Williston, North Dakota - Okay, Montana wasn't THAT bad. But frankly, I'm just glad to see it in the rear-view mirror (or the proverbial rear-view mirror, since I lost mine yesterday somewhere along BIA Rte. 1.)

That may seem a little harsh, but the Bitterroot state has not been kind to me of late. Granted, Montana started out in spectacular fashion thanks to the wonder of Glacier National Park. But after that the wind started. It blew in my face. It blew in my face some more. It slacked off briefly, then blew in my face harder. Finally, for about two days straight, it was basically a sustained gale, shooting directly at me, threatening to pick my bike up and send me and Toto back to Kansas. I spent a good deal of time on the bike cursing the fates and demanding to know how hard it would be for the wind to just be to someone else's detriment for a while. As I mentioned in the last post, there's nothing more frustrating than pedaling your butt off to go 12 mph.

That being said, Montana wasn't as dull as I anticipated. Granted, the landscape was pretty unchanging, but I discovered it was still often able to hold my interest. For one thing, it was more colorful than I expected: green fields interlaced with brown fallow ones, blue hills and fading in the distance, fields of goldenrod or other wildflowers rimming the highway. And though there was some long, flat, straight points, there were also numerous hills, some of which stretched along the rivers in attractive lines of symmetrical bluffs. There was even a brief portion yesterday that resembled the Badlands. Were it not for the wind, I expect I would have found it all rather pleasant.

This is probably why North Dakota (and I'm a whopping 20 miles in) has so far come across as more likeable than Montana; the friendly weather. I suppose friendly is a relative term, however, as it is currently 95 degrees outside. Bleah. I will say one thing for the headwind: it kept me from overheating.

Williston, N.D.-At long last, I found a library that has USB ports and lets me use them. Thus, I present a few photos of the trip. These are basically in chronological order, and actually date from a few weeks ago - I didn't have time to get into the more recent ones in my brief hour on the 'net. Alas.

By the way, the little elephant dude that shows up in a number of them is my girlfriend Mary's Ganesh finger puppet, which she graciously lent me for the trip after discovering Hindis consider him the "protector of journeys." He keeps nosing his way into photos, though, the impudent sprite.




Anacortes, Washington - the starting point.




A waterfall in Washington State, right behind a massive powerhouse used to generate energy for Seattle. This was right next to what were once some beautiful gardens that have since fallen into disrepair. Apparently it used to be quite the tourist attraction for Seattleites to take the train out to the dam for a tour and boat trip.



Anacortes had a bunch of life-size cut-outs of "period" people stuck all over town. I couldn't figure this one out, though.




Here's me at the Pacific right after I dunked my tires in the water to start the trip.



The view from Washington Pass in the Cascades, second-highest point on the trip.

Havre, Montana - I've never been here before, but Havre holds special significance to me.

About six years ago, when I first began looking for jobs in the newspaper biz, I applied to the Havre Daily News, and as I recall they offered me a job. I blanched, both because of the location - middle-of-nowhere central Montana - and the pay, which was infinitesimal. A couple of months (and a string of rejections) thereafter, I took a job with the Roswell Daily Record, in the middle-of-nowhere New Mexico, for about the same pay. As it turned out, I hated Roswell: the landscape was featureless in all directions, the town had no character, and the paper was pretty awful. I left after eight months.

So as I've spent the morning tooling around Havre, I've constantly asked myself how this would have compared. And as far as I can tell Havre is in a dead heat with Roswell. Not that it isn't a nice place to visit for a morning, but it's a largely ugly industrial town tucked away in the middle of a featureless landscape that stretches to eternity. It has an unsightly strip along the highway running through town, a pretty (if pretty small) downtown and a few pleasant, leafy neighborhoods off the main drags. And that's it. Also, the paper looks to be about the same dubious quality as the Daily Record. Looking around, I'd have to call it a wash, though Roswell may win out because a.) the winter weather is undoubtedly much nicer there, and b.) it had cheap and ubiquitous Mexican food. So I can cut off that lingering thread of my existence.

