On Hearing Voices in the Desert: Nevada… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

December 6, 2016December 5, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 34 Comments

Early prophets headed into the desert to seek guidance and find their gods. Living in the harsh environment served as a sacrifice. Being totally alone in the deep silence of the desert meant they had only themselves to listen to. It was easy to hear the whispers and voices of their inner-selves, and possibly something else, ancient voices reverberating down through time.

Have you ever heard someone talking to you when no one is around? The mental health folks call this experience an auditory hallucination. If you do it a lot, people start worrying about you. Words like mania or schizophrenia are thrown around. Professional advice is sought, straitjackets purchased. Fortunately, it has only happened to me twice: the first time when I was out backpacking, the second when I was bicycling across the Nevada desert on my 10,000-mile bike trek.

The first occasion I found rather humorous. I was backpacking with my Basset Hound, Socrates. (It should be noted that anyone who backpacks with a Basset Hound is already mildly insane.) Soc was off chasing some imaginary beast in the woods— his deep, hound-bark reverberating through the surrounding mountains. I was meditating using my favorite mantra, ‘goat.’ Don’t ask.

The session was progressing well. I had quieted my ever-noisy mind; colors were taking on intensity, the forest becoming alive, and Soc’s bark sounding like a Beethoven Sonata. That’s when it happened. A clear voice out of nowhere spoke to me.

“Talk to me, damn it!”

Now you can’t make this up. It’s too weird. Apparently, the inner me wanted words to munch on, not silence. It’s used to my constant nattering. So it broke into my conscious mind, took possession of me, and made a demand. I could only laugh. I went back to meditating but it was hopeless. (If you want to hear the rest of my story about backpacking with Socrates, go here. It’s a very 70’s type of tale.)

People who are really serious about hearing voices, however, go off to the desert and hang out for 40 days, or years. Saints and other holy people have been doing this for millennia. Big, booming voices tell them to go off and save the world, or take dictation, or whip themselves. Piddly things like “Talk to me, damn it!” are never heard.

Rocks are one thing that prophets find in abundance when they head off into the desert. They are great for caves; the ideal home for self-sacrificing god-seekers.

Rocks are one thing that prophets find in abundance when they head off into the desert. They are great for caves: an ideal home for those eager to live in misery.

Nevada is totally filled with rocks. I am actually surprised it hasn’t produced any prophets (that I know of).

More Nevada rocks. Possibly three wise men, or three aliens?

And more rocks.

The Nevada desert fully qualifies as a place to get messages. It’s full of vast amounts of nothingness and rattlesnakes and jackrabbits and dust devils and rocks and UFOs and sagebrush and casinos. A common message people receive is, “You’re bank account is empty.” I don’t think that the state has produced any saints. Characters, on the other hand, are a dime a dozen. It’s my kind of place. I’ve crisscrossed it many times.

I’ve often thought about the people who choose to live their lives isolated from others. What kind of a person does it take to make such a choice? What does living out here do to a person? Something about the choice resonates with me. I did, after all, choose to go on a six month bike ride by myself.

Nevada is filled with wonderful characters. One was Frank Van Zant who heard voices that directed him to go off and build this structure along Interstate 80. Known as the Thunder Mountain Monument, Zant built it as a haven for spiritual seekers (hippies) of the 70s, and as a reminder of how we have mistreated Native Americans.

I entered the state on my bicycle following Idaho/Nevada 93. I knew that I had arrived when I spotted the casinos. (There are very few ways that you can enter the state without finding at least one, and often several.) They were a welcome sight, being the only place I could get a snack and refill my water bottles on my hundred-mile ride from Twin Falls to Wells. I even donated five dollars in quarters to improving Nevada’s economy.

It really has to be a remote road that enters Nevada without a casino present. Highway 93 isn’t nearly remote enough!

Highway 93 connecting Twin Falls, Idaho with Wells, Nevada featured this view. It reminded me of how beautiful Nevada is.

Highway 93 connecting Twin Falls, Idaho with Wells, Nevada featured this view of what I believe is the Humboldt Range or Ruby Mountains. It reminded me of how beautiful Nevada is.

Another view. Nevada is part of the Great Basin and is made up of several ranges with basins between. During the winter and into early summer, these ranges are often covered with snow.

In Wells, I picked up Interstate 80, one of America’s major East-West routes. I had been dreading this part of my journey. For well over 9000 miles I had been travelling on America and Canada’s back roads whenever possible and busier two lane highways when forced to. Now I would be riding on a four-lane freeway packed with a high percentage of the nation’s cross-country 18-wheelers. My only option was to detour to the south and pick up Highway 50, known as America’s “Loneliest Highway” as it crosses Nevada. It sounded great, but I was out of detour time. So I bit the proverbial bullet— and was happily surprised.

A constant line of traffic heading west on I-80.

You can see almost anything traveling along I-80. Peggy and I were amused with this pick up load of squished port-a-potties. I had my doubts about how they were fastened down. I pictured seeing them on my bike trip with the rope breaking. News Flash: Biker killed by flying port-a-potty. What an epitaph that would make!

The surprise was that I-80 has great shoulders. There were also occasional breaks in the traffic.

The freeway has great shoulders. I could ride along and totally ignore the traffic. In time, the freeway noise even faded away. There was nothing but the desert, distant horizons and me. There weren’t even any cows to talk with, at least not many. I was free to meditate— and hear voices.

Cows to talk with were few and far between.

When the voice came, it was the booming type, not the silent whisper you hear in the back of your mind on occasion that suggests you really shouldn’t do something you have every intention of doing. It caught me off guard and scared me. I probably should have listened. Maybe I would have learned something, like to go home and build an ark. But I shut it down. I’m not crazy, and I had forgotten to bring my rose-colored glasses. Besides, I had no desire to become the first prophet to arise out of the Nevada desert (a scary thought), or end up in a straitjacket.

A couple of days later I did have a bit of a revelation, though. Maybe it was even related to the booming voice, or not. I’d left Sacramento with a lot of questions that could be traced all the way back to my youth and even DNA. To say I was restless is a massive understatement. While I had worked hard and had my share of success, I considered work an interlude between adventures. And my adventures were as much about running away as they were about my unending desire to explore new areas. My experience with relationships was similar. I’d had several since my divorce in 1976, and they had all been with good women, people who would have made great life-companions. But I had no desire to settle down and get married, much less have a family.

Something clicked in my mind out there in the middle of the Nevada desert, however. Maybe it was the result of sitting on the back of a bicycle by myself for six months. There was a lot of time to think, and a lot of alone time. I had a strong, clear thought that felt right to me. I could wander and explore without ‘running away.’ It was okay to go home and enter a serious relationship. It would be okay to get married again. It would be okay to have a family. I even went as far as thinking about the women I had dated over the past several years. As I said, they were good people, but I doubted that any of them had a sense of humor about my desire to wander. A week, yes, or even a month, but six months or a year? No way. I needed a companion who liked to wander as much as I did.

