On my cycling map, there was a special box with a warning printed in it: “NO SERVICES NEXT 66 MILES.” This seemed intimidating during the preparations for the trip. After all, why would BikeCentennial put such a warning on the map unless it was a big deal? There were no other such warnings in the whole set.
Other cyclists had warned me that the danger on that stretch was not the uncivilized distance, but the logging trucks on the road. Fortunately for me, there was a mill strike on when I passed through that Thursday, and there were very few trucks on the road. In fact, there were very few vehicles, period. This stretch of road, originally part of Lewis and Clark’s route, was one of the most pleasant on the whole trip. Except for the pavement, there were absolutely no signs of civilization. The road was fairly flat, following the streambed, and I was going upstream, which meant that I had a slight tailwind (the wind always seems to go opposite to flowing water). Before I knew it, the services started again. I stopped at Lochsa lodge.
Just as I came out the door of the general store, who should come rolling up but Stewart Lee. He had hooked up with Stephanie on the previous Friday, which explained why he wasn’t about 500 miles further down the trail. Apparently, Steph had made quite an impression on Stewart. He talked about changing his lifestyle, living more simply, and less selfishly. Was this the yuppie who owned a condo? He claimed that he had to break away, because he was starting to like Stephanie.
Stewart tried to convince me to stay at Lochsa, to keep Steph company (she was supposed to be lagging behind). I decided that I would rather tag along with Stewart, instead. He wanted to make Missoula, Montana, by nightfall. As this was still 40 miles away at 4 PM (over Lolo pass, no less), I was less enthusiastic about this goal.
Lolo pass wasn’t very bad, as mountain passes go. What was bad was taking it at Stewart’s pace. I couldn’t maintain 10 mph on the grade, especially not with full packs. About one-and-a-half miles from the crest, Stewart started to pull away, and I gave up. Between gasps, I shouted good-bye to him as the gap between us widened. Stewart wasn’t even breathing hard.
Just over the Montana border, I stopped at a campground. It was still near the top of Lolo pass. The campground was green and mossy. Cute little birds flitted among the bushes. Chipmunks and furry little rabbits danced between the tents. I felt like I was in the middle of a Disney movie.
As I was talking with the rangers, a car sped up to us and came to a scraping halt. The frantic woman inside pleaded, “Can you help me!! My little girl is lost!”
She had taken her eyes off her two year old daughter at a distant campground, and the daughter had vanished. I got to take part in the rescue effort. As the rangers drove along, I scanned the wilderness for signs of a little girl, especially in the river. We went in about four miles into the wilderness, then came to a tree lying in the road. Clearly this would have been unpassable by their family as they went camping. We turned around.
Thank God, the little girl was all right. She had just wandered over to the stream, and was totally oblivious to the panic in the family. By the time we found the campsite, everyone was back together again.
At the chilly campground, my dinner companion was my usual reading material: the backs of the cans. I had a can of spaghetti, which claimed, ‘2 servings.’ Likewise, the ordinary can of fruit cocktail also said ‘2 servings’. I had 1.6 servings of tuna, according to the can. I was still starving. I wondered if there wasn’t some tiny mouse in the corporate headquarters of General Foods deciding how many servings were in each can.