Havre marks my third day zooming through the high emptiness of southern Alberta and central Montana. The road is straight and mostly flat, and the scenery consists of neverending fields and range, the monotony broken up only by the occasional silo dotting the horizon or a Burlington Northern train chugging by on your flank. The towns here are all weird little constructs: clusters of homes, trees and wheat towers rising out of the grass, usually crammed into the narrow stripy between the road and the railroad tracks.

I shouldn't say I've been 'zooming,' however, because it's actually been a two-day battle against an ugly headwind to get anywhere.

For a long-distance cyclist, there is nothing worse than a headwind. Hills are tough, sure, but you can see them coming, plan for them, and generally they reward you once you reach the top and get to scream down the other side.

Headwinds have none of these advantages. They can slow you down just as much as a hill, and can go on for much longer than any hill ever would, but you can't see them, can't prepare for them, and don't get anything on the other side except more road. They make you feel like the entire universe is conspiring to defeat you. Two straight days of them had me near despair.

The day before yesterday was especially awful. After spending a low-key day off in Cardston - and you haven't lived until you've seen the Museum of Miniatures, where some guy basically made a bunch of fairly cheesy dioramas in his rec room and charges people $6CN to see them - I had struggled against an ugly headwind for 23 miles when I blew a tire.

In theory, no problem. But either through my own incompetence or that of my tire pump (and probably a combination of the two), not only could I not replace the tire, but I managed to wreck both of my spares. So I was stuck on what was literally the least traveled road of my entire trip with no choice but to flag a ride back to Cardston, home of the only bike shop anywhere near me.

Fortunately, my luck was running the opposite direction of the wind; a guy in a pickup with room in the back for the bike came by inside of 5 minutes. Back in Cardston, the bike shop sold me some new tubes and a new pump (threw the old one out with gusto) and even let me put the tire on in their shop.

Then it was off again, to repeat the same 23 miles I had just done, into what had become an even stronger wind, and add on the 50 more it would take to get to the next town, where I proceeded to go to a fast-food joint and eat more at a single sitting than I had since high school.

Which brings us back to Havre. Mercifully, the wind shifted overnight and is now alternating between a crosswind and a tailwind; the difference in my speed (and mood) has been remarkable. I've only got another 40 miles to go today, my brother Marty is headed up from Colorado to meet me (I think) and presumably to do as much whooping up as one can do in Harlem, Montana (pop. 900.) Yee-haw!

Cardston, Alberta - Wednesday did not start on a good note.

I had planned to spend the day toiling over the "Going-To-The-Sun Road," a legendary route that runs east-west through Glacier National Park, rising to 6,600 feet as it passes over some of the greatest mountain scenery in the world.

Then I happened to notice a newspaper headline: "Going-To-The-Sun-Road may open by Saturday."

Well, shoot.

The road is closed all winter and generally opens in mid-May to mid-June. This being June 21, I had assumed it was open already. I was, as it turned out, wrong. This meant I would have to bypass the road in favor of the Marias Alternate, a shorter but by all accounts less interesting route around the park.

However, if being a reporter taught me anything, it's that you can't believe what you read in the paper. So I called up the Glacier Park info line and got told the same thing: closed until Saturday. Then I called the line again and waited for a homo sapien to answer. This wonderful human being told me that the road was closed, but that bikers could sneak over after the road crews went home.

A-ha!

So I rode into the park, where the ranger at the front gate gave me a contradictory report: closed to everyone. But I hadn't come that far to turn around, so I decided to err on the side of blind optimism. I pulled into a campsite and discovered a logjam of about five other bicyclists, some of whom had been twiddling their thumbs for four days waiting for the road to open. They had heard the same thing: wait until the workers go home that night, then head over.

So that's what we did. I piddled away a day in the park, taking a short boat trip and visiting the incredible Lake McDonald Lodge, with its three-story wood atrium, blazing fire (even in July) and hordes of animal-head ornamentation. Just sitting there made me feel like Hemingway.

Then we began our ascent, passing various "road closed signs" until we got to the official 'don't go past here' spot, manned by a DOT employee. She went home at 5:30, and we sat at the roadblock until 7:00, waiting for the sounds of road clearing ahead of us to stop. Then we went for it.