The rest of my trip across the desert was tame in comparison. I spent a lot of time going up and down. Nevada is basin and range country. I was constantly climbing up ranges and racing into basins. Towns were relatively close together and each one came with a number of casinos featuring inexpensive and plenteous food. My pure life of the open-road quickly deteriorated. I caught a bad casino cold as a result, after not having a touch of anything for six months. Eventually I hit Highway 95, the cutoff to Fallon where I picked up Highway 50 and cycled into Carson City. The Sierra Nevada Mountains loomed before me. The next day I would cross them, and then head home.

Leaving Interstate 80 toward Fallon, Nevada I entered what is known as the 40 mile desert, which was a nightmare for early pioneers crossing in wagon trains. An 1850 survey found 1061 dead mules, 5000 dead horses, 3750 dead cattle, and 953 graves along the route.

Highway 50 between Fallon and Carson provided a gentler view of the desert.

Highway 50 between Fallon and Carson City provided a gentler view of the desert.

And signs to watch out for wild horses crossing the road.

As I entered the Carson Valley, the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range loomed up before me. I was approaching the end of my journey. I was approaching home.

NEXT BLOG: I finish my 10,000 mile journey and return home. A surprise is waiting that will change my life.

Jumping into and across the Snake River Canyon of Idaho… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

December 2, 2016May 4, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 49 Comments

When Peggy and I arrived at the bridge across the Snake River, a man was hanging by his fingers on the edge of the bridge, 500 feet above the water.

When Peggy and I arrived at the Perrine Bridge across the Snake River, a man was hanging by his fingers on the edge, 500 feet above the water.

I biked out of Bozeman, Montana facing another climb across the Rockies. It turned out to be surprisingly easy. And beautiful. Highway 191 follows the scenic Gallatin River with its rushing waters up into the northwestern corner of Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming. Snowmelt during June turns this branch of the Missouri River into a seething whitewater-fantasy trip for rafters. Beyond its beauty and rapids, the river is also known for its world-class fly-fishing.

Snow melt turns the Gallatin River of Montana into a river runner’s dream.

Cliffs along the Gallatin River on Montana’s Highway 191 add to the area’s scenic beauty.

Trees along the Gallatin River on Montana's Highway 191.

As does the forest.

Fly fisherman try their luck in the upper waters of the Gallatin River in Wyoming's Yellowstone Park.

Fly fishermen try their luck in the upper waters of the Gallatin River in Wyoming’s Yellowstone Park.

By the time I had biked the route in August of 1989, the river had ceased its mighty roar but held onto its scenic beauty. Things were still roaring when Peggy and I drove up it in June as we re-traced my route. We stopped to admire the rapids and watch rafters. In the town of West Yellowstone, Peggy relived her youth by trying to find a bar she had once visited with a fake driver’s license in the early 70s.

She had obtained a summer job as a waitress in Yellowstone Park between her freshman and sophomore year at Mary Baldwin College in Virginia. (Mary Baldwin, once a finishing college for Southern Belles, was trying to make its way into the 20^th Century. Peggy, a Northerner from Ohio, was much more interested in obtaining an education than becoming a ‘lady,’ and had only lasted for two years before transferring to the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. UT included certification for working with the hearing impaired as part of its curricula, which was where she wanted to focus.)

In the meantime, Yellowstone had provided a welcome reprieve from Mary Baldwin— plus first love. Between waitressing at the park’s lodge and watching Old Faithful shoot towering plumes of water skyward, Peggy had discovered Bill, who definitely wanted to show her a good time. Part of this had included the trip into West Yellowstone and barhopping with a fake driver’s license.

My bike route followed Highway 20 out of West Yellowstone up and over the Continental Divide at the 7072-foot Targhee Pass, which also served as the border of Idaho. From here on, rivers would be flowing into the Pacific Ocean. I continued on Highway 20 down to Rexburg following Henry’s Fork of the Snake River and then made my way west on Highways 33 and 93 to the Craters of the Moon National Monument.

Henry’s Fork flows into the Snake River, which flows into the Colombia River and then into the Pacific Ocean. I had left the great Mississippi-Missouri River drainage system behind.

The mountains of central Idaho loomed in the distance above what was probably a potato farm near Rexburg.

Idaho’s Highway 33 seemingly stretches on forever as so many roads did during my 10,000 mile bike trek around North America.

Pickle’s Place is one of many delightfully unique restaurants I found along the road. Located in Arco, Idaho (once known as Root Hog), it features the Atomic Burger in honor of the fact that Arco was the first place in the world to be lit with atomic power.

This mountain next to Arco features the local high school’s graduating classes going back to the early 1900s.

The Craters of the Moon National Monument encompasses a wonderfully weird lava flow on the Snake River Plain that covers 618 square miles and was formed between 15,000 and 2,000 years ago. Early astronauts, including Alan Shepard and Edgar Mitchell, had arrived here on August 29, 1969 to practice future landings on the moon— one month after Neil Armstrong had already taken his “one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind.”

Idaho’s Highway 93, winding its way through the northern part of Craters of the Moon National Monument, seemingly disappears here.

Nature, in her marvelous way, is gradually reclaiming the volcanic landscape. Sagebrush is the most obvious plant in the area.

Flowers at Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho.

But Peggy and I also found these flowers.

Dead sagebrush at Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho.

As well as this stark but beautiful reminder of how difficult it is to reclaim lava.

Art in the Park sculpture in Craters of the moon National Monument in Idaho.

This sculpture added a colorful touch to the monument.

Sculpture in Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho.

I also liked this perspective, which seemed to capture the strangeness of the monument. A small-explorer’s foot can be seen on the right.

From Craters of the Moon, it was a short 80-mile ride to the Snake River and Twin Falls over relatively flat country. The river features a dramatic 500 feet deep canyon, which was created by cascading water from melting glaciers. When Peggy and I arrived, a man was dangling on the edge of the Perrine Bridge by his fingers, ready to leap into the canyon (featured at top of this post). Fortunately he had a parachute on. Still, he plummeted for 200 feet or so before engaging it. Scary stuff.

Perrine Bridge across the Snake River near Twin Falls, Idaho.

See the shadow on the river. It’s made by the parachute, the small triangle located center-left above the shadow.

Snake River looking west from the Perrine Bridge overlook.

This view of the Snake River is looking west from the overlook next to the Perrine Bridge. Boats have created the wakes.

