation, it wouldn’t be a problem to found 10 square meters of land to set up my house, but I was traveling in altitude, and know for experience, that the weather can turn very nasty in the mountains. I needed some sort of shelter to cook, and maybe to make a fire. So I decided to cycle to the Bridge Bay campground, that was already closed but would provide some sort of shelter. I set up my tent and found one of the shower houses open, that I used as a kitchen. It was –4 degrees and absolute darkness. Cooked dinner and went straight to the comfort of my sleeping bag, turned on my petrol stove, as I did in other cold nights, to work as a central heating, and wrote a few line on my journal. But my fingers where too cold to write, so I scroll trough the pages instead. My eyes focused on something I have wrote over a week ago:
“With each day that goes by, life seems to be less complicated, without having to worry about what’s going on in the world. But I should think more about the real world, and what’s my role on it.
The “burra” is heavy loaded, but even so, I travel light, so light that that I don’t think much of it. It crosses my mind, why did I leave school so early? I’ve changed the state school teachers for the teachers of nature and life, because I thought, I could learn more my self. I wanted to live the moment, rather then the future.
But to live each moment is difficult. It means to cycle without destiny, without knowing which road to take next. But at least, I’ve got a shelter; my tent. My tent, almost 3 months after, feels like my house, a nest, a fort, a cave.
The human desire to live in a cave must be by instinct.
Humans must have basic needs to make a cozy, private space where to spend the nights, where they are free to be themselves, to hide from the world.
I have my tent, my fort, my cave, but more important then that, I’ve got myself in it! Hours upon hours of myself living in this fort that is my tent, spending so much time alone, I start to discover myself….and I like it!
When you are surrounded by other people, constantly distracted, you end up forgetting what’s made of the soul that lives in your body. Living like this, it seems to me that the true happiness lies under layers in the body, layers of convenience, of comfort, of compromises. Removing those layers brings as closer to the fundamental reasons of happiness. Here inside my tent, life is simple, but nothing in the world created by man is as complicated as the small fossil, I’ve found on the side of the road this afternoon.
The more I cycle on this solitary road to the land of fire, more the landscapes I see grow inside me. In fact, I’m loving to travel like this, lonely, living an elementary life with the wild nature.
That must be one of our biggest needs, almost religious; to live a life entranced with the cosmos, with the mountains, the air, the water, the sun.
Would I be able to readapt myself in the world where I came from after this trip? That world that seems so distant?
Do I belong to it?
To travel like this, solitary, day upon day, as set me apart. Life seems so much simpler like this...so basic!
The nights are what I fear.
The sun is my consolation. After a cold night, it warms up my body and my soul all day long. And makes spectacular things in the skies and in the rocks at the sun set. With each end of the day a different picture."
Next day I woke up, not with a warm sun, but with the camp covered with snow.
Not very far away, a wolf scrolls trough the fresh snow in search of its prey. I take a reinforced breakfast. 4 packets of oat meal with 2 bananas, 2 hot chocolates, and 6 slices of bread covered with nutella, and to finish, one coffee with 2 Danish, a multi vitamins tablet and a cigarette (yes, dam habit!). It’s amazing what a cyclist can eat! I pack everything very fast, not that I'm in the hurry to go anywhere, but maybe because I think that fast movements will keep me warm. By the time I was ready to leave, it started to snow again. I had no other option but, to continue. If the weather gets worst, they could close the road and stop maintain it. And I didn't like the idea of pushing the bike trough the snow...
It snowed all day long. Some times with huge flakes, some of them would stay in my beard.
If some one has invented sunglasses with snow removal, they would have been very handy that day.
I doubled everything; 2 pairs of warm socks, 2 trousers, 4 layers, poncho, 2 pairs of gloves, and plastic bags in both hands and feet. In fact, the front bags, where I carry all my clothes, where almost empty.
One more night camping in the snow at signal mountain campground.
This time a good foot of snow overnight. But somehow, been a Latin and not used with snow, I was enjoying the experience of riding on it...
Grand Teton national park is about 500 meters lower then its neighbor Yellowstone, and the downhill brought nicer weather; it was only cold, damp, dark and rainy. At one point I managed to have a glimpse of the mighty Teton, amongst the dark clouds, a ray of sun illuminated the bottom of the valley. I could just imagine how they would look in a sunny day. I found a hostel, here in Jackson Hole (they are not very common in the States), where I share the 20 plus beds with only another tourist, a Californian, and the Mexican employees. As soon I reestablish my energies, I will turn west and cycle until I reach the sea. I will see you again in the warmer waters of the pacific
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, USA
Km 5544
The Yellowstone national park was the first park to be established in the world in 1872, and probably the greatest American contribution to the world’s culture:
The creation of the national park concept.
They exist now all over the world, and protect ecosystems, that otherwise would be destroyed by the greatest predator of all: man itself.
Yellowstone is a huge park, which to cycle around, one needs a few days. It has 4 distinct areas; mammoth hot springs to the northwest, the remote and mountainous area to the northeast, the alpine lake of Yellowstone to the southeast, and the geysers basins to the southwest. The 4 areas are connected by a 300 km loop road. Most of the park facilities where already closed for the season, so I had to carry food for several days.
It’s a high altitude park above 2300 meters and with some good grades. I’ve registered the highest altitude so far (2583m), and it wasn’t even a pass, but an elevation of the road trough the rim of the gigantic grand caldera, one of the biggest craters in the world. Due to one of the roads to the north been already closed and the upcoming unsettled weather, I’ve decided to do only the lower loop though the geysers basins, Yellowstone grand canyon, and the alpine lake, on my way out into the next park of the grand Teton.
Yellowstone is a great place to see wild life. I’ve seen, amongst others, many elk, antelopes, one black bear, one wolf (just recently reintroduced), and a lots of bison, some a bit too close!
The weather was pressing on me, and as I head south on my way to the grand Teton national park, known for the enormous craggy volcanic mountains. I look trough the mirror of my bike, and watch the dark and heavy clouds to the north on the horizon. It was another 160 km until Jackson Hole and no facilities at all on the way. Everything closed for the season.
On a normal situation, it wouldn’t be a problem to found 10 square meters of land to set up my house, but I was traveling in altitude, and know for experience, that the weather can turn very nasty in the mountains. I needed some sort of shelter to cook, and maybe to make a fire. So I decided to cycle to the Bridge Bay campground, that was already closed but would provide some sort of shelter. I set up my tent and found one of the shower houses open, that I used as a kitchen. It was –4 degrees and absolute darkness. Cooked dinner and went straight to the comfort of my sleeping bag, turned on my petrol stove, as I did in other cold nights, to work as a central heating, and wrote a few line on my journal. But my fingers where too cold to write, so I scroll trough the pages instead. My eyes focused on something I have wrote over a week ago:
“With each day that goes by, life seems to be less complicated, without having to worry about what’s going on in the world. But I should think more about the real world, and what’s my role on it.