What followed was the most wonderful cycling experience of my life. Under any conditions, the Going-to-the-Sun Road is phenomenal. It's surrounded on all sides by massive glaciated rock faces that rise up to sharp mohawk-shaped peaks. Layers of snowcaps gradually dissolve into forested slopes far below, through which you could trace the paths of meandering rivers and even the steep, winding road we were ascending. The left side of the road shot straight into the stratosphere, the right side straight down hundreds of feet.

And we had it all to ourselves. No cars to dodge, to motorcycles roaring past, no trail of impatient drivers trying to pass on narrow curves. Just the sound of me pedaling (and panting) my way to the top. I'm not sure, but I may have been the first cyclist of the entire year to go over the pass and down the other side. By the time I made it to the first campsite 12 miles over the pass, it was 9:30 p.m. and just growing dark.

Unless something truly amazing happens to me in the next 6 weeks or so, Glacier National Park will remain, both literally and figuratively, the high point of my trip.

The next day - that would be yesterday - was certainly a letdown. Instead of the gradual descent I was hoping for (and that my legs were screaming for)I found myself heading up to another pass, this one about 5,200 feet up. This was where my body finally gave out on me. It felt like I was stopping on every hill, and I was giving serious consideration to actually walking the bike for the first time this trip. It didn't come to that, but there was much cursing and gnashing of teeth.

But I was finally up and over, and sometime yesterday afternoon I arrived in the low, rolling fields of southern Alberta. I'm not sure why, but the Northern Tier Route takes a short jog into Canada here before heading back to Montana. Since my body was demanding it, and since I enjoy Canada (polite, neat people with funny accents; new and exciting candy bars and soft drinks; socialized medicine), I decided to take my first day off here in Cardston, Alberta. Or, as I call it, Thrillsville.

First of all, Cardston isn't just Canadian, it's Mormon. It's the home of the first Mormon Temple built outside of the U.S. (a pretty awe-striking building, actually; I'm gonna visit it this afternoon.) So people aren't just neat and polite, they're also teetotalers. And the local bookstore appears to be full of books about how best to handle your two-year mission. I feel like I'm on Mars.

Cardston is also home to two major cultural monuments: first, the "Fay Wray Fountain," dedicated to the "King Kong" star who grew up here. I was crossing my fingers that the fountain would look like an ape on top of the Empire State Building, but no go, though the sign pointing to the (rather lame) fountain itself does have a giant monkey on it.

Second, there is the "Remington Carriage Museum," which is chiefly memorable in my mind for having actually been mocked on "The Simpsons." (In the episode last year when Patty and Selma Bouvier kidnap MacGyver, they use a slideshow of their visit to the Carriage Museum to get him to overcome his Stockholm Syndrome and take off.) The great thing about this is that the electronic sign outside the museum actually notes, "As Seen on The Simpsons," thus completely missing the point that the show was poking fun at how impossibly dull the place is. I got a big laugh out of that one.

All that being said, it's an altogether green and pleasant place to take a day off. In fact, I'm going to head over to the campsite right now and enjoy a hearty lunch of Cadbury candy bars and dill pickle-flavored Doritos. Oh Canada!

Whitefish, Montana - If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that 30 to 50 percent of the residents of northern Montana, Washington and Idaho live in either trailers or prefab housing. I mean, I've seen more than my share of trailers in Alaska, and I even grew up next to a (neat n' tidy) trailer park in Mass., but I've never seen anything like this. And some of them are kind of what you'd expect, a beat-up square of off-white alumninum with a mangy dog and maybe a rusting car by the chain-link fence. But some of them are really elaborate and extremely well-kept up, to the point where it becomes clear that the owner probably spent more on the landscaping and trim than the home itself.

But enough of the architectural commentary (well, almost enough - I just stumbled upon the only Frank Lloyd Wright-designed building in Montana. How cool is that?) This bike trip has really started to pick up steam: Since my last post in Twisp I have pulled off two 100-plus mile days and a 99-mile day (that was yesterday), crossed one time zone and moved through three states. Granted, there wasn't much of Idaho to plow through, but I still crossed it, dammit.