When I crossed the bridge on my bike in 1989, I was thinking of another leap across/into the canyon— that of Evel Knievel in 1974. Evel, at the time, was synonymous with the word daredevil. During his life he made some 275 motorcycle jumps over cars, busses, and trucks. Fifteen of the jumps involved spectacular accidents. He suffered numerous concussions and shattered his pelvis three times. Overall, he broke 35 bones. Maybe he should have pursued a much tamer sport, such as playing NFL football.

Knievel was always on the lookout for new ways to upgrade his act, obtain more publicity, and increase his income. Mainly this involved adding more vehicles to leap (for a number of years, he held the world record of 19 cars), but he also had a dream of jumping the Grand Canyon. Concerns with National Park regulations, however, eventually led him to the Snake River. The 1700-foot jump was a bit long for his Harley, though, and this is where Robert Truax came into the picture.

Truax was one of America’s premier, pioneer rocket engineers, beginning his career prior to World War II when a childhood interest in Robert Goddard led him to build rockets at his home in Alameda, California. He then went on to work with the Navy on rocket development during World War II and later helped build both the Thor and Polaris missiles. By the late 50s/early 60s, he had left the military and was heading up Aerojet-General’s advanced rocket development division in Sacramento, California. I met the man when I promised him I would have his daughter home by midnight.

Kathleen (Kathy) Truax was a dark-haired beauty with brains to match. She had transferred into El Dorado Unified High School in Placerville during my senior year. After graduation, I had worked up the nerve to ask her out on a date to the California State Fair in Sacramento. Her immediate “yes” had me kicking myself for not asking sooner.

The weekend turned into a marathon. I had worked ten hours on Friday hauling 50-pound boxes of pears out of an orchard and then gone to a party at a friend’s. My mother called at midnight to tell me that the forest service had just phoned wanting me to help fight a raging forest fire that was threatening to engulf the small foothill community of Foresthill. So away I had gone and spent from 2 a.m. until 10 a.m. chopping a fire trail across a steep American River canyon with a heavy pickaxe. The looming inferno encouraged fast work.

After a two-hour nap break and lunch, our crew chief had told us that the fire was burning back on itself and that we could leave if necessary. I’d buzzed home to Diamond Springs, showered, and taken off for Cameron Park where I picked up Kathy in my 54 Chevy, met her dad, and gone on to the State Fair. I returned her home promptly at midnight as promised. We’d had fun and I had won Kathy a large stuffed bear that hardly fit in the back seat.

Later that summer, we had gone on a date up into the Sierra foothills near Pleasant Valley where her grandmother lived. Kathy had told me that her dad shot off rockets in the area that he had built in his garage. His visionary dream was to build inexpensive rockets that would make space travel affordable for everyone. Eventually, 13 years after the summer I had dated Kathy, that dream would lead him to build the Volksrocket (Skycycle X3) designed to carry Evel Knievel across the Snake River Canyon. The rocket had worked fine, but the parachute had malfunctioned, deploying when the rocket took off, which allowed the wind to pull it back into the canyon. Evel had landed on the river’s edge with minimal injuries (for him), and Truax had taken responsibility for the accident.

While Knievel died in 2007 and Truax in 2010, their dream was finally realized on September 16th of this year. Professional Hollywood stuntman Eddie Braun working with Truax’s son Scott used an exact replica of the Skycycle X3 with a well-tested parachute to successfully jump the canyon. Children of both Knievel and Truax were there to witness the event. Had Peggy and I been a couple of months later in our route review, we would have been there as well.

Looking east up the Snake River from the Perrine Bridge toward where Evel Knievel tried his 1974 leap across the river.

NEXT BLOG: I bicycle across Nevada and hear voices. Seriously. Were the desert gods trying to tell me it was time to end my journey?

We Interrupt Thanksgiving to Bring You a Message…. the Turkeys

November 23, 2016November 23, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 51 Comments

We, the United Turkeys of America, have a message for you.

Just because we stick our necks out, doesn’t mean we want them chopped off. Besides, we walk around on two legs just like you. Eating things with four legs or no legs is better.

We believe that you would be much better off eating cow or pig or sheep or something slimy for Thanksgiving— or any other time. We know that you are bright, caring, loving human beings who will listen to our reasons, that you are not like Dumb Tom who seems to have problems with where he should stick his head.

Dumb Tom, in the rear, so to speak.

So listen up folks… Here are four reasons why there should not be a turkey on your platter:

We are tough.

See the glint in my eye. That's a 'don't mess with me glint.'

I am one big, mean, fighting machine!

That’s a ‘don’t mess with me glint’ in my eyes.

We are pretty.

Really, can you think of anyone more beautiful than we are? Now if we can just persuade the girls…

We are cultured, we dance!

The fan dance…

The Conga line…

The Tango…

The ballet… Check out the toes!

And for the respected elders out there: “Me and my shadow, dancing down the avenue.”

We are native, Native Americans.

Long before Europeans came to America we were here, as ancient rock art attests to.

Long before Europeans came to America we were here, as this ancient rock art attests to. In fact, we are even more native than the Natives.

Gobble, gobble. Gobble, gobble, gobble. Translated: Eat snake, that’s what I am doing.

So, my friends…

In closing, I would like to recommend: Eat tofu.

In closing, I would like to make one final recommendation: Eat tofu.

A very Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family from Peggy and me. PS… We will be eating turkey. Don’t tell the flock.

Oh Deer!… Another Quickie

November 20, 2016November 20, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 52 Comments

Deer looks in door of Curt and Peggy Mekemson's home on Upper Applegate River in Southern Oregon.

Anybody home? A deer looks in our screen door. We are glad we don’t have a door bell. The deer would likely use it— constantly.

It’s time for another quickie: A break from my bike six-month bike trip with a little humor to counter our serious times.

I’ve blogged before that a deer herd actually owns our property on the Applegate River in Southern Oregon. They take their rent in apples. If they aren’t paid on time, they come and stare in our windows— our front windows, our side windows, our back windows, and our bedroom windows. Or they eat Peggy’s flowers. She always runs out to discuss the matter with them. They think she is just being polite, asking them how the flowers taste. Or they deny that they have been eating the flowers at all.

A nosy neighbor. If one window doesn’t work, the deer go around our house, peering in each window.

Come on! I know you are in there.

Deer sniffs flower for edibility in the Applegate Valley of Oregon.

Mmmm, is this edible. Checking out a daffodil. Peggy is constantly searching for plants the deer won’t eat. Daffodils are one, but that doesn’t stop the deer from biting the flower off and spitting it out.

I have not been eating your roses! A thorny issue. This deer is receiving a lecture from Peggy about not eating her rose-bush. Check out that stance of rightful indignation!

Wow, that apple tasted like I want another one! Always.