The “burra” is heavy loaded, but even so, I travel light, so light that that I don’t think much of it. It crosses my mind, why did I leave school so early? I’ve changed the state school teachers for the teachers of nature and life, because I thought, I could learn more my self. I wanted to live the moment, rather then the future.
But to live each moment is difficult. It means to cycle without destiny, without knowing which road to take next. But at least, I’ve got a shelter; my tent. My tent, almost 3 months after, feels like my house, a nest, a fort, a cave.
The human desire to live in a cave must be by instinct.
Humans must have basic needs to make a cozy, private space where to spend the nights, where they are free to be themselves, to hide from the world.
I have my tent, my fort, my cave, but more important then that, I’ve got myself in it! Hours upon hours of myself living in this fort that is my tent, spending so much time alone, I start to discover myself….and I like it!
When you are surrounded by other people, constantly distracted, you end up forgetting what’s made of the soul that lives in your body. Living like this, it seems to me that the true happiness lies under layers in the body, layers of convenience, of comfort, of compromises. Removing those layers brings as closer to the fundamental reasons of happiness. Here inside my tent, life is simple, but nothing in the world created by man is as complicated as the small fossil, I’ve found on the side of the road this afternoon.
The more I cycle on this solitary road to the land of fire, more the landscapes I see grow inside me. In fact, I’m loving to travel like this, lonely, living an elementary life with the wild nature.
That must be one of our biggest needs, almost religious; to live a life entranced with the cosmos, with the mountains, the air, the water, the sun.
Would I be able to readapt myself in the world where I came from after this trip? That world that seems so distant?
Do I belong to it?
To travel like this, solitary, day upon day, as set me apart. Life seems so much simpler like this...so basic!
The nights are what I fear.
The sun is my consolation. After a cold night, it warms up my body and my soul all day long. And makes spectacular things in the skies and in the rocks at the sun set. With each end of the day a different picture."
Next day I woke up, not with a warm sun, but with the camp covered with snow.
Not very far away, a wolf scrolls trough the fresh snow in search of its prey. I take a reinforced breakfast. 4 packets of oat meal with 2 bananas, 2 hot chocolates, and 6 slices of bread covered with nutella, and to finish, one coffee with 2 Danish, a multi vitamins tablet and a cigarette (yes, dam habit!). It’s amazing what a cyclist can eat! I pack everything very fast, not that I'm in the hurry to go anywhere, but maybe because I think that fast movements will keep me warm. By the time I was ready to leave, it started to snow again. I had no other option but, to continue. If the weather gets worst, they could close the road and stop maintain it. And I didn't like the idea of pushing the bike trough the snow...
It snowed all day long. Some times with huge flakes, some of them would stay in my beard.
If some one has invented sunglasses with snow removal, they would have been very handy that day.
I doubled everything; 2 pairs of warm socks, 2 trousers, 4 layers, poncho, 2 pairs of gloves, and plastic bags in both hands and feet. In fact, the front bags, where I carry all my clothes, where almost empty.
One more night camping in the snow at signal mountain campground.
This time a good foot of snow overnight. But somehow, been a Latin and not used with snow, I was enjoying the experience of riding on it...
Grand Teton national park is about 500 meters lower then its neighbor Yellowstone, and the downhill brought nicer weather; it was only cold, damp, dark and rainy. At one point I managed to have a glimpse of the mighty Teton, amongst the dark clouds, a ray of sun illuminated the bottom of the valley. I could just imagine how they would look in a sunny day. I found a hostel, here in Jackson Hole (they are not very common in the States), where I share the 20 plus beds with only another tourist, a Californian, and the Mexican employees. As soon I reestablish my energies, I will turn west and cycle until I reach the sea. I will see you again in the warmer waters of the pacific
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, USA
Thursday, October 19, 2006
River of the road to the buffalo (USA)
Day 74
Km 5213
Traveling by bicycle, one can see things in a completely different way from the other transports...in a car you are always in a compartment, and because you are used to the car you don't realize that everything you see is just "more TV". You are a passive observer, and the landscape goes trough the window like if you where seen it on a screen.
On a bicycle the screen disappears!
You are in total contact with the landscape that surrounds you. You are part of the landscape, not only watching it. And the sensation of presence is fascinating. The asphalt is only a few cm from your feet and its real. Its right there, so distorted that you can't focus it, however you can stop put your feet on the ground, and feel it, at anytime, and everything, the hole situation is never far from immediate consciencialization.
I was already on my 6th day in the united states. The landscape remembered me of the western movies I used to See when I was a kid on a black and white screen on Sunday’s afternoons.
The traffic on highway 200, known by the Blackfoot Indians as cokahlarishkit, or river of the road to the buffalo, was light. It was a dark day, an autumnal gray, the light breeze refreshed my face. I let me self be absorved by the images immortalized by Hollywood, and spent all afternoon on a cycling dream, where me and my iron "burra", invaded Indian territory.
This was the road south and I couldn't avoid it. I was crossing the valleys of black foot and Seeley Swan, east of Missoula, theater of conflicts between the local Indians and the European colons in the beginning of this young nation. I could feel them observing me from the top of the hills, in a cliff, waiting for the right moment to ambush.
I hear the sound of a coyote. Or was it the chief of the tribe? I watch them coming down the hills in their war gear, screaming, in their horses leaving a trace of dust in the horizon..
Furious combats against the invasions of the white faced. One more defeat. In a war never won.
They where decimated like bison.
It started to cool a bit and the sky got darker, a sign that it was time to start look for a place to camp. I cut trough a gravel road on my left, went a bit up hill and in a small narrow valley found the perfect spot for that night. It was all very fresh in my mind, the events of the previous night and How I ended up spending the full Moon night sleeping on a ti pi in rattle snake, in the suburbs of Missoula.
I met Gordon in the center of the beautiful town of Missoula, home to the Montana university, and with a very relaxed, hip and edgy atmosphere. Missoula is also home to the American adventure cycling association, and the all town has a bike friendly vibe.
I was looking for a bike shop, because, after a few bad nights sleep with pain in my back, and numb hands from long hours of ridding, made me think that there was something wrong with my relation with my partner (bike). A visit to the doctor was out of question, as it would be a slash on my travel budget. Probably before I could meet the doctor, would have to leave 200 or 300 dollars with his secretary, plus exams, medication...So, I decided for a self diagnostic that reveled that there was nothing wrong with me, but with the bicycle.
Gordon indicated me to a bike shop ironically called "doctor bike", and invited me to stay the night at his house, or better, his ti pi.
I lifted up the hand bar to a more comfortable position and put a new set of sidebars.
The house of the Opel family was situated in rattle snake, a narrow valley just 15 minutes out of town. It took me quite some time to fall a sleep that evening, looking at the voyage of the stars through the hole of the ti pi. The moon illuminated the night with its cold rays reveling all the Indian history and their universe.
On the next day I continued my ciclonavigation of the curvature of the earth.