I made one of those 100-mile days despite having to make it over the highest point thus far in the trip, Sherman Pass, which is something like 5,500 feet tall. Now contrary to what many might believe, the hardest part of getting over a pass like that is not getting up it; it's getting down. Granted, the ascent is tiresome and time-consuming, but it's impossible to go down these long, steep descents without having to ride the brakes for miles on end. And that hurts. By the time I've been cruising at 25-30 mph for about 15 minutes I can barely feel my fingers anymore, and after I finally stop they'lll generally be buzzing for several minutes. And even more than that, it gets cold. I've gotten into the habit at the top of these passes of throwing on every scrap of clothing I have, and I still end up shivering on the way down. Not 'Fairbanks in January' shivering, but shivering nonetheless.

Anyway, my days of passes will soon be over; tomorrow or the next day I head over the higghest point in the trip, Logan Pass in the middle of Glacier National Park - which also happens to be the continental divide. After that it's a lot of downhill and then the eternal flatness of the Great Plains, which I expect to be a lot less scenic but a heck of a lot easier.

Speaking of scenery, it's died down a little since the high peaks of the Cascades, but northern Idaho and Montana are still gorgeous. The bike route mainly follows rivers, streams and lakes, and some of the vistas of jagged, pine-clad mountains ringing expanses of shimmering water are simply breathtaking. At least, they are when the sun's out, which has been the case around half the time.

For every moment of sublime peace and beauty on this sort of trip, unfortunately, there are one or two of abject despair. I think I first hit that point in the tiny hamlet of Ione, Wash., where I paid $5 to pitch my tent on a small promontory behind a mobile home park. It was a beautiful spot beneath a giant tree (all the better to keep rain off my tent) and looking out over the still waters of Lake Pend Orielle.

Then the bar across the water turned its jukebox on. I found myself assaulted by every classic rock cliche in the book, from "Born to be Wild" to "Black Magic Woman." I knew it was way too loud for me to ever fall asleep with it in the background, and I didn't want to stay up until 2 a.m. when it would stop.

Then it got dark and started to rain. Oh, and thunder and lightning too. I found myself faced with a choice: leave my tent under the tree and let it stay drier, or move it behind the RV Park office, where it would have no protection from the rain but where I couldn't hear the damn music.

See what I mean about despair?

Eventually I just sucked it up and left the tent where it is, shoved some t.p. in my ears, wrapped a shirt around my head, stuck my head into my sleeping bag and went to sleep. The next morning was sunny and warm. With a 15 mph headwind.

But I made it past that, past Idaho, past my first few nights in Montana. I just arrived here in Whitefish and am finding it a rather appealing place - attractive downtown, free internet, Frank Lloyd Wright building - so I may spend the night here or just down the road.

For anyone who tried to post comments and couldn't, the comments are now functioning. And this library doesn't have any USB ports handy (nobody's perfect), so still no photos. Someday soon I will hopefully find a library/cafe where I can download them and unleash a barrage of images for all to enjoy.

Tonasket, Wash. - it appears this particular library does not allow me to download photos from digital cameras. I suppose its the price I pay for scoring instant, free internet access at an institution 2,500 miles from home.

The last couple of days have been one funny name after another. I spent last night in Twisp, Wash. (never did figure out where the name comes from, but it sure is fun to say) and spent most of this morning struggling over Loup Loup Pass, which sounds like it belongs in Australia somewhere.

Twisp was wonderful, chiefly because the Eastern Cascades lived up to their reputation as a high desert. My tent, foam pad, clothing, etc. had been absolutely soaked through after two days of rain, but Twisp was basking in a day of marvelous sunshine. I was able to dry out everything in an hour, and, even better, I stayed at a campsite (well, actually the back lawn of a motel) with showers! Ahh, hygiene, how I have missed you. And I even did laundry.

The scenery around here continued to amaze me. I think every day of this trip I have seen a spot and decided, "that must be the prettiest spot on earth." I've zipped through verdant valleys and absentmindedly considered buying land, building a house and spending the rest of my days sitting on the porch, penning pastorals about the landscape. Not a very rational thought, but then it was just an idle notion.