Me too! (We get to see the deer in all stages of development. The first buck above had fully grown antlers. This guy was just beginning. Bucks lose their antlers in late winter/early spring and have grown another set by mating season.)

When they aren’t eating, which is what they do most of the time, they do other deer things: fight, mate, have babies, raise their kids, groom each other, sleep, and lie around chewing their cuds. Since we are a part of the herd, more or less, we are invited to witness all of these things. Sometimes it can get a little hairy, like when a doe ran behind me when a lust-driven buck was chasing her…

Pregnant doe sleeping on back porch in Oregon.

Okay, already! I’ve been pregnant long enough. Women can probably feel great empathy for this pregnant doe who couldn’t seem to get comfortable sleeping on our back porch.

Soaking in the sun and chewing their cuds. It isn't unusual to have several deer sleeping around our house. When Peggy and I arrived home after redrawing my bike route this summer, it was like the deer had taken over.

Soaking in the sun and chewing their cuds. It isn’t unusual to have several deer lying around outside our house. When Peggy and I arrived home after re-driving my bike route this summer, it was like the deer had taken over.

You know how it is with families. Even though you have seen pictures of the kids once, you are bound to see them again— and again. It used to be that mother or grandmother (and occasionally dad/granddad would whip out her/his wallet and show you one or two. Now they whip out their smart-phone and show you 40 or 50. 🙂 I’ll conclude with some of the kids from around our place. Odds are you will see them again.

Lean on me. Any parent/grandparent is more than willing to whip out pictures of their cute kids/grandkids/pets, etc. It used to be out of the wallet. Now it is on the the phone... or social media.

Lean on me. This fawn was so young it still had shaky legs and was leaning up against its mom for support.

A real cutie who is all legs!

Did you remember to wash your ears? I never get tired of watching deer groom each other. They do it all the time. This is a mutual effort.

Young blacktail buck with tiny horns in the Applegate Valley of southern Oregon.

And then there are the teenagers. I call this fellow Little-Buck. He, his sister and mom stop by daily and visit. He has high hopes for his small antlers.

Here he is checking out my camera this morning. Next Blog: Join me as I finish my ride in Montana and bike through Idaho.

Is it edible? Here he is checking out my camera this morning. Next Blog: Join me as I finish my bike ride in Montana and head into Idaho.

I Know I Am in Montana; The Question Is Where? … The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

November 16, 2016November 16, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 54 Comments

They call it Big Sky Country for a reason. The heavens seem to stretch on forever. But the enormity of the sky is matched by the state’s mountains and rivers and valleys. Even this single tree has a statement to make.

I don’t really know if you can make a wrong turn in Montana. Almost everywhere you go the skies are big, the mountains high, the rivers clear, and the views forever. With that said, I am not 100% sure about my bike route through the state. For most of my 10,000-mile journey I had maps, or my journal, or letters, or even just logic to retrace my route of 27 years ago. Many of the roads I traveled down were the only roads available or at least the only roads I could use and get where I wanted to go without a major detour.

And often there were significant events that reminded me where I traveled. Many of the views I saw in Montana could have played this role— except those views were just about everywhere. The two events I do recall happened on my first day. One, I bicycled 120 miles with the elusive tailwind I had hoped for in North Dakota. Two, I found a restaurant that offered a free pancake to anyone who could eat the whole thing. It was a yard across, two inches deep and took the whole griddle to cook. I passed. But I watched a giant consume one and go on to eat a second. I thought he deserved a standing ovation, but hesitated with the thought that he might not like standing ovations. I try not to irritate mountains.

But my memory aids were unavailable for Montana. Still, I know most of my route. About 250 miles are in contention, which in Montana isn’t a big deal. Now if I were talking Rhode Island or Delaware… Anyway, if you are a map fiend, I either traveled from Malta on Highway 2 to White Sulphur Springs, or from Havre on Highway 2 to White Sulphur Springs. Both seem logical choices. Since the former route came first, Peggy and I drove it. Sections seemed quite familiar. Others not so much. One of these days, I will go back and start from Havre. Anyway, here are some views Peggy and I saw along the way.

Another perspective on Big Sky Country. This one along US Highway 2 as it makes its way through northern Montana.

Fence showing Montana cattle brands at Culbertson, Montana museum.

If ever there was a modern catch phrase in the writing, art, and business world, it is “branding.” Over and over we hear about how important it is that we establish our own unique voice or product. Well, there was a time when the concept of branding was a lot simpler. 🙂 We found this fence at a small museum in Culbertson, Montana. These are cattle brands from the region.

Cow weathervane found at museum in Culbertson, Montana.

We also found this fun weather vane at the Culbertson Museum. Somehow, it reminds me of the recent election. (grin)

Old beauty parlor hair curlers on display at Culbertson, Montana, Museum.

Another photo from the Culbertson museum and another bit of post-election humor: After the election, Mrs. B decided to head for the beauty parlor to have her hair done— and her brain rearranged. (Move on Curt.)

Whoa! Another roadside attraction. Dinner? We came on this unlikely pair along with another 20 acres of other such creatures along Highway 2. There was no sign to tell us why they were there.

Here’s a cowboy with high hopes, “high in the sky apple pie hopes.” The Native American is saying, “Go get him guy. I’m behind you all the way.”

Peggy and I came across this derelict old house with its life-affirming message along Highway 2. It's a great message for these troubled times from a poem by Sam Walter Floss: "Let me live in a house beside the road/ Where the race of men go by/ The men who are good and the men who are bad/ As good and bad as I/ I would not sit in the scorner’s seat/ Nor hurl the cynic’s ban/ Let me live in a house by the side of the road/ And be a friend to man."

Peggy and I came across this old house with its life-affirming message along Highway 2. It’s a great message for these troubled times from a poem by Sam Walter Floss: “Let me live in a house beside the road/ Where the race of men go by/ The men who are good and the men who are bad/ As good and bad as I/ I would not sit in the scorner’s seat/ Nor hurl the cynic’s ban/ Let me live in a house by the side of the road/ And be a friend to man.”

Petroglyph from Sleeping Buffalo Rock along Highway 2 in Montana.

Another Highway 2 site featured the Sleeping Buffalo Rock covered with carved petroglyphs. This symbol is usually interpreted to represent a badger.

In Malta, Peggy and I picked up US Highway 191, which runs from the Canadian Border to Mexico. Unlike most of America’s historic north-south/east-west blue highways, 191 is a combination of many north-south roads that were put together in the 80s.

Another view of Montana countryside along Highway 191.

A Montana stream found along US Highway 191.

A calm stream…

The Missouri River in Montana along US Highway 191

And the mighty Missouri River— Montana style.

This is Montana! Cowboys and cattle. Two cowboys rode horses, and one is using an ATV.