I was heading once again into the rocky mountains. One more pass over the continental divide, the Mac Donald pass, at just over 2000 meters and already covered with snow. Day after day the temperatures where falling and the roads rising.... The downhill from the pass left me with my fingers numb from so much cold, and the road didn't go bellow 1300 meters. The first of a serial of valleys that I was going to Cross, which theirs altitudes would increase with the crossing of each pass, until I reached the entrance of Yellowstone national park, at the small village of west Yellowstone, at 2295 meters, where I am now.
Trough those valleys I passed ranch upon ranch, with a lot of cattle, thousands of them. The livestock ration per person in Montana is 12 to 1, in the 4th biggest state of the nation but with only just over 1 million inhabitants. In one of those valleys where the confluence of the rivers Jefferson, Madison and Gallatin met, creating the headwaters of the Missouri river (the longest in the states with over 3800 km), sits the small town of Manhattan, with the same amount of inhabitants as Monte-Redondo (the village where I was born, in Portugal). It would go unnoticed in my map if wasn't for the great hospitality of the Mac family, that invited me for the night at their home (in a contact articulated from Portugal via New Mexico).
I'm loving this side of America. The side that the media doesn't show back home in Portugal or anywhere else, for that matter. The true, rural, simple and hospitable America. The one without the cities with buildings that reach the skies, without the gun yahoo's, the violence and the political wars. The one of common Americans in their daily lives.
I arrived early in the town of Manhattan and because I arranged to call only after 5, I looked for the local library (Internet in the public libraries is free!), nested inside the local school. The head teacher showed me the way for some news from the family and friends. I was watching this very same site, when a young and timid girl approaches me and asks me for my autograph.
In the beginning I didn't understand. My autograph? Why?
Obviously the head teacher has exaggerated on the content of out conversation.
I showed the Young girl the itinerary of the trip, which resulted in the increase of curious students and of the number of papers in the table to sign. I found the situation a bit uncomfortable and finished my session on the net and left the school.
The Mack family took me out for dinner at a local restaurant, where I indulged myself with a local specialty: cowboy Burger with chips and tomato sauce. Probably the best American contribution for the world's gastronomy, and more commonly known as ketchup!!
On the following morning I said goodbye to the very hospitable and friendly Mack family and continued my journey. The sun melted away the frost and slowly warmed up the autumnal morning.
2 days later I was at the gates of the Yellowstone national park in this small mountain town.
Traveling off season, some times bellow zero, has it's discomforts, but at least I will have the peace necessary to enjoy the beauty of this park that for many is an icon on the natural beauty of north America.
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa in West Yellowstone, Montana, USA
Km 5213
Traveling by bicycle, one can see things in a completely different way from the other transports...in a car you are always in a compartment, and because you are used to the car you don't realize that everything you see is just "more TV". You are a passive observer, and the landscape goes trough the window like if you where seen it on a screen.
On a bicycle the screen disappears!
You are in total contact with the landscape that surrounds you. You are part of the landscape, not only watching it. And the sensation of presence is fascinating. The asphalt is only a few cm from your feet and its real. Its right there, so distorted that you can't focus it, however you can stop put your feet on the ground, and feel it, at anytime, and everything, the hole situation is never far from immediate consciencialization.
I was already on my 6th day in the united states. The landscape remembered me of the western movies I used to See when I was a kid on a black and white screen on Sunday’s afternoons.
The traffic on highway 200, known by the Blackfoot Indians as cokahlarishkit, or river of the road to the buffalo, was light. It was a dark day, an autumnal gray, the light breeze refreshed my face. I let me self be absorved by the images immortalized by Hollywood, and spent all afternoon on a cycling dream, where me and my iron "burra", invaded Indian territory.
This was the road south and I couldn't avoid it. I was crossing the valleys of black foot and Seeley Swan, east of Missoula, theater of conflicts between the local Indians and the European colons in the beginning of this young nation. I could feel them observing me from the top of the hills, in a cliff, waiting for the right moment to ambush.
I hear the sound of a coyote. Or was it the chief of the tribe? I watch them coming down the hills in their war gear, screaming, in their horses leaving a trace of dust in the horizon..
Furious combats against the invasions of the white faced. One more defeat. In a war never won.
They where decimated like bison.
It started to cool a bit and the sky got darker, a sign that it was time to start look for a place to camp. I cut trough a gravel road on my left, went a bit up hill and in a small narrow valley found the perfect spot for that night. It was all very fresh in my mind, the events of the previous night and How I ended up spending the full Moon night sleeping on a ti pi in rattle snake, in the suburbs of Missoula.
I met Gordon in the center of the beautiful town of Missoula, home to the Montana university, and with a very relaxed, hip and edgy atmosphere. Missoula is also home to the American adventure cycling association, and the all town has a bike friendly vibe.
I was looking for a bike shop, because, after a few bad nights sleep with pain in my back, and numb hands from long hours of ridding, made me think that there was something wrong with my relation with my partner (bike). A visit to the doctor was out of question, as it would be a slash on my travel budget. Probably before I could meet the doctor, would have to leave 200 or 300 dollars with his secretary, plus exams, medication...So, I decided for a self diagnostic that reveled that there was nothing wrong with me, but with the bicycle.
Gordon indicated me to a bike shop ironically called "doctor bike", and invited me to stay the night at his house, or better, his ti pi.
I lifted up the hand bar to a more comfortable position and put a new set of sidebars.
The house of the Opel family was situated in rattle snake, a narrow valley just 15 minutes out of town. It took me quite some time to fall a sleep that evening, looking at the voyage of the stars through the hole of the ti pi. The moon illuminated the night with its cold rays reveling all the Indian history and their universe.
On the next day I continued my ciclonavigation of the curvature of the earth.
I was heading once again into the rocky mountains. One more pass over the continental divide, the Mac Donald pass, at just over 2000 meters and already covered with snow. Day after day the temperatures where falling and the roads rising.... The downhill from the pass left me with my fingers numb from so much cold, and the road didn't go bellow 1300 meters. The first of a serial of valleys that I was going to Cross, which theirs altitudes would increase with the crossing of each pass, until I reached the entrance of Yellowstone national park, at the small village of west Yellowstone, at 2295 meters, where I am now.
Trough those valleys I passed ranch upon ranch, with a lot of cattle, thousands of them. The livestock ration per person in Montana is 12 to 1, in the 4th biggest state of the nation but with only just over 1 million inhabitants. In one of those valleys where the confluence of the rivers Jefferson, Madison and Gallatin met, creating the headwaters of the Missouri river (the longest in the states with over 3800 km), sits the small town of Manhattan, with the same amount of inhabitants as Monte-Redondo (the village where I was born, in Portugal). It would go unnoticed in my map if wasn't for the great hospitality of the Mac family, that invited me for the night at their home (in a contact articulated from Portugal via New Mexico).
I'm loving this side of America. The side that the media doesn't show back home in Portugal or anywhere else, for that matter. The true, rural, simple and hospitable America. The one without the cities with buildings that reach the skies, without the gun yahoo's, the violence and the political wars. The one of common Americans in their daily lives.