The environment changed yet again after Loup Loup Pass - from pine forest to bare ground and sagebrush. I gather this area gets less rain than L.A., which explains why it looks a lot more like New Mexico than any conception I ever had of Washington State. It's still beautiful, but it's also starting to look a little barren and run-down.

All of this has made today a good day for covering a lot of ground - I've gone about 60 miles and its only 2:30 p.m. Another 20 or 30 (over another giant pass, unfortunately) and I'll settle in for the night. I'm crossing my fingers the next place has showers, or at least a lake to jump in.

Winthrop, Wash. - or rather, this is the town that is choosing to selectively ignore the twentieth century. They've basically left the whole place in Old West finery, including saloons and emperia up and down the wood-fronted main street, complete with wooden bordwalks. Very silly. The first genuine tourist trap I've run across, but its so disarmingly charming I can overlook it.

I'm nearing the end of my third day of biking, and I'm already running out of adjectives. Scenic, awe-inspiring, pastoral, folksy, rural, hellish, ugly, spectacular, exhausted, fresh, miserable and euphoric; every word fits the journey so far.

I began on Sunday in Anacortes, on Washington's coast north of Seattle; I arrived there via a plane from Fairbanks and a bus ride past the spectacle of downtown Seattle and the unfortunate mega-sprawl surrounding it. Anacortes itself is a beautiful seacoast town ringed by misty mountains and a popular set of island retreats. It also got points for not dropping rain on me.

I made it 78 miles on the first day, moving with remarkable swiftness from the busy and treacherous roads of the coast to the sort of rural farmland and small-town main streets I would have termed Middle America if they weren't 30 miles from the Pacific. I spent the first night in a state park stuck in the middle of a stand of virgin timber - fortunate, as the gigantic trees helped shelter my tent from the rain that kicked in right after I arrived.

Yesterday was a day of more rain and fairly brief biking, punctuate with frequent stops to admire a series of giant dams that are supplying power to millions of Seattleites 100 miles away. Today was where things got really fun, as I scaled two subalpine passes in the Cascades, the higher one clocking in at 5,477 feet. I felt like I was back in Alaska; snow bordered the road on both sides and I was lashed by rain around the top (as one of the peaks was named Rainy Pass, perhaps that was to be expected.) That was three hours ago, after which I spent 45 minutes of white-knuckle terror going straight back down the other side of the range.

Three days in, this trip has already proven relevatory. The mountain scenery rivals anything Alaska can throw at you, even in Southeast. I seemed to pass a towering waterfall every half-mile, whether I was cruising through sea-level rainforest along a rushing river or struggling up into the high altitudes. The lakes created by the dams are a vibrant emerald green. I feel like I've seen a whole trip's worth of America, and I'm only just getting started.

Sorry I can't accentuate the description with photos, but I'm experiencing technical difficulties with my digicam. Hopefully they'll work out okay at the next stop.

Let me preface this by noting that I am a dork. Which explains why, when I bought a Trek bike for my trip, I decided I should name it something out of Star Trek. And since the bike is a Trek 520, I decided it would be even more apt to name it after someone in season five, episode 20 of Star Trek: The Next Generation. (The original series only ran three seasons, and frankly the series after ST:TNG aren't worth memorializing)

Unfortunately, it turns out that episode 20 of season five is an exceedingly lame episode starring my least favorite characters from the show: Deanna Troi's obnoxious mother Lwaxana and Worf's bratty son Alexander. Apparently the highlight of the episode is them visiting a virtual holodeck circus. Whoop-de-doo.

But then I remembered that Lwaxana Troi always brought a valet with her: a seven-foot tall, gray-skinned, hard-drinkin', almost entirely mute strongman named (as I discovered after an Internet search) Mr. Homn.

That's the guy, I thought. Strong, silent, dependable, capable of carrying rather impressive loads of luggage. Exactly what I'm looking for in a bike. If I could find a little action figure of the dude, I'd tape it to my handlebars for inspiration.