Tempting! A trout contemplates a lure in a Lewiston, Montana mural.

Tempting! A trout contemplates a fly in a Lewiston, Montana mural.

I found this town fun. The high school looms in the background. The vote for the 2015 commencement speaker was unanimous. Dakota Jolliff asked her uncle to give the address. She was the only senior. The principal lives across the road from the school. First thing in the morning during winter storms, she looks out her window. If she can’t see the school, classes are canceled. The school is also haunted. Lights are turned on at night and locked doors opened.

You may have noted the windmills in the Judith Gap sign. Check out the cattle at their base. There are 90 of the 40 story high monsters. They proved electricity to the 80 homes in Judith Gap plus another 360,000.

You may have noted the windmills in the Judith Gap sign. Check out the cattle at their base. (Tiny dots at the fence line right center— they may be antelope.) There are 90 of these 40-story high structures. They provided electricity to the 80 homes in Judith Gap plus another 360,000.

The Rocky Mountains viewed from Highway 191 in Montana.

When it comes to mountains, Montana is not shy. These are the Rocky Mountains.

Another view.

And another…

And another.

Wood cutouts of wild animals in Sulphur Springs, Montana.

Peggy and I stayed at an RV campground in White Sulphur Springs that featured wild animal cut outs. I really liked this moose family with its reflection.

Peggy fed this one. Don't do this at home kids, Don't ever stick your hand in the mouse of an elk! :)

Peggy fed this one. Don’t do this at home kids. Don’t ever stick your hand in the mouth of an elk! 🙂

Here is my mandatory old barn photo for this blog with its dramatic backdrop of the Rocky Mountains. I didn’t feel that this barn was simply falling down. It looked like it was melting!

Mountain men played a key role in the westward movement, first as trappers and later as guides.

Did this guy just hear the election results? (Kidding) We watched this guy and another jump into the Yellowstone River— and come out alive. They had carefully waited for a policeman to pass. I am reminded of a statement by Joseph Campbell. “When you find yourself falling, dive.”

The Yellowstone River

A final view for today’s post. This one is near Bozeman, Montana. In my next post I will head south from Bozeman and into Idaho, another beautiful state.

The Squirrel… A Quickie

November 12, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 37 Comments

Ground squirrel robbing bird feeder on Applegate River in Oregon.

This little fellow is a master at stealing sunflower seeds.

I don’t know about the world, but I can certainly use some laughs. So I’ve decided to start publishing quickies on occasion, things that I find humorous, and hope you will as well.

This fellow was impressive. Not only did he make a leap that Grey Squirrels find daunting, he had slipped through a hole that was designed to accommodate Chickadees. He did have one problem, however, and I found it hilarious. Ground squirrels are greedy fellows, right, and this one was no exception. He had filled his pouch with so many seeds that he couldn’t get out the narrow hole he had climbed in! And believe me, he tried— especially when I was getting up close and personal with my camera. Finally, he spit out his ill-gotten gains and escaped. I set my squirrel trap with lots of sunflower seeds. I knew he would be back, and given how smart he was, he would soon be gathering seeds in the feeder, spitting them over the edge, climbing out and retrieving them! I caught him and he had a lot to say to me. I can’t print them in my GP rated blog. He is now living down the road, over the bridge, on the other side of the river learning to eat dried black berries and grass seeds. He’s in good company. I have already resettled his great grandparents, grandparents, parents, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins there. I wish him well.

There was no way he could get out of the cage with his bulging pouch! So he made the ultimate sacrifice, he spit out the seeds. 🙂

North Dakota and the Sneakiest Dog in America… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

November 11, 2016November 12, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 25 Comments

Peggy and I discovered this pair of Canadian Geese in their idyllic setting near Minot, South Dakota.

I’m back in the saddle again/Out where a friend is a friend/Where the longhorn cattle feed — On the lowly gypsum weed/I’m back in the saddle again. –Old cowboy song by Gene Autry

My brother-in-law John wanted to know when it might be safe to come back to my blog. I really like John: he’s bright, is a talented writer, has a wonderful sense of humor, and is great to travel with, not to mention he has a really neat wife. But we avoid talking politics. So this one’s for you, John. I am back in the saddle again. (grin)

I only needed one hand to count the number of people I met traveling through the US and Canada who were on long distance bike treks. So when I saw a fellow bicyclist loaded down with gear coming out of North Dakota on Highway 2, I flagged him down.

“The state is relatively flat,” he informed me, “and it should have been easy peddling. But I fought a strong head wind the whole way. It was tough.” I couldn’t help smiling. I appreciated his difficulty; I’d certainly dealt with my share of nasty headwinds. A strong headwind for him, however, would mean a strong tailwind for me. I would fly across North Dakota.

“One more thing,” the cyclist had cautioned, “there is a really nasty dog about five miles up the road. Be careful.”

I’d shared my experiences of bicycling through Minnesota and we had chatted for a while longer. We then parted company with him cycling east and me west.

Fifteen minutes later, I discovered the headwind— going in the wrong direction. That’s the thing about headwinds in North Dakota. They are close to legendary among bicyclists. You are always bicycling into the wind; it doesn’t matter which direction you are peddling. I hadn’t traveled for more than 15 minutes when I felt the first puff on my face. It hassled me all the way to the Montana border.

No large, drooling dogs came charging out to eat me, however. So I felt like I had dodged at least one bullet. I was thinking happy thoughts when I felt an irritation on my right heel with each rotation of the pedal. Curious, I glanced back. “What the…” went bouncing around my skull! A large, drooling dog that looked suspiciously like a pit bull was running silently beside me trying to grab my right foot each time it came close to his snapping teeth. I had met the sneakiest dog in America! My reaction was instinctual. I grabbed my bike pump and swung it backwards with a fair amount of force— and was rewarded with a solid thump and a surprised yip! I had caught the miscreant on his nose. Problem solved. The last I saw of him, he was low-tailing it home. Maybe he would think twice before hassling another bicyclist. Or bite harder…

Besides the large dogs and headwinds, two other things struck me about North Dakota. The first was sunflowers, millions of them, all pointing the same direction. I found them beautiful. North Dakota has more of them that anywhere else in the US. When they are young, they practice heliotropism. And no, that isn’t some weird sexual practice. Their necks are flexible and they track the sun. Early in the morning they are looking east. By late afternoon they are facing west.

When Peggy and I travelled through North Dakota in early June, it must have been too early for the sunflowers. So I recruited one from our yard that was hanging out a few months ago.

The importance of agriculture to North Dakota could be seen everywhere, as with these distant storage elevators. I also like this photo because it provides a perspective on how flat certain portions of the state are.

