The road home

CORTEZ,Colo.—After a couple weeks on the road, you start to miss your home and you long to get back. Maybe that's why all those ancient Indian cultures have stories about an eventual return to our place of origin.

It's great to look upon an unfamiliar landscape with wonderment and think about what it must have been like for the first inhabitants to view such things for the first time. Were they awestruck? Terrified? Inspired? Did they move on, or did they feel like they had found a place to put down roots and begin a new life?

At Mesa Verde National Monument, the ancient people migrated away from their pit houses on the mesa tops and built marvelous civilizations in the sides of cliffs. These ancient people were masterful weavers, but as time went on, as their civilization aged and matured, the things they were once good at suffered in quality. Like many of the ancient people—like their contemporaries, the Fremont, to the north—their civilizations mysteriously disappeared around 1300 A.D.

When we started our journey a couple weeks back, I was sick and weak, and my creativity was suffering badly at the hands of the same old routine. Despite the difficulties of getting on the road at the tail end of the Crippling Mystery Illness, we decided to forge ahead, because, we reckoned, we'd be better off in the long run for having abandoned our familiar place for a while and heading out to parts unknown.

As much as mankind has changed and "evolved" over the years, we have retained our faiths and superstitions. The ancients had their Kivas and boogeymen; we have our churches and demons. Here in the White West, our modern-day shaman are telling us of a time when some mysterious occurrence will come and pluck the righteous from this world and transport us to a new one where we will never know tears or shame.

Perhaps the Ancient Ones already went through such an experience 700 years ago. And perhaps they will return with wisdom to teach us, or to simply look around their old homes and realize that what they left behind was inimitable.

It only takes a little while away before we begin to realize that our homes contain the most valuable of human possessions. In these places, no matter how humble or ornate, we store our hearts, hopes and dreams. And these are things that are always worth coming back to. Dreams are always best in your own bed, and food always tastes best when eaten with your own spoon.

For the time being I'm content to stick around the hearth, but just as sure as the sun rises, we'll see you on down the road again sometime soon.

Delayed gratification

PANGUITCH, Utah—Sometimes you wish for something so hard that you wonder whether it's ever going to happen. The problem with that, though, is usually by the time you get to actually live out your fantasy, you've built up such high expectations that the reality of the whole experience can't possibly match what you've built up in your mind and the whole thing ends up being a letdown.

That happened to me one Halloween when I was a kid. I had been dreaming about eating a whole bag of candy corn—not just the regular candy corn, but the kind with the brown chocolatey layer on the bottom. Being the candy-corn-deprived little monster that I was, I schemed for weeks about how to acquire some black-market confections. Through a little subterfuge, a lot of heavy bartering and calling in a few markers I was owed, I eventually got my chubby little fingers on a bag and feasted like a crazed rodent who had come across a store of ergot-tainted wheat in a Pilgrim grain cellar.

Of course, my vomit was brown and felt like boiling acid on the wrong way back up my gut pipe, and I sure did have a lot of explaining and penance to do after my misadventure. Needless to say the whole experience was a let down, and even today I eschew candy corn on All's Hallowed Eve.

But that happened a long time ago and far, far away from Panguitch, so I'll get to the point now before I start weeping again and require some more sessions with a therapist.

Just around the time I started riding a mountain bike, I had stumbled across a description of a marvelous Utah trail that wound its way through an orange-and pink-landscaped dotted with dramatic hoodoos. To me, the ride was like the Seven Cities of Cibola and I was a modern-day Francisco Vásquez de Coronado waiting to discover the mythical land.

A couple years later I learned that the trail had a name through a chance meeting with a stranger. The trail was called "Thunder Mountain," and the stranger explained to me that Disneyland's Thunder Mountain Railroad roller coaster had been inspired by the landscape through which the trail meandered. The trail itself starts just miles outside of the entrance to Bryce Canyon National Park, and the terrain was rumored to be similar. While on vacation walking through Bryce, I couldn't help but think to myself more than once, "wouldn't it be cool to bike here?"

I became more obsessed with the trail and started researching it. I came across a few washed out photos that indeed confirmed its existence. Later I discovered where the trailhead was. Finally, on our first real out-of-state biking trip several years after I had first heard whispers and rumors of the trail, we made plans to stop and ride it along with several other epic "must-rides" out there. But a bizarre twist of fate prevented us from following through.

A few years later another mishap made us miss out on conquering Thunder Mountain. These near misses made my desire to ride the trail even greater than they originally had been, when the story of Thunder Mountain first stirred in me the excitement of a well-told campfire tale.

So when we planned this trip, we built in an iron-clad guarantee that we would ride Thunder Mountain at long last. The night before our ride, I tossed and turned in my sleep, realizing that I had built up expectations for Thunder Mountain that were so high that reality couldn't possibly match them. Would the ride be a giant letdown, I wondered? What if its "most-difficult" designation made it entirely too hard for me to ride and I ended up bashed and bleeding at the end?

The alarm rang too early and soon Caroline and I found ourselves at the crack of dawn riding up the dim canyon into a frigid morning down-canyon headwind on a relentless climb toward the trailhead. Caroline had eaten two big bowls of cereal before we left and I had eaten my fill as well, using milk that had been traveling with us for days in a cooler. Near the trailhead, Caroline hurridly made a dash for one of the porta potties along the way. A bad case of dairy gurgle-belly had turned her weak and greenish looking in the face.