I arrived early in the town of Manhattan and because I arranged to call only after 5, I looked for the local library (Internet in the public libraries is free!), nested inside the local school. The head teacher showed me the way for some news from the family and friends. I was watching this very same site, when a young and timid girl approaches me and asks me for my autograph.
In the beginning I didn't understand. My autograph? Why?
Obviously the head teacher has exaggerated on the content of out conversation.
I showed the Young girl the itinerary of the trip, which resulted in the increase of curious students and of the number of papers in the table to sign. I found the situation a bit uncomfortable and finished my session on the net and left the school.
The Mack family took me out for dinner at a local restaurant, where I indulged myself with a local specialty: cowboy Burger with chips and tomato sauce. Probably the best American contribution for the world's gastronomy, and more commonly known as ketchup!!
On the following morning I said goodbye to the very hospitable and friendly Mack family and continued my journey. The sun melted away the frost and slowly warmed up the autumnal morning.
2 days later I was at the gates of the Yellowstone national park in this small mountain town.
Traveling off season, some times bellow zero, has it's discomforts, but at least I will have the peace necessary to enjoy the beauty of this park that for many is an icon on the natural beauty of north America.
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa in West Yellowstone, Montana, USA
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Icefield road and the US border (Canada&USA)
Day 64
Km 4369
That morning I woke up undecided. A signal that probably I would have a bad day.
I could not decide if I should leave, or wait another day to see if the weather cleared up. I look trough the window of the 44 beds room (yes, 44!) of the whistlers hostel, situated on one of the many mountains that surround jasper, 7 torturous kilometers uphill from the city. The day was dark and rainy, with low and dense clouds, that created an uncomfortable humidity. The weather didn't let me see any mountains, and I new I was surrounded by them. But I was in jasper already for 4 days and it was time to move on. Besides that danina got a lift with 2 other Canadian tourists to Banff, the town on the other end of icefield parkway road, where, we decided to met up again in 3 days.
I put my rain gear on, and left trough the icefield parkway road (highway 93), that the tourist brochures claim to be the most beautiful road in North America.
The 44 dollars that this lady charged me to enter the road (8 dollars per day, including the 4 I spent in jasper,plus the annoying Canadian tax), left me even more frustrated. With that weather the road was like any other Canadian road on a rainy day.
In the afternoon the rain intensified, so I decided to found a place to pitch the tent, doing only 70 km that day.
Next morning I woke up with a beautiful sunshine that would last for the rest of the days I spent in Canada. The difference with a clear blue sky was abysmal; gigantic mountains on either side covered with fresh snow and glaciers, alpine lakes that changed from green turquoise to every kind of green as the sun moved in the sky.
The landscape was too beautiful to describe. Each bend of the road would present me with a more beautiful view that the previous one.
It was 300 km of a gigantic parade of natural beauty. The icefield parkway road crosses the hearth of the Rockies, where one can almost feel its beat, taking me the closest possible to its peaks, without leaving the comfort of the road. It is 300 consecutive kilometers of world heritage declared by UNESCO.
I did 3 considerable passes on this stretch. one at 1890 meters, other at 2049 meters and the other at 2092 meters. The attack to the first pass was very easy and progressive, starting in jasper at 1000 meters and climbing slowly over 70 km.
I climbed the pass next morning with the last 7 km at 8% grade. The downhill is more accentuated and allows for the great views of the valley with the minuscule road at its bottom. One more pass on the same day, the Sunwapta pass, accumulating 1290 meters of vertical climb and ended with 110 km on the counter, in 6h11m at an average of 17.8 km/h, setting up camp by the Mistaya River, with one of the best views so far.
The 3rd day was the hardest of icefield road, only 897 meters of vertical climb, but pushed it to Banff that same day ending up with 134 km in the counter. Lake Louise to Banff was done in only 2h15m (over 30km/h) due to the great tail wind.
I arrived in Banff Saturday night, as promised to Danina, just in time for dinner and a bit of buggy. Banff night life was known throughout the Rockies and I wanted to have a taste of it.
We started with an acceptable Canadian wine for dinner at the backpackers’ hostel, continuing throughout the night doing the round of the local clubs, fueled by some round of shots.
4 days latter fully recovered from the hangover (it was the first time I drunk since I left Portugal) I hit the highway 93 again kissing goodbye to Danina with the promise that we would met up again some where in the states.
Highway 93 goes south trough the kooteney national park, partially burnt by a recent fire. I cycled only 57.6 km that day; camping for free on a closed campground (one of the advantage of traveling off season) not far from the vermillion pass, (1651 meters) one of the dozens of passes that cross the continental divide.
The mountain range that divide the waters on the American continent. The waters originating east of the range end up in the Atlantic, and the waters originating west end up in the pacific. I will cross that "line" many times throughout my trip. My first crossing was in the artic on the north fork pass, in the Dempster highway. Part of Canada and in the states the Rocky Mountains form the continental divide. And for the more adventurous cyclists, is possible to follow the continental divide almost all off road, from the town of Banff in Canada, all the way to El Paso on the Mexican border.
A good program for the A2Z!
Next day highway 93 had a surprise for me. The downhill from the Sinclair pass (1486 meters) revealed a very different landscape; small hills with a mixed forest, exhibiting the beauty of the autumn colors. I've descended about 600 meters and the temperatures climbed to a very pleasant 20/25 degrees at the midday sun.
I've entered the populated valleys near the Rockies, with a micro climate, where the softer autumns are longer.
In this vast country, second biggest only to Russia, but with just a few more inhabitants then Mexico city, 90% of the population live in a belt 300 km north of the American border, from Vancouver in the pacific to the French speak provinces of the Atlantic. It was this belt that I would cross in the next few days until I reached the US border.
I was about 180 km from the border when the chain broke and I had to make a detour to the ugly town of Cranbrooks to replace it. I took the chance to make a revision to the bike, tune the wheels, change the rear brakes and put a new cassette.
2 days latter I was again on highway 93 heading to the border....
The closer I was getting to the border the more negative thoughts I had.
And if they didn't let me in?
I would have to cycle to Vancouver, catch a plane to Mexico, ruining all the plans. The day before I started by deciding which would be my best look.
Since September 11 the American government committed it self to build a "country castle" against any suspicious penetrations, including aliens and cyclists. I've heard innumerous stories of the border officers that regardless of the type of visa on your passport, had the full authority to do what ever they wanted.
I've chosen a quite border, near the Rocky Mountains, with little traffic. But some times that means that the officers had more time to implicate with each individual. My worry was my beard! I had 3 options:
a) leave the beard as it was but that could be an indication of my relation with some Arabic terrorist group.
b) Cut off the beard, but leave the mustache. Option that I rejected straight away because that could reveal an association with Mr Bashar.
Or c) and last option,would be to shave completely. But that would expose my skinny and long face, that all my life, I debated my strong links with my Moorish blood. Besides that, could be taken by a Moroccan terrorist traveling with a fake Portuguese passport.
I've chosen the last one, because, at least I knew that the passport wasn't false.