The importance of agriculture to North Dakota could be seen everywhere, as with these distant grain elevators. I also like this photo because it provides a perspective on how flat the terrain in North Dakota can be.

It was obvious that people had been farming in the state for a long time!

Large farming equipment could be found everywhere.

Large farming equipment was found for sale in most towns.

And some of it I really would not like to meet on a dark night.

Including some that I wouldn’t like to meet on a dark night..

As I travelled west, ranching became more prevalent. Windmills are symbols of the West.

Cow now have strong competition from oil wells out in western North Dakota. Peggy and I saw oil operations everywhere. This wasn't the case when I biked through in 1989. Fracking seems to be the prime way for getting oil out of the ground. Can earthquakes be far behind?

Cows now have strong competition from oil wells out in western North Dakota. Peggy and I saw oil operations everywhere. This wasn’t the case when I biked through in 1989. Fracking seems to be the primary way for getting oil out of the ground. Can earthquakes be far behind?

The second thing I remember was a massive storm that caught up with me in the western part of the state near Williston. I’d been watching the clouds gather all afternoon and they had morphed into towering cumulus clouds that threatened one hell of a downpour and possibly a massive hailstorm. It was nothing I had wanted to be caught out in, and nothing I wanted to face in my tent. The higher the clouds had climbed the faster I had pedaled. I’d whipped into the first motel I had come to on the eastern edge of Williston and begged sanctuary.

“Sorry,” the clerk had told me, “We’re booked up.” Some type of event was going on and all of the motels in town were apparently full. Owners were calling around looking for space. “I just talked to a motel across town with three spaces left. Would you like me to call?” I had quickly answered yes. “You are in luck,” the clerk smiled, hanging up the phone. “You have the last space but you need to hurry.” People in Williston who looked out their windows must have thought that the Tour de France had made a wrong turn.

I pulled up in front of the motel office and opened the door halfway. “We are booked up,” the owner had growled. The pit bull had seemed much friendlier and probably was. “Ah, but I have a reservation,” I had responded, sounding cheerful, giving my name, and explaining about the motel across town. He had sourly looked down at a note he had made.

“You can stay,” he said. “But I don’t like bicyclists.” Whoa, I had thought, welcome to Williston. I wondered if a bicyclist had trashed one of his rooms forever condemning all bicyclists to hell. “You have to leave your bicycle outside. If you take it into your room, I am kicking you out, regardless of the weather.” I saw him staring out the window of the office, watching as I locked up my bike outside. Shortly afterwards the storm hit: drenching rain, high winds and hail. It was a nasty night in a cheap motel that had long since seen its glory days. Around 10 p.m., I went outside and retrieved my bike, carried it inside and put it down on newspapers. I was up and out by six the next morning. The sun was shining.

Some more memories of North Dakota…

This is the pond with the geese in it that I featured at the top of the blog.

A one room school-house along Highway 2. Modern wind mills can be seen off to the right in the distance. There is a lot of wind in North Dakota.

I discovered the geographical center of North America when I road through Rugby, North Dakota. It was still there when Peggy and I drove through. (grin)

I discovered the geographical center of North America when I rode through Rugby, North Dakota. It was still there when Peggy and I drove through. (grin)

Another small lake we found along Highway 2.

Another small lake along Highway 2. I really liked the tree border.

It was skies like these that sent me scurrying for Williston. (The town has now become a city due to the oil boom, but it has been having tough times since oil prices dropped.)

A North Dakota stream in the western part of the state. Note the hills!

I'll conclude with this tree that lives out west.

I’ll conclude with this tree that we found out west. It was outlined by the sun, which had broken through the clouds.

NEXT BLOG: It’s off to Montana and Big Sky Country!

Ten Lessons Our Children Learned from the Election

November 9, 2016November 9, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 58 Comments

I’ve been a little neglectful on reading blogs and responding to comments the past few days. My apologies. America has just gone through one of the nastiest elections in its history. And the American people have spoken, in a way I never expected them to. I know they were voting their frustration, a frustration that was caused in many ways by the very same people they just voted back into office.There is a reason why our government has been so dysfunctional for the past eight years. It was grounded in just-vote-no-and-screw-the-consequences. Let the nation go up in flames rather than work together and compromise to build a better nation. Challenge where the President was born, regardless of proof, instead of meeting him half way across the aisle as he offered again and again. And never, never let him have a victory. Now these folks are saying don’t be bitter, we have to work together. Right.

Well, my sense of humor is a little low now, so I am feeling a little ouchy. One good thing I did see was that 18-25 year olds voted for Hillary in all but five states. Our future may be in good hands. I suspect we will be hearing from young people a lot over the next few months. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what lessons our children have learned over the past year. I came up with ten.

Ten Lessons this Election Taught Our Children:

Rudeness and bullying are okay. Being polite is for losers. Call people who disagree with you names. Call them criminals. Threaten to throw them in jail. Threaten them with lawsuits.
Sexual harassment is okay. It is okay to denigrate women and seduce married women. Boys will be boys, right. Threaten to sue women who dare to complain, call them liars. Make sure that women are afraid to complain when they have been harassed or raped.
Don’t worry about financial obligations. If you can get away with paying someone nothing or low wages, great. You are not bad, just smart. If worse comes to worse, go bankrupt and stiff all of the people who have worked for or with you. Again, that’s not being bad, just smart. Besides, it’s a great tax write off.
In fact, don’t pay taxes, especially if you are wealthy. It’s not criminal; it’s smart. Let losers such as the middle class and low-income people pick up your share.
Our military stinks. The solution is to fire all of our generals. Americans, such as John McCain, who end up as Prisoners of War, are losers. A smart person would have never been caught.
A major solution to unemployment is to do away with environmental protection. Global warming is a myth. Let’s go back to coal as the solution to America’s energy needs.
It’s perfectly okay to be a racist. Build massive walls around America. Send millions of Mexican Americans back to Mexico. Block people from Islamic countries from coming into America. Challenge where America’s first black president was born, again and again, regardless of proof. The innocent are guilty until proven otherwise.
There is nothing wrong with a nation who once threatened our nation with nuclear destruction, who has been our sworn enemy for close to a century, and is once again reaching for world domination, to interfere with our political process in America. There is nothing wrong with a presidential candidate inviting such interference.
There are no consequences related to lying. Truth is relative. If you are caught in a lie refuse to respond to the accusation and make the same lie over, again and again. Did you chop down the cherry tree? Hell no.
Might makes right. Issues such as equal rights, equal opportunity, freedom of speech, and freedom of religion are secondary.

Enough, my friends. I promise to get back to blogging about bicycling through America and Canada in my next blog. I just have to tell you about the nastiest dog in America. —Curt

I Meet a Babe in Minnesota… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

November 8, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

This beautiful cove is found along Minnesota’s scenic Highway 61 on the north coast of Lake Superior.

