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
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