I went to the local government department of my home town, just a few days before I started this trip, to make a new one. My old one was still valid until 2009, but because it was hand written by an employee of the Portuguese embassy in Atens, Greece, years back, on an emergency situation, it wasn't valid in the states, under the new waiver program.
The waiver program, offers visas for 90 days on arrival, to citizens of an "elite group" of "nice and friendly" countries in which Portugal just join recently.
Every other citizen of this planet, has to queue in one of the most volatile terrorist spots across the globe: American embassies.
The traffic on this part of highway 93 was light, with just some local traffic and the occasional group of motards on road trips, on their loud Harleys.
The building of the frontier was brand new. There were only 3 cars in front of me, and they went trough pretty quick. It was my turn.
-hi
-hi, I replayed.
-how are you today?
- I'm fine, and how are you?
"how are you" and "have a nice day" are 2 expressions in the American English, that I always found a bit irritating, because of the lack of genuity of the people who pronounce it. I listen to them all the time, everywhere, in any situation.
I imagine the number of times each American citizen pronounces them each day, multiplied by 300 million and in unisonous, it would be enough to create an avalanche in a mountain.
-so, where are you going today?
Looking at the bicycle, I felt like saying that, "today", I wasn't going any further then the next forest and pitch my tent. But the officer that actually was very cordial, pointed out that because I've been in the states before (stop over in Seattle, in the beginning of this trip), and left to Canada without an exit stamp, I was entering the states with the same visa which had only 25 days left on it.
Not enough to cross the country by bicycle.
- Please, park your bicycle over there, and go to that building.
I knew it! I should never shave!
They going to start with the interrogations, and bags searching, with no food, or drinks, or be able to call the Portuguese embassy to say that I'm just a simple cyclist crossing the American continent on a 25000 km journey!
And the gasoline bottle of my stove? And the solar panels that my cousin Pedro offered me? And the Portuguese flag that my sister put in my bags?
I don't know!
Anything could be suspicious....
I still fresh memories of my border crossing into Israel from Jordan,in 2000, thru King Hussein Bridge, where I was left in a compartment, only in boxes and t-shirt, until the Israeli authorities convinced themselves that the only reason why I was cycling through the Middle East, was for pure tourism and pleasure.
But this wasn't the Middle East neither Guantanamo bay.
Inside the modern building with some bizarre pieces of decoration, amongst them a fin of a whale to the left of George bush picture, and a fur of an animal to the right, the number of computers outnumbered the number of officers by many.
One of them, the one that wasn't reading the news paper, bombarded me with the usual questions of a border officer, plus some that I found a bit out of context, like: there are mountains in Portugal?
And how did I intend to cross the Panama Canal?
He explained that the waiver program didn't allowed extensions, but due to the circumstances, he was going to make an exception, proving once more, his total authority. He asked me for 7 dollars, that I couldn't figure out if it was for the form I filled out, or for the ink of the stamp, and said: -have a nice day!
Since that moment, I started to believe that the reason Americans repeat unnecessarily, and almost in a religious way:"have a nice day" is because they believe the repetition of the words transform it in reality.
With me it worked that day!
I grabbed the "burra", and kicked of on my first strokes on American soil.
I have entered the USA, but funny enough, it looked like if I was entering the "alentejo" (a region in south of Portugal). The road made its way trough small brown and yellow hills of hay and the air was dry and hot.
After a while I look at the map and realized that I calculated wrong the distances, it was another 30 km to Whitefish. Of course, from now on the distances are in miles...
Montana has funny names, starting with the border town of "eureka", "yaak", "paradise", "pompey's pillar", etc...
But my favorite is: "going to the sun road", that in fact doesn’t go to the sun, but to the ironically called "international peace park".
Tomorrow I will go for a scroll there, to see if I found some "peace" from the traffic of the city…..
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, in White fish, Montana, USA.
Km 4369
That morning I woke up undecided. A signal that probably I would have a bad day.
I could not decide if I should leave, or wait another day to see if the weather cleared up. I look trough the window of the 44 beds room (yes, 44!) of the whistlers hostel, situated on one of the many mountains that surround jasper, 7 torturous kilometers uphill from the city. The day was dark and rainy, with low and dense clouds, that created an uncomfortable humidity. The weather didn't let me see any mountains, and I new I was surrounded by them. But I was in jasper already for 4 days and it was time to move on. Besides that danina got a lift with 2 other Canadian tourists to Banff, the town on the other end of icefield parkway road, where, we decided to met up again in 3 days.
I put my rain gear on, and left trough the icefield parkway road (highway 93), that the tourist brochures claim to be the most beautiful road in North America.
The 44 dollars that this lady charged me to enter the road (8 dollars per day, including the 4 I spent in jasper,plus the annoying Canadian tax), left me even more frustrated. With that weather the road was like any other Canadian road on a rainy day.
In the afternoon the rain intensified, so I decided to found a place to pitch the tent, doing only 70 km that day.
Next morning I woke up with a beautiful sunshine that would last for the rest of the days I spent in Canada. The difference with a clear blue sky was abysmal; gigantic mountains on either side covered with fresh snow and glaciers, alpine lakes that changed from green turquoise to every kind of green as the sun moved in the sky.
The landscape was too beautiful to describe. Each bend of the road would present me with a more beautiful view that the previous one.
It was 300 km of a gigantic parade of natural beauty. The icefield parkway road crosses the hearth of the Rockies, where one can almost feel its beat, taking me the closest possible to its peaks, without leaving the comfort of the road. It is 300 consecutive kilometers of world heritage declared by UNESCO.
I did 3 considerable passes on this stretch. one at 1890 meters, other at 2049 meters and the other at 2092 meters. The attack to the first pass was very easy and progressive, starting in jasper at 1000 meters and climbing slowly over 70 km.
I climbed the pass next morning with the last 7 km at 8% grade. The downhill is more accentuated and allows for the great views of the valley with the minuscule road at its bottom. One more pass on the same day, the Sunwapta pass, accumulating 1290 meters of vertical climb and ended with 110 km on the counter, in 6h11m at an average of 17.8 km/h, setting up camp by the Mistaya River, with one of the best views so far.
The 3rd day was the hardest of icefield road, only 897 meters of vertical climb, but pushed it to Banff that same day ending up with 134 km in the counter. Lake Louise to Banff was done in only 2h15m (over 30km/h) due to the great tail wind.
I arrived in Banff Saturday night, as promised to Danina, just in time for dinner and a bit of buggy. Banff night life was known throughout the Rockies and I wanted to have a taste of it.
We started with an acceptable Canadian wine for dinner at the backpackers’ hostel, continuing throughout the night doing the round of the local clubs, fueled by some round of shots.
4 days latter fully recovered from the hangover (it was the first time I drunk since I left Portugal) I hit the highway 93 again kissing goodbye to Danina with the promise that we would met up again some where in the states.
Highway 93 goes south trough the kooteney national park, partially burnt by a recent fire. I cycled only 57.6 km that day; camping for free on a closed campground (one of the advantage of traveling off season) not far from the vermillion pass, (1651 meters) one of the dozens of passes that cross the continental divide.
The mountain range that divide the waters on the American continent. The waters originating east of the range end up in the Atlantic, and the waters originating west end up in the pacific. I will cross that "line" many times throughout my trip. My first crossing was in the artic on the north fork pass, in the Dempster highway. Part of Canada and in the states the Rocky Mountains form the continental divide. And for the more adventurous cyclists, is possible to follow the continental divide almost all off road, from the town of Banff in Canada, all the way to El Paso on the Mexican border.
A good program for the A2Z!
Next day highway 93 had a surprise for me. The downhill from the Sinclair pass (1486 meters) revealed a very different landscape; small hills with a mixed forest, exhibiting the beauty of the autumn colors. I've descended about 600 meters and the temperatures climbed to a very pleasant 20/25 degrees at the midday sun.
I've entered the populated valleys near the Rockies, with a micro climate, where the softer autumns are longer.
In this vast country, second biggest only to Russia, but with just a few more inhabitants then Mexico city, 90% of the population live in a belt 300 km north of the American border, from Vancouver in the pacific to the French speak provinces of the Atlantic. It was this belt that I would cross in the next few days until I reached the US border.
I was about 180 km from the border when the chain broke and I had to make a detour to the ugly town of Cranbrooks to replace it. I took the chance to make a revision to the bike, tune the wheels, change the rear brakes and put a new cassette.
2 days latter I was again on highway 93 heading to the border....
The closer I was getting to the border the more negative thoughts I had.
And if they didn't let me in?
I would have to cycle to Vancouver, catch a plane to Mexico, ruining all the plans. The day before I started by deciding which would be my best look.
Since September 11 the American government committed it self to build a "country castle" against any suspicious penetrations, including aliens and cyclists. I've heard innumerous stories of the border officers that regardless of the type of visa on your passport, had the full authority to do what ever they wanted.
I've chosen a quite border, near the Rocky Mountains, with little traffic. But some times that means that the officers had more time to implicate with each individual. My worry was my beard! I had 3 options:
a) leave the beard as it was but that could be an indication of my relation with some Arabic terrorist group.
b) Cut off the beard, but leave the mustache. Option that I rejected straight away because that could reveal an association with Mr Bashar.
Or c) and last option,would be to shave completely. But that would expose my skinny and long face, that all my life, I debated my strong links with my Moorish blood. Besides that, could be taken by a Moroccan terrorist traveling with a fake Portuguese passport.
I've chosen the last one, because, at least I knew that the passport wasn't false.
I went to the local government department of my home town, just a few days before I started this trip, to make a new one. My old one was still valid until 2009, but because it was hand written by an employee of the Portuguese embassy in Atens, Greece, years back, on an emergency situation, it wasn't valid in the states, under the new waiver program.
The waiver program, offers visas for 90 days on arrival, to citizens of an "elite group" of "nice and friendly" countries in which Portugal just join recently.
Every other citizen of this planet, has to queue in one of the most volatile terrorist spots across the globe: American embassies.
The traffic on this part of highway 93 was light, with just some local traffic and the occasional group of motards on road trips, on their loud Harleys.
The building of the frontier was brand new. There were only 3 cars in front of me, and they went trough pretty quick. It was my turn.
-hi
-hi, I replayed.
-how are you today?
- I'm fine, and how are you?
"how are you" and "have a nice day" are 2 expressions in the American English, that I always found a bit irritating, because of the lack of genuity of the people who pronounce it. I listen to them all the time, everywhere, in any situation.
I imagine the number of times each American citizen pronounces them each day, multiplied by 300 million and in unisonous, it would be enough to create an avalanche in a mountain.
-so, where are you going today?
Looking at the bicycle, I felt like saying that, "today", I wasn't going any further then the next forest and pitch my tent. But the officer that actually was very cordial, pointed out that because I've been in the states before (stop over in Seattle, in the beginning of this trip), and left to Canada without an exit stamp, I was entering the states with the same visa which had only 25 days left on it.
Not enough to cross the country by bicycle.
- Please, park your bicycle over there, and go to that building.
I knew it! I should never shave!
They going to start with the interrogations, and bags searching, with no food, or drinks, or be able to call the Portuguese embassy to say that I'm just a simple cyclist crossing the American continent on a 25000 km journey!
And the gasoline bottle of my stove? And the solar panels that my cousin Pedro offered me? And the Portuguese flag that my sister put in my bags?
I don't know!
Anything could be suspicious....
I still fresh memories of my border crossing into Israel from Jordan,in 2000, thru King Hussein Bridge, where I was left in a compartment, only in boxes and t-shirt, until the Israeli authorities convinced themselves that the only reason why I was cycling through the Middle East, was for pure tourism and pleasure.
But this wasn't the Middle East neither Guantanamo bay.
Inside the modern building with some bizarre pieces of decoration, amongst them a fin of a whale to the left of George bush picture, and a fur of an animal to the right, the number of computers outnumbered the number of officers by many.
One of them, the one that wasn't reading the news paper, bombarded me with the usual questions of a border officer, plus some that I found a bit out of context, like: there are mountains in Portugal?
And how did I intend to cross the Panama Canal?
He explained that the waiver program didn't allowed extensions, but due to the circumstances, he was going to make an exception, proving once more, his total authority. He asked me for 7 dollars, that I couldn't figure out if it was for the form I filled out, or for the ink of the stamp, and said: -have a nice day!
Since that moment, I started to believe that the reason Americans repeat unnecessarily, and almost in a religious way:"have a nice day" is because they believe the repetition of the words transform it in reality.
With me it worked that day!
I grabbed the "burra", and kicked of on my first strokes on American soil.
I have entered the USA, but funny enough, it looked like if I was entering the "alentejo" (a region in south of Portugal). The road made its way trough small brown and yellow hills of hay and the air was dry and hot.
After a while I look at the map and realized that I calculated wrong the distances, it was another 30 km to Whitefish. Of course, from now on the distances are in miles...
Montana has funny names, starting with the border town of "eureka", "yaak", "paradise", "pompey's pillar", etc...
But my favorite is: "going to the sun road", that in fact doesn’t go to the sun, but to the ironically called "international peace park".
Tomorrow I will go for a scroll there, to see if I found some "peace" from the traffic of the city…..
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, in White fish, Montana, USA.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Party for the "special children" (Canada)
Ola amigos lusos,
Acabei de fazer a "icefield parkway road". A etapa mais espetacular ate ao momento, como podem ver nas fotos do ultimo album, se e que fazem alguma justica a lindissima paizagem das "rocky mountains".
Foram mais 280 kms pedalados pelas criancas da APPC.
Um dos patrocionadores desta viagem, a discoteca Alibi, em colaboracao com a APPC, vai realizar uma festa de apoio as criancas especiais do centro da APPC de leiria, ja nesta proxima sexta feira, dia 29 de setembro.
Uma boa opoturnidade para voces poderem colaborar para esta nobre causa e ao mesmo tempo divertirem-se.Parte da receita da noite vai directamente para a associacao.
A discoteca encontra-se no centro comercial maringa, no centro da cidade.
Bebam um copo por mim.....
Hi guys,
just finnished the icefields parkway road. The most spetacular road until now, as you can see in the new album in the photo gallery,if the photos make it any justice....
another 280 km ride for the special chldren of the "APPC"
Just in case you are in Portugal this week, and around Leiria, my home town, one of this trip sponsors, the Alibi club, is putting up a night dedicated to them. Its already this friday the 29th of september and part of the evening revenue goes straight to the association.
The club is located inside the "maringa" shopping center,in downtown Leiria.
A good oputurnity to help the "special children" and have fun at the same time.
Have a drink on me....
Acabei de fazer a "icefield parkway road". A etapa mais espetacular ate ao momento, como podem ver nas fotos do ultimo album, se e que fazem alguma justica a lindissima paizagem das "rocky mountains".
Foram mais 280 kms pedalados pelas criancas da APPC.
Um dos patrocionadores desta viagem, a discoteca Alibi, em colaboracao com a APPC, vai realizar uma festa de apoio as criancas especiais do centro da APPC de leiria, ja nesta proxima sexta feira, dia 29 de setembro.
Uma boa opoturnidade para voces poderem colaborar para esta nobre causa e ao mesmo tempo divertirem-se.Parte da receita da noite vai directamente para a associacao.
A discoteca encontra-se no centro comercial maringa, no centro da cidade.
Bebam um copo por mim.....
Hi guys,
just finnished the icefields parkway road. The most spetacular road until now, as you can see in the new album in the photo gallery,if the photos make it any justice....
another 280 km ride for the special chldren of the "APPC"
Just in case you are in Portugal this week, and around Leiria, my home town, one of this trip sponsors, the Alibi club, is putting up a night dedicated to them. Its already this friday the 29th of september and part of the evening revenue goes straight to the association.
The club is located inside the "maringa" shopping center,in downtown Leiria.
A good oputurnity to help the "special children" and have fun at the same time.
Have a drink on me....
Monday, September 25, 2006
Yellowhead it to the Rockies (Canada)
Day 50 Km 3486
Travelling by bycicle everything is unexpected.
one never knows whats around the next curve; a beautiful landscape, a mountain to climb, a puncture or an unexpected encounter. What appened to me the day I left Smithers, was in fact unexpected.
I left late that morning, it was around 11am. It was a beautifull day, high clouds, but sunny, and a soft brease from norhtwest,easyed the ride. I just talked with my parents over the phone, and that iluminated my day.
The Yellowhead highway, conects the pacific coast with the provinces of inland canada, it crosses heavely florested areas, and by the road, I could see some ranches with green fields, cows and horses. The first ones I saw, since I left Inuvik.
The landscape was changing since I left the Cassiar, the human presence was more evident.
I had just done about 40 km, when a pick up truck, over takes me and pull over a few meters away. out of it came a strong and tall man, in shorts, coulourfull shirt and a big smille on his face. At first, I thought it was the campground attendent from Smithers, that found out I left without pay the last night, and came looking for me.
I had an excuse formulated already, in fact was the true; I had look for him everywhere the previous day and that morning too. He was nowhere to be found, so I left him a message on his door saying: " looked for you everywhere. I'm i the Yellowhead'n east. The Portuguese cyclist" After all the tall man with a beard face, was Paul, a dentist from Huston, the next village, 30 km away.
After a small talk, he invited me to stay the night at his house, giving me a card with a number to call, when I arrive in Huston.
3 hours later, I was in his garage, that looked more like a bycicle workshop, cleaning up the 'Kona Fire Mountain'.
Paul had a big laught, when he was cleaning the chain of the bike, and I told him, that I've been using olive oil. I should have explained that, olive oil, like rice in India,or coconut in the caribbean, is a multi-function ingridient much used in the mediteranean.
That night at the dinner table, with Gheri, his wife, Alli Dani and Jo, his 3 daughters, we spoke with entusiasm about wich areas I should visit, and about bike touring in general, something that the all family are 'aficionados'. By the time desert came, Paul diverted the conversation to the alpine pine beetle....
Another effect of the global warming, that is topic of conversation in BC, from the dinner table to parlamentary sessions. The alpine pine beetle, atacks the trees, cutting the flux of water and nutrients, the leaves turn red, and at a later stage dies... It's necessary cold winters with temperatures well below 0, to kill the lavae. The mild winters of the last few years, allowed mortality rates as low as 10%, insted of the usual 80%, sesultinfg in a explosion of the beetle population.
The days that followed this dinner, I observed with more attention the pine forests, realising that the red patches, that I been seen since the Yukon, wheren't part of the autum coulours, as I inicialy thought, but a result of this epidemic that afects mostly the provinces of the Yukon and BC, and tretens to expand east, beyond the rocky mountains. The rest of the evening, was spent looking at maps of North America, and trying to make up the best itinerary for me. Everyone was unaminus, including Jo, the youngest daughter, that I should follow the pacific coast through Oregan and California, because it would be too cold in the american rockies, once I get there.
On the next morning, Gheri prepered me some snaks, and Paul a small bottle of oil for the chain, that he garanteed me, it would work better then olive oil, in the rocky mountains.
I said good bye to the Comparelii family and to this unexpected suprise, and continued my journey.
I had done only 10 km, when I met Kathy and David, the only cyclists I saw on this strech of 807 km between Smithers and Jasper.
Kathy and David are from Seatlle, they left the children with someone and dicided to tour the brithish colombia for a month, and because they travelled much faster then me, doing 150 km per day average, I only saw them that day.
What they didn't know, was that destiny, had a suprise for them.
The 2 days that followed on the way to Prince George, I had a strong tail wind, I took advantage of it, to add up kms; 127 in one day, and 146 in the next, setting up camp at 5pm and 5.30pm, respectevly.
Prince George is a big and modern town, and the plant on the east side spread its vapours everywere, so I dicided to push a bit further that day. But before went into town to buy a new sleeping bag, leaving the old one with a drunken native couple that where sitting on a bench in the library gardens.
Alcoolism is a problem amoughst the native comunities.I've been observing it since I've left Inuvik.
Traped betewn 2 societies, where they don't identify intirely with either, they leave with a nostalgic past, long gone, and are not acepted in full in the modern canadian society, resulting in problems like alcoolism and unemployment.
My new sleeping bag is much bigger then the old one, and it doesn't fit inside my bags. I have to transport it on top of the rack, next to my tent. But with just over a kilo and comfort temperature of -7, is just what I need for the rockies.
It was worth every one of the 79 dollares, right on the second day, when the temperature of the spot I found to camp, next to the Holmes river, went down to -2.
That afternoon, before I started to look for a place to spend the night, another car over takes me, and stops a few meters ahead. It was Kathy and David.
Kathy crashed on a downhill on her own., and after a visit to the hospital in Prince George, they dicided to store their bikes on the back of a rented car.
They showed me her helmet broken in 3 parts, and David insisted in offering me his.
My Fidel's hat, moved to the bags, for the moment, and in fact I fell better riding with a helmet.
On this last stretch of my journey through the Yellowhead Highway, I've crossed all the BC, from west to east, climbing the rockies at it's lowest pass, the yellowhead pass( 1159 metres) and arrived yesterday at this small mountain resort town of Jasper, already in the Alberta province.
The jewel of the crown in the canadian mountains. This gigantic mountain chain, that stretches from the north of Canada, all the way to the Mexican border.
Waiting for Danina, at the moment, an old friend from Autralia, that live in Wistler and is arriving tomorow.
Our lives have been crossing each other, over the years. First in portugal, on a summer holidays when I first met her, then in london years later, again last year here in Canada, and once again tomorow, here in the rocky mountains.
From here I will follow the rockies into the United States, first riding the icefield parkway road to Banff, and then beyond into the south of Montana or until the weather permites it.
Once again the Elements, always present, in the built up of this journey to the land of fire......
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, em Jasper, Alberta, Canada.
Travelling by bycicle everything is unexpected.
one never knows whats around the next curve; a beautiful landscape, a mountain to climb, a puncture or an unexpected encounter. What appened to me the day I left Smithers, was in fact unexpected.
I left late that morning, it was around 11am. It was a beautifull day, high clouds, but sunny, and a soft brease from norhtwest,easyed the ride. I just talked with my parents over the phone, and that iluminated my day.
The Yellowhead highway, conects the pacific coast with the provinces of inland canada, it crosses heavely florested areas, and by the road, I could see some ranches with green fields, cows and horses. The first ones I saw, since I left Inuvik.
The landscape was changing since I left the Cassiar, the human presence was more evident.
I had just done about 40 km, when a pick up truck, over takes me and pull over a few meters away. out of it came a strong and tall man, in shorts, coulourfull shirt and a big smille on his face. At first, I thought it was the campground attendent from Smithers, that found out I left without pay the last night, and came looking for me.
I had an excuse formulated already, in fact was the true; I had look for him everywhere the previous day and that morning too. He was nowhere to be found, so I left him a message on his door saying: " looked for you everywhere. I'm i the Yellowhead'n east. The Portuguese cyclist" After all the tall man with a beard face, was Paul, a dentist from Huston, the next village, 30 km away.
After a small talk, he invited me to stay the night at his house, giving me a card with a number to call, when I arrive in Huston.
3 hours later, I was in his garage, that looked more like a bycicle workshop, cleaning up the 'Kona Fire Mountain'.
Paul had a big laught, when he was cleaning the chain of the bike, and I told him, that I've been using olive oil. I should have explained that, olive oil, like rice in India,or coconut in the caribbean, is a multi-function ingridient much used in the mediteranean.
That night at the dinner table, with Gheri, his wife, Alli Dani and Jo, his 3 daughters, we spoke with entusiasm about wich areas I should visit, and about bike touring in general, something that the all family are 'aficionados'. By the time desert came, Paul diverted the conversation to the alpine pine beetle....
Another effect of the global warming, that is topic of conversation in BC, from the dinner table to parlamentary sessions. The alpine pine beetle, atacks the trees, cutting the flux of water and nutrients, the leaves turn red, and at a later stage dies... It's necessary cold winters with temperatures well below 0, to kill the lavae. The mild winters of the last few years, allowed mortality rates as low as 10%, insted of the usual 80%, sesultinfg in a explosion of the beetle population.
The days that followed this dinner, I observed with more attention the pine forests, realising that the red patches, that I been seen since the Yukon, wheren't part of the autum coulours, as I inicialy thought, but a result of this epidemic that afects mostly the provinces of the Yukon and BC, and tretens to expand east, beyond the rocky mountains. The rest of the evening, was spent looking at maps of North America, and trying to make up the best itinerary for me. Everyone was unaminus, including Jo, the youngest daughter, that I should follow the pacific coast through Oregan and California, because it would be too cold in the american rockies, once I get there.
On the next morning, Gheri prepered me some snaks, and Paul a small bottle of oil for the chain, that he garanteed me, it would work better then olive oil, in the rocky mountains.
I said good bye to the Comparelii family and to this unexpected suprise, and continued my journey.
I had done only 10 km, when I met Kathy and David, the only cyclists I saw on this strech of 807 km between Smithers and Jasper.
Kathy and David are from Seatlle, they left the children with someone and dicided to tour the brithish colombia for a month, and because they travelled much faster then me, doing 150 km per day average, I only saw them that day.
What they didn't know, was that destiny, had a suprise for them.
The 2 days that followed on the way to Prince George, I had a strong tail wind, I took advantage of it, to add up kms; 127 in one day, and 146 in the next, setting up camp at 5pm and 5.30pm, respectevly.
Prince George is a big and modern town, and the plant on the east side spread its vapours everywere, so I dicided to push a bit further that day. But before went into town to buy a new sleeping bag, leaving the old one with a drunken native couple that where sitting on a bench in the library gardens.
Alcoolism is a problem amoughst the native comunities.I've been observing it since I've left Inuvik.
Traped betewn 2 societies, where they don't identify intirely with either, they leave with a nostalgic past, long gone, and are not acepted in full in the modern canadian society, resulting in problems like alcoolism and unemployment.
My new sleeping bag is much bigger then the old one, and it doesn't fit inside my bags. I have to transport it on top of the rack, next to my tent. But with just over a kilo and comfort temperature of -7, is just what I need for the rockies.
It was worth every one of the 79 dollares, right on the second day, when the temperature of the spot I found to camp, next to the Holmes river, went down to -2.
That afternoon, before I started to look for a place to spend the night, another car over takes me, and stops a few meters ahead. It was Kathy and David.
Kathy crashed on a downhill on her own., and after a visit to the hospital in Prince George, they dicided to store their bikes on the back of a rented car.
They showed me her helmet broken in 3 parts, and David insisted in offering me his.
My Fidel's hat, moved to the bags, for the moment, and in fact I fell better riding with a helmet.
On this last stretch of my journey through the Yellowhead Highway, I've crossed all the BC, from west to east, climbing the rockies at it's lowest pass, the yellowhead pass( 1159 metres) and arrived yesterday at this small mountain resort town of Jasper, already in the Alberta province.The jewel of the crown in the canadian mountains. This gigantic mountain chain, that stretches from the north of Canada, all the way to the Mexican border.
Waiting for Danina, at the moment, an old friend from Autralia, that live in Wistler and is arriving tomorow.
Our lives have been crossing each other, over the years. First in portugal, on a summer holidays when I first met her, then in london years later, again last year here in Canada, and once again tomorow, here in the rocky mountains.
From here I will follow the rockies into the United States, first riding the icefield parkway road to Banff, and then beyond into the south of Montana or until the weather permites it.
Once again the Elements, always present, in the built up of this journey to the land of fire......
Nuno Brilhante Pedrosa, em Jasper, Alberta, Canada.
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