The Canadian Border guard glanced at my California driver’s license, smiled, and waved me through. How threatening could a guy on a bicycle be? It was a simpler time— a peaceful interval between America’s seemingly endless wars, before the onslaught of real and imagined terrorism, and before two good neighbors required passports to enter and leave.

The American Custom’s inspector was a bit more suspicious. They usually are. Maybe I was a pot-smoking hippie, an escapee to Canada from wars past. Middle-aged men were supposed to be busy working 40-hour weeks, knee-deep in kids and nose-deep in debt while supporting the American economy, not running away on six-month bicycle adventures. He had questions to ask. How long had I been in Canada, where had I traveled, what was my reason for being in the country, where had I stayed? I didn’t tell him about sleeping out along the highway or taking a bath in two cups of water. It might have been pushed him over the edge. Eventually he sent me on my way, grumpy that he hadn’t found a reason to declare me Un-American. I was just glad he didn’t make me empty my panniers. He would have discovered my very dangerous dirty socks.

I was sad to leave Canada. It had been an important part of my bicycle journey. I remembered the friendly people, the beauty of Nova Scotia, my first stumbling attempts at long forgotten French in New Brunswick, and the endless miles and wilderness of northern Quebec and Ontario. But further adventures waited. First up was a 114-mile ride along Minnesota Highway 61, a scenic road that parallels the north shore of Lake Superior from Canada to Duluth and is renowned for its beauty, a beauty that includes the lake, islands, quiet coves, crashing waterfalls, and one of the world’s most photographed lighthouses.

Overlook on Minnesota Highway 61 that provides a view of Islands in Lake Superior.

An overlook provided a view of islands in Lake Superior.

Old cabin on Minnesota's scenic Highway 61 along the north Shore of Lake Superior.

This old cabin was once someone’s beach front property on Lake Superior.

Lake Superior provided a storm-free days for me with small lapping waves, not the monsters that are known to roll across the lake in November.

Lake Superior provided storm-free days for me with small lapping waves, not the monsters that are known to roll across the lake in November.

A beach on the North Shore of Lake Superior.

Another example. The red rocks caught my eye.

The Cross River on the north shore of Lake Superior along Minnesota's scenic Highway 61.

Foaming falls on the Cross River just before it flows into Lake Superior.

The Cross River of Michigan just before it flows into Lake Superior.

The Cross River below the falls.

A view of Minnesota Highway 61, a great road for bicycling.

The photogenic Split Rock Lighthouse poised on a ledge above a foggy Lake Superior.

Split Rock Lighthouse on the North Shore of Lake Superior in Minnesota.

And in the distance.

Lake Superior is indeed a superior lake. It contains 10% of the world’s fresh water, which is enough to flood all of North and South America to one foot in-depth. Surface-wise, it is the largest lake on earth. The states of Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New Hampshire could easily be plopped down on top of it. Had I ridden my bike around the lake, I would have traveled some 1300 miles, an equivalent to 13% of my whole journey.

It’s so big that 40-foot high waves have been recorded rushing across its surface, sinking ships unfortunate enough to be out on the lake during major storms. Some 6,000 ships have gone down in the Great Lakes altogether, causing upward to 30,000 deaths— and the numbers may be much higher. Gordon Lightfoot memorialized one of the shipwrecks in his 1976 ballad, The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. On November 10, 1975, the ship had encountered a massive storm with 35 foot waves on Lake Superior and been sunk, taking all 29 of her crewmen to a watery grave.

Fortunately the weather was beautiful for my bike trip. November gales were still months away. I had futzed along, taking a couple of days to enjoy the beauty and give my body a break from the 80-100 mile days I had spent peddling through Quebec and Ontario. I stopped a lot.

So did Peggy and I on our revisit in June. We admired the views and took photos. The picture taking was a bit iffy, however. My Canon Power Shot 100 had died in Ontario. “Use my camera,” Peggy had urged. But her Canon EOS Rebel was sick as well. It kept giving us an Error-99 message. We looked it up on the Internet. The problem was referred to as “the dreaded Error-99 message.” Apparently the camera gave it to any issue its software couldn’t diagnose. I babied the camera along, changing its battery, cleaning its terminals, and saying nice things to it, hoping it would last until we got it to Duluth. “We’ll get you fixed, sweetheart,” I promised, and she kept snapping pictures. (It was not to be.)

The camera made it (just barely) to Duluth. The city is actually a seaport for ocean-going ships that make the 2300-mile journey to and from the Atlantic Ocean via the Great Lakes Waterway and the St. Lawrence Seaway. It has had its ups downs, historically speaking, from boom to bust, but now it seems quite healthy. We passed some lovely old buildings including a snazzy high school in our search for a camera shop. I had found an Internet recommendation for one on the outskirts.

Central High School in Duluth, Minnesota.

I found it hard to believe that this beautiful structure was built originally as a high school in Duluth. They certainly didn’t build high schools like this in California. I’m thinking Harry Potter and Hogwarts!

The owner of the camera shop, a really nice guy who was being driven out of business by the same Internet that recommend his store, looked at our camera and said, “Uh-oh. You have the dreaded Error-99 message.” We laughed. What else was there to do? He took the camera apart, did what he could, put it back together, and snapped a shot out his window. Error-99 popped up on the screen.

I bought a new Canon G7X for the road. Peggy’s new camera is waiting for Christmas.

US Route 2 took me out of Duluth all the way to Grand Forks on the border of North Dakota. Cycling was relatively easy; the weather sunny. The highlights of my ride included throwing a rock across the Mississippi River and meeting a babe— a big blue babe about 15 feet tall with four legs and a tail. A sculpture of the legendary lumberjack, Paul Bunion, and his giant Blue Ox, Babe, is located in the town of Bemidji, Minnesota. Babe was so big, folklore tells us, that Paul used her to straighten out crooked logging roads by hooking her up to one end of the road and having her pull. When she had to scratch an itch on a tree, the tree would fall down and beg for mercy. Once she was pulling a water cart that sprang a leak. It created the Mississippi River! Statues of Paul and Babe are actually found in several locations in the US. (Peggy and I drove by one last week in the Redwoods of Northern California.)

A view of the Mississippi River as it looks in Northern Minnesota.

A side view of the Visalia-Natchez Bridge across the Mississippi River with a barge passing under it.

The Visalia-Natchez Bridge I had used to cross the Mississippi River earlier in my trip when I had left Louisiana and entered Mississippi. Maybe Paul Bunion could throw a rock across it.

Another view of the Mississippi in Minnesota. Even I could throw a rock across this one.

Paul Bunion and his Blue Ox Babe in Minnesota. Peggy is standing next to Pau's leg to prove a perspective on size.