Would this be another curse to stop us from reaching my personal Seven Cities of Gold? Not today. A herd of pronghorns skipping across the sagebrush in the colorful morning light inspired us to go on. We laughed in the face of the mad cow who was snorting and pawing the ground in front of us in an attempt to keep herself between us and her calf; she was like a horrible gatekeeper bent on turning us back from a journey into a mystical land visited only by Gods and Heroes. She failed in her mission.

As we turned onto the singletrack, we suddenly knew that no amount of mental preparation or anticipation could compare to the ride we were about to have. The trail was manicured like Paris Hilton's toenails. Amazing pink hoodoos rose here and there around every corner and provided more bling to the ride than an entire store full of gold chains, diamond rings or ruby tooth implants. Around each corner I kept thinking that I was looking at a movie set. The surreal landscape was so unusual, I kept thinking that if I crashed into one of the hoodoos, it would bust open to reveal paper maché and chicken wire.

And, of course, it wasn't just a ride up and a coast down through some nice scenery kind of ride, either. We earned our views with ups and downs, and by picking our way through a few hairy technical sections and cheek-puckering switchbacks. It doesn't get much better than that.

Thunder Mountain was everything we had hoped it would be and more! It certainly ranks up there among those "must-ride-before-you-die" rides. And as if riding through a land that inspired Walt Disney wasn't enough, the final mile back to the trailhead is a ripping downhill that gives every bit as much of a perma-grin as a ride on one of Walt's old roller coasters. Best of all: it's free and there are no lines!

Everything in this area seemed to have some pink in it. My ass cheeks were pretty pink from the saddle sores I have acquired during days and days of riding, while over in Bryce Canyon—again thick with German tourists as the Euro continues to wallop the dollar in its exchange rate—we saw ruddy faces wet with sweat climbing up out of the broiling canyons at midday. Obscene utterances sound even dirtier in German.

One unfortunate woman had hiked down to the bottom of one canyon wearing flip-flops and managed to badly turn her ankle. She sat under a ledge in the shade waiting for help to arrive. On our way up the steep switchbacks, we watched a Park Service crew maneuvering a Stokes Litter on a single big wheel down to the bottom so she could be carted back up to the rim. That ride would have been like a recumbent bike ride through Thunder Mountain, only probably a lot scarier!

Poor woman. I bet she'll wear sensible shoes the next time she visits a National Park from now on.

Our day ended with a vist to the Coral Pink Sand Dunes state park in southern Utah. Although it was about a million degrees outside, we were desperate for a shower after driving for several hours in our smelly Thunder Mountain bike clothes. Every commerical campground, RV Park and flop house along the way turned us away when we showed up begging or showers. Well, can you blame them?

I mean, Caroline looks normal and everything, but in my biking jersey and shorts I looked like some smelly, dirt-stained blueberry hybrid that had escaped from a genetic experimentation facility operated by the Latter Day Saints somewhere in the foothills of rural Utah. God only knows what would happen to me if you added water.

Thankfully, anyone can walk into a state park or national monument, so our entrance fee got us a long-anticipated shower and a visit to superheated peach-colored dunes as an added bonus.

Yep. Anticipation sometimes leads to letdown, but we've not seen that happen these past couple weeks. Thank goodness for dreams and aspirations, because they become the stuff that paves the elusive road to fullfillment.

See you on down that road!

Mysteries of the road

SEVIER, Utah—Native Americans shaped the character of this landscape, with the early Fremont Indians carving a mysterious swath of history through the region.

Contemporaries of the Anasazi to the South, the Fremont people settled in Clear Creek Canyon near Sevier, Utah, from about 400 to 1300 A.D. Like many ancient Indian cultures, the Fremont mysteriously disappeared, probably migrating from Earth with extraterrestrials once astrological signs indicated that Native Americans would be subjected to a never-ending string of raw deals at the hands of the White Man who would later despoil and poison the landscape on which they depended.

At Fremont Indian State Park located in present-day Clear Creek Canyon, there is little talk of extraterrestrials in official exhibits, but visitors can learn about the extraordinary story the Fremont believe led to the emergence of the their people from the underworld to the Earth. In fact, if you're hardy enough, you can see the emergence story for yourself etched in stone for posterity. On an unauspicious boulder just east of the Visitor Center and Museum, the Fremont creation story sits largely unchanged by time as a petroglyph hidden from direct view.

The Fremont believed that their ancestors shared the underworld with throngs of The Wicked. But they knew another world existed because they could hear walking on the roof above. The Fremont dispatched a hawk, an eagle, a swallow and a shrike to find a way to the Fourth World. The first three birds returned exhausted and without good news. However, the shrike was able to fly higher and higher, resting on branches and cliffs as it climbed. The shrike returned after a very long time and told the Fremont people about a hole in the sky through which they could pass to the Fourth world.

They planted a river reed, which was completely hollow on the inside. They climbed up inside the reed to the Earth. Unfortunately, The Wicked People also began to climb up through the reed as well. The Creator jointed the reed to stop The Wicked People from moving upward inside it, but soon The Wicked started climbing up the outside of the reed. The Fremont knocked down the reed and assigned the eagle to watch the hole to ensure that The Wicked would not reassemble the reed and climb out.

Unfortunately, they didn't knock down the reed fast enough, and a substantial number of The Wicked had a chance to settle in what is now Park City, Utah.

The Fremont emergence myth petroglyph is carved on a rock that represents one of the joints of the reed that was toppled back during the old times. The wavy line on top represents the crack between the Third and Fourth Worlds, and the thick vertical line represents the reed.

Elsewhere throughout Clear Creek Canyon the rocks are filled with petroglyphs (rock etchings), pictographs (pigments painted on rocks), and in seven instances, pictoglyphs (a combination of etching and painting).

The modern-day Hopi have claimed ancestry with the Fremont and share a similar emergence tale with the ancient people. The White Man claims an ancestry with The Wicked People and has forsaken gifts endowed by the creator like clear running streams, endless herd of buffalo and a sense of shared fate and mutual obligation toward preserving the Earth in exchange for Pepsi Cola machines, Hello Kitty lunch boxes, and the dog-eat-dog selfishness that has established itself as the downside of Capitalism.

According to legend, the Fremont and their extraterrestrial brethren will return one day to enlighten the people of the Earth after the great cataclysm foretold by the Aztecs and scheduled for 2012. Hopefully when the Fremont return, we will know enough about their culture to blend in so we don't get scorched by their Laser Cannons of Salvation.

A few miles down the road on the way to Panguitch, our next stop, we came across the original Big Rock Candy Mountain, celebrated in song and story:

"In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, you never change your socks
and the little streams of alcohol come trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats and the railroad bulls are blind
There's a lake of stew and of whiskey too
You can paddle all around in a big canoe
in the Big Rock Candy Mountains"

As could be expected, The Big Rock Candy Mountains are not a pleasant place for tourists to ponder and enjoy. Rather, a huge trading post has been plopped at the base, and a short walk to the bottom of the mountains must be braved through a cloud of foul garbage stench so thick that you need a machete to cut through it. It's like that lake of stew had started trickling out of the outhouses.

Next door, groups of larger-than-average people hopped aboard smoke-belching OHVs and traveled hither and yon across the expansive off-road network that the proprietors of the Big Rock Candy Mountains Resort had created.

Just down the road, the 'dozers were cutting shelves into the landscape for new developments of trophy homes in this river-kissed valley. Billboards urged passersby to get in on Phase 1 of honest-to-goodness country livin'.

As we drove away, we felt compelled to come up with our own lyrics to the optimistic hobo song that had been commercialized so effectively:

"In the Big Rock Candy Mountains, you'll drive your ATV
then stay at some foul gyp-joint where nothing's ever free
The gas prices are all higher and the garbage stinks like sin
The erosion churns and the forest burns
people wriggle all around like a farm full of worms
in the Big Rock Candy Mountains."

See you on down the road!

Testing our mettle in Park City

PARK CITY, Utah—Park City is like a carnival for the rich, but with much worse traffic. That didn't matter to us, though: we aren't rich and we didn't come to drive.

Instead we found ourselves in a charming basement condo owned by a wonderful young couple who had lived in Park City during the salad days—when every square inch of land in the region wasn't being scraped clean to build super-sized condominium establishments or 22,000-square-foot rustic log McMansions to be occupied by out-of-town owners for a couple weeks a year.

Thank goodness we met Tom and his wife first before running into the snooty hoards who have come home to roost in Park City, lest we would have packed up our belongings and fled far, far away. Well, that is, if we had been able to get through the traffic.

Each morning the streets of Park City jam up like the colon of someone who eats only Wisconsin cheese curds and maintains a constant state of dehydration. Cars idle on roads for miles and miles, waiting for a chance to crawl into the city so their out-of-town occupants can serve the ritzy residents and see to their every extravagant whim.

We spent our first morning in the Old Main Street district, recoiling in horror at the weekly crafts fair that sets up shop there. We watched throngs of people hovering around crafts booths looking for something to spend the spare cash on that was burning a hole in their pockets. Children in Izod or Abercrombie were encouraged by their parents to throw dollar bills on the ground at the street fair and then use their boat shoes to stomp on the hands of any of the service-sector denizens who reached for the green mannah. One woman with a sweater wrapped around her neck (it was 85 degrees for God's sake) harangued her child for leaning on a downtown railing.

"Don't touch that, Spalding! It's been touched by poooor people!"

Okay, so maybe that's an exaggeration, but the downtown scene was gross.

Our thoughts immediately turned to the wonderful biking trails we had heard so much about. Tom was generous with his time and patient with us newcomers. He invited us to accompany him on his evening ride—a marathon climb and singletrack tour around the myriad ski areas that tower above the town.

Some 2,000 feet or so above the Main Street area, we rode past the very hip copper roofed compound that ABC News anchor Charlie Gibson uses for a winter retreat. From this cool-aired vantage point, it was easy to see the future development plan for Park City: Develop every single square inch, high and low, anywhere you might be able to offer ski-in-ski-out condos for any resort.

It was a plan enviable for its simplicity, and the assorted Greed Heads calling the shots seem to be following it to the letter. One development we rode past had added a 50-foot gondola to provide its tenants with true walk-less access to the slopes, even though the housing complex was about as slope-side as it gets. I guess it's difficult to walk in ski boots when you're only in them three days a year.

During the peak season, these high-end temporary homes fetch $400 to $2,000 a night. But interestingly enough, at this altitude, the roads have little traffic. Here in the heights of Snootyville, the roads are private, and signs alongside them warn cyclists or unwitting interlopers that they will be arrested for trespassing. Up here at least 60 percent of the residences are second homes, so there are few people at home during the summer. The roads in this exclusive area of the forest were a strange contrast to morning rush hour down below.

I had no idea where we were as we zipped around with Tom. A positive aspect of all the development is that property owners are putting in new trails like crazy, apparently to fulfill code obligations. Spiraling down a long stretch of singletrack we stopped to look at a mega-resort that was being carved into the landscape. Our guide said construction had started surprisingly recently, given the state of completion the resort was already in.

Our high-altitude tour with Tom ended with a raucous downhill through thick fields of tea roses and other wildflowers—hillsides of lush plants that soon would be nothing more than a memory once the bulldozers had made way for a new set of condos. The concrete cancers that were spreading across the landscape were not much more than a blur as we raced back down toward Park City. Because of the climbing we had endured earlier, the ride was an excellent warm-up for the next day.

Every town has its "signature ride" and word of Park City's Mid-Mountain Loop Trail has spread through every corner of North America. Of course we had to try it. Not just a little taste, but the whole buffet. Unfortunately for us, Tom had to work the next day, so we would be on our own. Thankfully he gave us some hints about the ride that would come in handy later on.

Here's a little word of advice for everyone. If you happen to find yourself in a new town and you're planning to ride trails that you've never ridden before, be sure to take a look—a good look—at the trail map and carefully add up the mileage. Caroline and I neglected to do this and we underestimated the Mid-Mountain Trail. Oh, our ride would probably be only 14 miles or so we reckoned after a cursory glance at the map, and since the guide says it generally follows the 8,000 foot contour line of the peaks, it had to be relatively flat, right? Oh, and all those trails Tom treated us to were so flat and smooth. They must all be that way, right? We'd be back at our comfy condo in just a couple hours, we figured. Right?

Wrong!

We quickly found out that "roughly following the 8,000 foot contour line" meant a lot of pedaling up and a lot of riding down on narrow exposed trail, much of it peppered with sections of sharp triangular rocks. A false move here could mean a long plunge over the side.

Oh, and one other thing: When selecting a trail in a new town that you've never ridden before, it's probably not a good idea to choose the route that has no possible bail-out points. Like it or not, we were committed to the whole ride once we reached the point of no return.

Some seven miles into our ride, Park City was a speck off in the distance below. We realized that our 14 miles was probably going to be more like 17, possibly more, and that our easy coast on smooth singletrack was not going to be all that easy.

One other thing: If you're riding unfamiliar trails in a new town, be sure to bring enough food to last much longer than you might think you'll need.

Once the realization that our ride was going to be an epic marathon that would also require a nice long ride on pavement back to town, we decided to take a little snack break. My Clif Bar looked like the pile of bear poop we had narrowly avoided about a half mile earlier, and it certainly didn't taste much better than what I would expect bear poop to taste like.

Fortunately, I had a lot of water, or so I thought. Somewhere around the 10-mile mark, my Camelbak started to run dry. Thank God for Tom! He had told us about a nondescript concrete restroom that had been erected by a private development called The Colony (I'm not making that up). Although the road through the development would have gotten us arrested had we decided to bail out there, and although signs in the woods warned us that vicious sheep hounds would rip us to shreds if we ventured off the trail into the private livestock areas, the restroom had a long-necked faucet that was just perfect for filling a Camelbak bladder, and the water coming out of it was cold and tasty! We were thankful that The Colony had spared no expense on anything.

With a new full supply of water and a renewed sense of hope, I was ready to finish out the ride. Of course, I never counted on the steady uphill section for the next four miles or so that would put the final trail tally near the 20-mile mark. Even though I wanted to hop off my bike, throw it over the edge of the cliff and stamp my feet like an angry little baby, the Good Lord blessed me with a hallucination that helped me get several more miles behind me.

In this dream state, I saw friendly German women in long skirts and braided hair, wearing those white hats that look like those ones you used to fold up with newspaper when you were a kid. These friendly German women would come zigzagging out of the woods with huge steaming platters of tasty pancakes held high above their heads.

"Pannakuchen! Pannakuchen! Pannakuchen!" they would cry on their serpentine quest to deliver their delicious ration of expertly prepared quick breads.

I'll tell you one thing, brothers and sisters, there just ain't enough German maidens delivering pancakes out there in America these days, and certainly not out here in the West. Rides like this one made me miss Minnesota.

Our epic ended back at town five-and-a-half hours later with 27 miles on the old odometer and a quarter-inch coating of dust on my legs and cranks.

We had a friggen blast!

We celebrated that night with some of the best sushi I've ever eaten at an incognito little place in a delapadated old strip mall away from Main Street called Sushi Maru. We ate like champions!

Park City's trails live up to their reputation, even though the town does not. We made fine friends there and we will be back again for more rides, even if we forego the ambience of the rest of the place.

See you on down the road.

Little Jimmy's notes from the road, Part 1

SOUTHWEST IDAHO—Sometimes life can get difficult after days and weeks on the road, but not nearly as difficult as life must have been for the crazy bastards who started the westward expansion some 165 years ago.

After a later-than-planned departure from Boise, we found ourselves struggling slowly down US 84 toward Utah. It's surprising to find out new things about another person after living with them for quite sometime, but the road seems to pull new and exciting experiences out of even the most mundane interactions. And sometimes these new revelations aren't always so welcome.

For instance, how was I to know that Caroline had never before in her life encountered "Easy Cheese"—Kraft's ingenious method of aerosolizing processed American cheese into a can that has a handy applicator tip? And how could I have known that such a small can of road-snack pleasure could lead to such discord?

The late start had left me hungry for lunch, but with a schedule to keep, we had no time for a sit-down meal. Instead we nibbled on nuts and berries in the car along the way like Romulus and Remus long separated from their she-wolf's teat. Although sustaining, such natural comestibles are not nearly as satisfying as a large glob of aerosol cheese on a Triscuit cracker. So of course I began demanding that Caroline uncork the Easy Cheese and start it flowing like the mighty Snake River.

After fumbling with the "easy-open" cap, she managed to squeeze about a half a pound of the tangy yellow ambrosia into her lap. The mishap also snapped one of the tongs off the applicator tip, meaning that any attempt to draw a sunny smiley face of cheese onto a cracker would end up making the Triscuit look like it had suffered a mild stroke. Everything on one side of the face was drooping.

Not only that, but our supply of "natural" sodas ended up tasting like water in the bottom of a can dredged up from a cattail-chocked slough near the banks of the Snake River that had been previously spat into by someone chewing stale Copenhagen. So much for road snacks this day.

Just as I was bitching about our misfortune, a sign for Glenns Ferry and the historic Three Islands Crossing for the Oregon Trail distracted me from what was sure to be a 10-minute treatise on rotten luck and gypsy curses bestowed upon my family several generations earlier.

The excellent Three Islands Crossing State Park told the terrible tale of pioneers risking it all trying to cross the expansive Snake River with their families and Prairie Schooners weighted with everything they owned, including, in some cases, children or elderly persons stricken with the Cholera. The fortunate found passage to the other side; others lost everything. Some of the relatives of the unlucky apparently still live in the community of Glenns Ferry, like the little waitress who served us a delicious patty melt after we gave up all hope of sticking to our schedule and resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be reaching Park City well after dark.

After learning that Oregon Trail emigrants spent most of a year eating biscuits and old bacon, our road snacks of nuts and berries and bacon-flavored processed American cheese spread on a festively woven cracker—all washed down with a cold funky-tasting soda—didn't sound so bad after all. It's staggering to think that thousands ventured west in creaky old wagons without cell phones, iPods or Igloo coolers. It amazing that no emigrant dined on Doritos or Lean Cuisine microwave dinners, or called Sunday a success after filling a crock pot full of Little Smokies and a bottle of K.C. Masterpiece just before Nascar on television. Compared to our ancestors, we are a nation of pathetic weaklings.

The museum at Three Islands Crossing also told the terrible tale of how the U.S. Government cheated the Shoshone-Bannock Indians out of their lands and forced their members to march for 500 miles to reservation land. A similar thing happens on a smaller scale today that the Government likes to call "extraordinary Rendition," a euphemism for injustice just like "relocations to reservation land" or the "Indian Child Welfare Act." Like the historic sanctioned mistreatment of Native Americans, people don't like to talk much these days about the sanctioned mistreatment of new "inferior people" under the auspices of the War on Terror. But I digress.

Although I tried my best at the Three Islands Crossing museum, I could offer no consolation to these unwitting players in American history.

The Three Islands Crossing is a testament to True Grit, and each year during the second week of August, the community of Glenns Ferry turns out to re-enact the treacherous river crossings. According to the woman at the museum, some years the players are successful, other years they aren't. And like the emigrants of old, sometimes oxen or mules drown when wagons overturn. We were sorry that our timing for our trip did not coincide with the annual spectacle.

The patty melt and tater tots in the small bar and grill near Glenns Ferry's main street worked their magic, and soon we found ourselves 50 miles to the southeast and off the interstate traveling through rural Idaho. Here farmland dominates the landscape, and homes and farms have changed little since they were first built 100 years ago. Massive fountains of water spew from the craggy volcanic cliffs high above the Snake River valley, cloaking the landscape with lacy liquid doilies of fertility. Ski boats zig and zag up and down the river while registered Herefords graze lazily on emerald fields of grass.

This is Mennonite Country out here on Highway 30, home to robust-looking peaceful folk. In Buhl, Idaho, we stopped in at a local dairy for a late-afternoon milkshake. It was rich and creamy. Perhaps a little too rich and creamy. Soon we found ourselves driving into Utah with queasy bellies awash in butter fat, wishing for a strong cup of coffee or a two-hour nap.

Somewhere along the way we came across a scene that seemed to echo our sentiments for the day. A rusting old car and several submerged pieces of farm equipment lay abandoned in a sea of what could very well have been natural soda pop. There was no explanation for the mysterious watery graveyard, just the steady twittering of red-winged blackbirds in the bright, hot sunlight.

As we made our way to Park City, we thought seriously about getting a milkshake at every milkshake establishment we passed. And in this region of the country, they were as common as 3.2 beer. I bet Caroline that I could down two more shakes before I erupted with an dishonorable discharge. She bet I could only muster one. We wondered what fraction of one we could down if we asked the shake vendor to add a half a cup of chopped onions? Unfortunately we'll never know.

The darkness concealed the snootiness and rampant, out-of-control development of Park City, but we would soon discover those things along with miles and miles of fabulous biking trails later on.

For now we were content to sleep the sleep of weary emigrants after a very, very long day.

See you on down the road.

Bye bye, Boise

Part III: In which we learn saying goodbye is difficult

BOISE, Idaho—Our final day in Boise began at the crack of dawn at a trailhead near town to meet Al and his two remarkable Hungarian Vizsla dogs for a quick morning ride.

The foothill-area trails in Boise are buff and fast, with just enough climbing to let you know that you've taken a ride, but enough downhill sections to give you a thrill ride that you won't soon forget. Without the buildings in the distance, you might think you were out riding in Fruita if you were blindfolded—a style of bike riding that I can't recommend.

Smoke from the California forest fires had cloaked the Boise valley in a thick pale haze, and the EPA had issued an air quality yellow-alert for the day, making it perfect for riding. At this early hour, the temperature was hovering a pleasant 30 degrees lower than the 100-degree temperatures we had been experiencing since our arrival. The humidity was low, as was the angle of the sun, so we were in for a fabulous morning on two wheels.

Many others had taken advantage of the cool morning temperatures, so the area was pretty well-used that day. Al told us that undercover police officers had been hanging out near the trail heads for the past few days, issuing citations to anyone who failed to pick up poop left behind by their dogs. Unfortunately for Al, the two Vizslas hadn't been run for a few days, so they were extremely excited to be out on the trails; he used more than one of the plastic bags he had brought in the first couple of miles. The dogs didn't seem to mind.

You meet some really cool people biking, and Al was no exception. He rode easy and carefree on his custom rigid 29er (with an internal hub, not a singlespeed). The eager red Vizslas were obviously used to riding, so they hung close to the bikes, but not too close, giving us plenty of room to maneuver. We haven't seen our own dog in more than a week, so it was really nice to have some doggie energy present for the day.

After a good climb to the top of the ridges east of downtown, we zoomed back toward Boise on the hard-packed singletrack that makes these trails so much fun. We weaved through golden grasslands that were alive with the crazy morning light that had been created from the forest fire haze.

Near the perigee of the trail system, our ride ducked into thick trees and lush green grass that hung near the edge of a creek. The dark cold woods were a stark contrast to the brightly lit trails above and provided a perfect way to end the ride. Our short romp had ended too soon, and it was tough to say goodbye to Al and his hounds. It would have been great to have had more time for more rides. Boise hospitality is second to none.

People in Boise love their bikes! This town of 200,000 seems to have a higher-than-average number of people out riding from what we could tell. In addition to hundreds of miles of trails in the immediate vicinity, Boise's heart also includes a greenbelt that runs along the river and offers wide paved trails from one end of the city to the other. Because the greenbelt lets riders and hikers avoid roads, lots of people use their bikes and feet for transportation and the downtown was thick with people on two wheels at all times of day.

Not only do people love to ride bikes, they love to ride really cool vintage bikes. On any given day you can find bike classics locked to racks in the downtown area. It's not unusual to catch a glimpse of a beautifully restored Schwinn Ace, DX or Excelsior or any other manner of classic bike. My personal favorite was finding an old J.C. Higgins (stripped of the ornamental tank, but not the old chain guard) locked to lamp post near a downtown deli. Who'd have thought I'd one day be coveting a Sears and Roebuck bicycle?

After our ride with Al, we had to get ready in a hurry. Kristi had scheduled us for yet another adventure. And for me it was another first. I had never been rafting before, so I was jazzed to hear that Kristi had set us all up for a ride down the Payette river.

We raced to Cascade Raft and Kayak, located about a half hour north of Horseshoe Bend. We arrived just in the nick of time, and we ran to board the bus that would carry us to the put-in point on the Payette.

I looked around the bus and made mental notes about who I would not like to be trapped on a raft with. Others were doing the same thing and I saw a couple of scowls and head shakes when certain eyes rested on me.

Luckily for us, we were a group of six, so we got our own raft. We also lucked out and got the best guide of the bunch, a competent and friendly character named Jeff B.

The river was calm for the most part, but the rapids were noisy enough to conceal the fart of surprise I unleashed while spinning through one of the more exciting rapids. Of course, Caroline and I got the front of the raft. That meant the two novices were leading our expedition. But I provided a big enough human shield to help keep Max, Kristi's youngest son, pretty dry throughout the trip.

We enjoyed a picnic lunch at the end of the raft ride and I felt at least five years younger.

Back in downtown Boise, we enjoyed some great nightlife. On the first Thursday of each month, businesses—including The Chocolat Bar, Boise's premier chocolatier—stay open late and the entire downtown area gets swept up in a festival-like atmosphere of drinking, dining and dancing. I was treated to a personal belly dance outside of one establishment. On the other hand, maybe she was treated to a personal audience from me because she started giggling immediately. Maybe it was the smear of chocolate on my face.

We had no idea going into Boise, but the town is pretty hip. The community has dedicated substantial funding toward bike trails and other non-automobile transportation improvements, and, by and large, it's a safe and clean community. Better still, it's one of two islands of liberal thought inside a traditionally Conservative state. No wonder it was fun!

If you can, be sure to attend Boise's downtown Farmer's Market each Saturday. At this garden of delights, you can find locally and regionally grown produce, cheeses, baked goods and other treats. We enjoyed several pints of fresh berries of all kinds, which were a nice change from traditional road treats like beef jerky and pretzels. Not only are they healthier, but berries produce much less wind than traditional snacks. That's a positive when you're spending hours inside an enclosed air-conditioned vehicle. I'd attribute my condition as a side effect of the recent Crippling Mystery Illness, but those of you who know me know better.

Of course, after spending several days with good friends having great times, it's difficult to say goodbye. As has been a theme with this journey, you never know when you'll have the chance to do things again, so you have to enjoy your surroundings when you can. The same seems to be true with people.

Life tends to scatter our loved ones to the Four Winds as time goes by. If we are blessed, we find ourselves traveling the currents of fate toward the areas where our loved ones have settled and we're able to see them again. Only a fool fails to relish such reunions with unbridled gusto. I'm pleased to say we were not fools this time around.

And with luck, we won't be next time, either.

See you on down the road.

Action-packed Boise

Part II: In which we grab life by the horns

BOISE, Idaho—We stayed with our wonderful friends Kristi and Chris while in Boise. They are proprietors of a most excellent chocolate shop, the Chocolat Bar, which specializes in some of the tastiest confections in North America. Each confection is made by hand with love and laughter in their downtown Boise shop.

The Chocolat Bar's signature lemon-lavendar almond bark is sinfully delicious, although I found myself with an extreme weakness for the cherry and dark-chocolate caramels. They might be much better than a power bar on a long bike ride through the mountains, although it would be much better to eat them in a civilized locale.

We had seen Kristi and Chris for mere moments before we headed out on our ride at Bogus Basin, so we had not had time to catch up on things before we left. We did not return until just before 11 p.m. My arm was still raw and dirt covered and weeping buckets of an unsettling clearish ooze.

I crawled into the shower and began the hideous task of cleaning out my wound. An unholy poultice of dirt, pebbles and plant matter was smashed into the flesh on the lower part of my forearm just above the elbow. I used plenty of soap and friction to debride my arm. The evening quiet inside the home was interrupted by a mournful low-pitched howl emanating from the bathroom.

Thankfully we had remembered to pack the first aid kit. Two extra-large swatches of sterile gauze spared me from sticking to the nice clean sheets that evening. The next morning we awoke early. Kristi had signed us up for a morning of adventure!

These days I'm starting to appreciate that life must be lived when you can. My recent bout with the Crippling Mystery Illness reminded me of how fragile life can be, and that fortunes can change without warning as quick as a wink. Without such an epiphany, I might have balked at Kristi's suggestion for a day of fun, but now we jumped at the opportunity without hesitation.

A little while later we found ourselves in Horseshoe Bend, Idaho, at Zip Idaho, a new business offering zip line tours to the masses. A zip line is a long expanse of cable that you clip onto with a tiny pulley mechanism and harness system. A big guy like me can reach speeds of up to 50 miles per hour on the 1,800 foot line that spans a small canyon northeast of Horseshoe Bend.

After a short briefing, we found ourselves practicing our zip line skills in a series of short spans up in the trees. It was fantastic! Call it crazy, but I found it inherently easy to step off the platform high above the ground and go zipping over to the next tree.

I found it even easier running like a crazy person and launching myself over the edge of the canyon on the long zip line. The only sad part is 1,800 feet goes by surprisingly quickly at 50 mph.

Zip lining is something you can do with a big wad of gauze on your arm or with a bruised or cracked rib, assuming you can use the arm on the good side of your body to hold onto the harness. While it's probably not an appropriate activity for everyone, it's appropriate for any able-bodied soul to try at least once.

Afterward we felt like astronauts or elite explorers; we had experienced something totally new and exciting that not everyone gets a chance to try. What a rare privilege.

Life must be lived while you can. Fortunes can change as quick as a wink. Carpe diem as they say.

See you on down the road.

Bloody, bloody Boise

Part 1: In which I become the turd in the punch bowl

BOISE, Idaho—It was a long drive from Stanley to Boise. We were hoping for a quick drive over the mountains. Instead, the breathtaking scenery of the backside of the Sawtooth Mountains and the Payette River rushing in the canyon bottom below compelled us to ease up on the gas pedal and meander our way toward our next destination.

An inviting back road lured us to a tiny lodge tucked on the banks of the Payette in the middle of nowhere, and we took mental notes that this rustic collection of ramshackle cabins would be a fabulous place to stay when we were old and grey. We made it back to the main road again after watching the Payette zoom beneath us on a rickety bridge. Birds chirped pleasently in the trees and Caroline provided color commentary on the region's history from one of our many guidebooks.

Despite being cramped again in the car, we were still feeling the after glow of Fisher Creek. The ride the day before had made us groggy and our legs were pleasantly tired, but we were both still blissed out after our experience. Moreover, with temperatures in Boise expected to rise above 100 degrees, we were in no hurry to exit the pleasant coolness of the mountains. So we slowly snaked our way back to civilization.

Despite being on vacation, we did have an appointment to keep. We were meeting two riders in Boise for a preview of some of the town's better trails. At just after 5 p.m. we met Dave and Al as promised in a parking lot at the base of Bogus Basin ski area. The blast-furnace heat got me to staggering when I exited the vehicle to shake the hands of our new guides. A two-pump handshake caused a torrent to pour from my brow.

We decided that in this heat, the higher the ride, the better off we'd be. So we saddled up and drove to the top of Bogus Basin.

Dave and Al are extremely affable fellows, and we were very chatty at the trail head in anticipation of the ride ahead. Dave looked like one of those cycling fanatics who finishes near the top during weekly club rides out in the park.

Al's legs were like mighty tree trunks. I recalled reading some bike magazine a while back that listed the Top 10 greatest myths about biking (the magazine was not Mountain Flyer, as we would never stoop so low as to waste paper on such inane drivel). One of those "myths" was that you could never use the size of a person's leg to judge their riding ability. See? Inane drivel! Clearly Al's legs were able to carry him places most people would fear.

Looking at Dave and Al and knowing that I still had not entirely shaken the Crippling Mystery Illness, I had no doubt in my mind I was going to get my ass handed to me on this ride. It didn't help my confidence much when I immediately had to change my tire tube after it had gone flat apparently without cause. The tire had ridden fine the day before, and Fisher Creek was free of pricklies for the most part.

As I changed the tire, Dave and Al explained that the Bogus Basin area holds some of Boise's best riding. On this day we chose the Eastside area to ride—a place that offered classic wilderness singletrack with just enough technical bits thrown in to keep you on your toes. Al would be riding it on a rigid singlespeed 29er.

We gleefully rode the narrow singletrack. The deep woods and late hour made things much cooler than downtown Boise had been. Dave an Al graciously put up with every request I threw out for photos, even if it happened to mess up the flow of ride. I was hoping to get the photos out of the way early on so we could concentrate on the trail. For the most part we did, and pretty soon I was feeling warmed up and looking forward to much more singletrack ahead.

Because both of our guides had played a heavy role in establishment and construction of the trails up at Bogus Basin and elsewhere in Boise, they were eager to show off the area, although both were extremely modest when it came to taking credit for their hard work.

I was starting to feel at my best as we made our way through a newly rerouted section of trail. The singletrack was steady, but extremely narrow. Nevertheless, I rode confidently, even managing to keep Caroline in sight for the most part.

Suddenly, my pedal caught the remnants of a sawed off stick on the downstroke—the only time it could have done anyone any harm. Fate had lined my crank arm up with a one-in-a-million chance of disaster, and I felt my back wheel start sliding out toward the outside of the heavily exposed section of trail. My brain went about making corrections for the skid just as my front wheel slammed against another small-diameter stump nubbin on the outside of the trail. Being the unwitting dweller in the middle of a perfect storm, I felt myself being viciously slammed to the ground. It happened so quickly that I had no time to land gracefuly. I was hurled to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes. By happenstance I managed to get a finger on my bike as it began its descent over the edge, saving it from a long fall.

A firey pain gripped my forearm and leg. I ventured a peek at my arm and saw the crimson reminder that mountain biking is an inherently dangerous sport.

I tried to be good natured as I picked myself up and continued the ride, but, truth be told, the crash hurt like a bitch, so it didn't take long before my normally good-natured side retreated away from the forefront of my consciousness. I rode in silence at the back of the pack. I felt terrible for Al and Dave, who undoubtedly felt terrible for me.

About the time the adrenaline from the crash started to wear off—when the pain really starts to set in—we began the long climb out of the canyon. Rides in this area are bowl-like, and most begin and end with climbs. The firey burn of plants rubbing the raw area of my scraped and bloody leg gave way to a new pain: the annoying stitch of a cracked or bruised rib. The dire new pain hit just as we passed the carcass of an elk that reportedly had been eaten by a wolf that haunts the area.

"Great, I'm wounded and bleeding and at the back of the pack," I thought to myself. I started to go over my wolf defense strategies in my mind as I made the long ascent.

Needless to say, the excitement back at the trail head was missing when I finally grunted my way up and over the final push to the car. Here I was, the ride casualty for the day, the turd in the punchbowl, if you will. It is an uncomfortable position to be in—even with people you know well. I weakly apologized to my gracious hosts. The warm looks on their faces let me know that no apologies were necessary.

Half an hour later, at the bottom of Bogus Basin, a delicious glass of stout and a hearty helping of spicy chicken wings helped me feel almost normal again, and we enjoyed talking to Dave for much longer than he probably expected.

Not only are Boise's trails awesome, but so are its people. It is a friendly, friendly town. I'm hoping my scabs dry out soon so I can do some more riding around here. Only time will tell.

See you on down the road, and if I happen to meet you on the trail, I'll be sure to give you a wide berth. Hasta la Vista, babies.