Paul Bunion and his Blue Ox Babe in Bemidji, Minnesota prove that Canada isn’t alone in creating large, humorous statues. Peggy is the tiny person standing next to Paul’s leg to provide a perspective on size.

Next Blog: Minnesota Highway 2 leads me into North Dakota, more stormy weather, and the sneakiest dog in 10,000 miles.

From Flying Saucers to a Monster Moose: Bicycling across Ontario… The 10,000 Mike Bike Trek

November 4, 2016 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

Large moose culture found in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

Large sculptures are often found in Canadian towns. They serve as tourist attractions but also give the town a unique character. We found this large moose that Peggy is snuggling up to in Hearst, Ontario.

Quebec and Ontario shared a unique status on my Bike Trek: They were huge— two to three times the size of Texas. Each took over a week to bicycle across and each had a lot of no-where miles, long distances between towns. Northern Quebec won the prize, however, for being the most remote. As I bicycled south and picked up Quebec Route 117, larger towns reappeared at more frequent intervals. Val-d’Or and Rouyn-Noranda were close to being small cities.

Crossing into Ontario, smaller communities were the rule. Ten thousand people constituted a major metropolis. Larder Lake, the first community I biked through in Ontario, had a population of around 1000 in 1989. It had dropped to 700 when Peggy and I drove through in May. I was reminded of West Texas, where most of the towns seemed to be losing population. Once upon a time, Larder Lake was considered to have a golden future. A mining investment company ran an ad in the 1907 Ottawa Citizen claiming:

“The Larder Lake district is believed to be the richest gold country ever known, and it is just now being opened up. Soon will commence the most tremendous outpouring of gold known to civilization.”

If you could get past the English, how could you not invest? The person who wrote the ad copy likely had a great future as a time-share salesman. Eventually a little gold was found, but it was more like a trickle than a “tremendous outpouring.” Today, the town is better known for fish. Peggy and I found a large one beside the road. It was leaping out of the ‘water.’

Lake Trout Sculpture in Larder Lake, Ontario Canada.

A large Lake Trout leaping out of the water served to let travelers know that Larder Lake was a great place to go fishing, and, I might add, enjoy the outdoors in general.

I am in love with the large, often outlandish sculptures, that so many Canadian towns adopt to encourage tourism, or maybe because the residents have a warped sense of humor. Peggy and I first became aware of the phenomena when we were driving into British Columbia in 1999 on Highway 97 out of Washington and came upon the “World’s Largest Golf Ball” and the “World’s Largest Beehive.” Here are some that we found as we made our way across Ontario on Trans-Canada Highway 11.

Flying saucer sculpture in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

If your town is named Moonbeam, why not have a flying saucer sculpture in front of the Information Center? Quivera, our van, can be seen peeking out from behind the saucer.

Aliens peak out window of flying saucer in front of information center in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

Curious aliens were staring out the windows of the flying saucer.

Alien points out brochures in Information Bureau in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

A helpful alien points out brochures inside of Moonbeam’s Information Center.

This young woman staffed the Information Center. She spoke fluent English but confessed her first love was French. She also told us there were great hiking trails in the region but that she avoided them because of bears.

Large black bear sculpture found in Kapuskasing, Ontario Canada

Shortly afterwards we found this huge black bear statue at Kapuskasing. I’d be staying off the trails, too.

Giant moose and wolf sculptures in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

Here is another shot of the moose I featured at the top of the post— not looking so friendly as he stares down a pair of wolves.

Wolf sculpture in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

A view of the wolf looking like he might belong in the movie, Twilight. “Jacob, is that you in there?”

The 'World's Largest Snowman' in Beardmore, Ontario Canada.

Beardmore proudly boasts the World’s Largest Snowman as its claim to fame.

My bicycle trip across Ontario in 1989 was something of a blur. One thing I do remember was a gradual change from French to English. It wasn’t like I arrived at the border and the language changed. Local loyalties seemed to depend on culture rather than the provincial boundary. I was reminded of my experience in West Africa where loyalty was to the family first, the tribe second, and the country third. Peggy and I still noticed remnants of these emotions in Ontario 26 years later. A house might be painted in tri-color French, warning off potential Anglophiles. Or British lions would be proudly displayed as lawn ornaments, prepared to pounce on someone who spoke French.

Towns became more frequent, which meant there were more excuses to stop. I could start with breakfast and eat my way through the day. I had given up on cooking for myself by now, unless I was desperate. There was mid-morning snack, lunch, mid-afternoon snack and dinner to look forward to, not to mention coffee breaks. My hundred-mile a day bicycling body demanded constant fueling. Plus I liked the companionship. Bicycling by myself for 8-10 hours was lonely business. On occasion, I would even stay at a motel, just so I could turn the TV on and hear people talk. The downside of this was that I ran through my trip budget more quickly than I had planned. When I arrived in Thunder Bay, I called my brother-in-law and had him transfer some money he owed me into my account so I could finish off my journey in the style I had become accustomed to!

The terrain in Ontario wasn’t much different that I had been peddling over in Quebec, more or less flat with rolling hills. I worked my way through forests and farmlands, continuing to pass by numerous lakes and occasional rivers. As I neared Thunder Bay on Lake Superior, however, more mountainous country came into view, and with that more serious uphills and downhills. Following are several photos that Peggy and I took of the countryside.

Trans-Canada Highway 11 works its way across Ontario— in this particular instance forested, flat and straight. Can’t say much for the gravelly shoulder.

Bear Lake in Ontario Canada along Trans-Canada Highway 11.

Many lakes are found along the highway in Ontario. Bear Lake was one of the first I came across. In line with its name, bear-proof trash containers were provided at the wayside. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Kapuskasing River provides hydro-electric power for the town of Kapuskasing. Peggy and I also saw extensive use of solar power along Highway 11.

This abandoned church caught my attention…

It’s feeling of ages past led me to render it in black and white.

Wild Goose Campground near Long Lake provided some scenic views…

Reedy lake at Wild Goose Campground in Ontario.

Plus this one of reeds.

As I approached Thunder Bay, mountains provided both beauty and a more challenging ride.

Peggy and I stopped to photograph this cliff.

And its small waterfall.

This bridge across the Nipigon River near Thunder Bay has only been opened for a short while. It was closed briefly in January this year because it became detached from the approach. Given that it provides the only way across the river for Canada’s major East-West highways, you can imagine the resources that were devoted to fixing it! Peggy and I headed across the bridge, stopped in Thunder Bay for lunch, and then drove into Minnesota — returning to the US as I had on my bike.

NEXT BLOG: I cross Minnesota, throw a rock across the Mississippi River, and visit with a babe (as in Babe the Blue Ox).

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson