Trailer Life Stop #4: No, it's pronounced "Hurri-ken"

HURRICANE!

No, not that kind

I have been looking forward to this rotation! I was dreaming about it while freezing my tush off in Bozeman over Thanksgiving. 

It was cold there

“But Stoken”, you may very well be asking, “why would you be so eager to pull the trailer all the way down to the middle of nowhere, deep in FLDS territory, mere miles from a scary polygamist stronghold, to a town where they can’t even pronounce the eponymous weather event correctly, and you can’t find a decent beer to save your life?”

Because BIKES!

Bikes bikes bikes bikes bikes bikes bikes bikes bikes bikes bikes!

Hurricane and St. George have scores of great desert trails between them, the Red Bull Rampage takes place only 10 minutes north of town, Sedona is only about 4 hours away, and Bootleg Canyon is just 2 hours south on I-15.  The average temperature in January is above 50 degrees, and even when there is precipitation, you can ride slickrock in any weather conditions.  As I hadn’t been for a ride since Burning Bike last October, this situation sounded like heaven.  Finally, I could take advantage of my status as an unemployed bum with plenty of free time!

Not so fast.

The weather decided to be thoroughly truculent. It was nice enough on the day we arrived, but the day after that it rained…and the next day…and the next day…and (guess what!) the day after that. This both damped and dampened my enthusiasm somewhat.  But I had faith that Jibbers Crabst would bring me sunshine eventually.

The bike shop in Hurricane, Over the Edge Sports, runs 3 weekly rides: Thursday is for more beginner/intermediate ladies, Friday is the more advanced ladies, and Saturday is the general shop ride that tends to be medium challenging, depending on who shows up. I checked the Facebook page to see if any rides were still on, and although that Thursday was canceled due to moisture, Friday was on and the destination was Zen trail, just west of St. George.  It’s a black diamond on the map, which sounded pretty good to me, so I rolled up to the shop at the appointed meeting time.

There were four of us: the shop owner’s wife and ride leader, DJ, and two local women.  The ride was something of a confidence booster, since despite my nearly 3-month hiatus from riding, I had no problems keeping up on the sustained climb at the beginning.  The trail is mostly slickrock with some stretches of sand and loose rocks, and the uphill part is interesting and challenging, with cairns to show the way when it’s not obvious.  When we got to the downhill, DJ put me in front, and I made my way down without knowing what to expect around blind corners and over large rock roll-downs. It was a rollicking good time!  I got back to the parking area feeling re-energized and excited for more.

#ladyshred

The next day was the open-to-all shop ride, which I saw as a chance for Mike and me to be shepherded around on trails that non-locals might find difficult to navigate.  Since most of the classic mesa trails were inaccessible due to the recent and inconvenient precipitation, shop owner Quentin took us to the Boy Scouts trail system, which borders the south edge of Quail Lake State Park.  OTE actually did most of the trail construction, and you can tell that they know what they’re doing…and they have an appreciation for technical stuff. Like Zen, it’s large and chunky rocks interspersed with sand, and it dries out quickly due to its southern aspect.  In addition, it’s great for practicing tight switchbacks: there are one or two that even give the trail builders trouble. The group that day was a sausage fest: me plus 5 or 6 dudes. I surprised myself by holding on to Quentin's wheel for most of the ride, until I kept getting lost on the downhills because the trail wasn't super obvious and I have terrible eyesight. It wasn't a hammer fest by any means, and the crew was very friendly and fun.

Over the course of the next four weeks, OTE also played tour guide for us on:

Little Creek: it was still covered in snow and ice at the time, and a long trip to get to the trailhead, but I think it would be fun in warmer weather.  Plus there are petroglyphs!

Or so I'm told.

Church Rocks: fairly short and easy slickrock loop, with lots of choose-your-own-adventure options and a little drop to practice your huck-to-flat technique. My first time there was a Thursday women's ride, and they're always mellow enough that DJ brings her daughter Fiona on the bike with her.

Broken Mesa: pretty primitive and rocky, and horses had done a serious number on the dirt when it was squishy. The final descent down Ice House would be okay if it wasn’t covered in demon baby heads…and if the access wasn’t an 8-mile dirt road climb.  Not recommended.

Guacamole: really cool, and slightly reminiscent of the funner singletrack parts of UPS.  Lots of good sketchy optional lines.  The road to the trailhead becomes impassable when muddy.

Gooseberry Mesa: I’ve been hearing about this place for years, but we didn’t make it out there until week 4 of our visit because if the access road to it is even slightly muddy, it’s impossible to power through, and the rain and snow we got in the first week here took forever to dry out.  Gooseberry is quite similar to Guacamole, but on a much larger scale.  It’s a serious workout, and it makes me wish for a telekinetically-controlled dropper post, since it seems like every climb is immediately followed by a steep short downhill section that I want my saddle out of the way for…and then right back into another punchy climb. We didn’t do the more technical South Rim trail on that occasion, so I’ll have to go back for another visit at some point.

Yup.  We're up on a mesa.

I also did some exploring on my own, and had a very enjoyable time on the Barrel Ride trail system outside of Santa Clara, which you can lengthen as desired with several figure-8 options. I did a solo out-and-back on Hurricane Rim as well, which is fun and interesting, and gives a great view of Zion National Park.

Much of my non-wheeled exploration with the dogs occurred in wilderness area near the KOA where we were staying, and there is some seriously beautiful canyon land all over the place. The trails are pretty primitive, and at one point Paddington was terribly pleased with herself for finding the way out of a dead-end canyon before I did.

She was much better at navigating the canyons than Mike, who kept getting himself stuck in crevices and had to be pulled out by his beard:

There are more ridiculously cool rock formations than you can shake a stick at:

This one looks kinda like a toilet to me.

Rorschach rock?

OTE, in addition to organizing three weekly rides, has two days a week that they take trail crews out to do digging and maintenance. I took a Thursday off from riding in order to have enough energy to dig, and Quentin took me and two others up to a trail-in-progress that will connect the JEM system to town. He had an arsenal of trail-building-specific hand tools, as well as a huge gas-powered circular saw for rocks that could not be coaxed out of the earth.

Trail building is a great full-body workout, like Crossfit but with a purpose, but it reminded me that I have not been staying in shape or doing enough stretching or yoga (the downside of living in a 8x20ft space for long periods with three other organisms whose mission, it seems, are to be in my way at all times).

Anyhow, the focus of this particular day’s work was a switchback that needed to be reworked so that it would be possible for at least some riders to clear, and not just those who are 90% quad muscles.  We dug, scraped, hauled, rolled, cut, placed, filled and fractured from 4:00 to sunset, but by the time we quit it looked like the switchback had been the victim of a wayward grenade. Luckily the crew would be back again in two days to continue smoothing it out. I joined them again two weeks later while Mike finished up with his last day at the clinic, this time to remove rocks that had fallen in the trail and onto a wooden bridge spanning a small gully, and make the section less of a lungbuster.  I am normally in favor of leaving plenty of rocks around to keep trails interesting and challenging (not to mention more resistant to erosion) but these were definitely on the "more hazardous than necessary and probably only rideable by Danny McAskill" side of the line, so out they went. It was a terribly pleasant way to spend a warm southeast Utah evening.

Notes on the town of Hurricane itself: it’s really nothing special.  Lots of gas stations, one grocery store, a couple cafes, four RV parks, a Walmart, and a handful of restaurants. One particularly odd-looking restaurant we noticed on our first drive through town was El Trovatore (formerly Baristas) which featured a large and anatomically correct bull on a pedestal, and if you want to be amused for a few minutes, go read some of the Google and Yelp reviews of the place.  I kind of want to go see the inside of it now.

Besides the trails and the breathtaking geology, Hurricane has one other asset: seriously legit sunsets.  The sunsets routinely run through more colors than there are names for, and I got to enjoy plenty of them on my evening walks with the dogs in the Red Cliffs wilderness area across the highway from the KOA. (Apart from the abundant hot water in the showers, close proximity to a lovely and largely unused trail network was the only selling point of the St. George KOA.)

That last one is a sunrise, but still.

There isn’t a single liquor store in Hurricane, so if you want that or pretty much anything else you have to go down to Washington City or St. George. The area is really popular for retirees, so the Costco is always completely bonkers all day every day, and don’t even bother trying to get gas there.  Any savings you might enjoy are offset by idling in line for ten minutes waiting for the octogenarians to figure out that they have to scan their Costco card before swiping the payment card. You are guaranteed to see FLDS women there, too, with their prairie dresses, big Elaine Benice hairstyles, and incongruously comfortable modern sneakers.

STG and WC are metropolitan enough that you can find just about anything you need.  Just about.  My creative compulsions were stymied by the total lack of non-chain craft stores.  No bead shops, and no yarn/knitting establishments. I guess everyone just grows their own sheep?  Or maybe that all just have Amazon Prime now.

Luckily, I had built up a decent inventory during my freezing stint in Bozeman, and I managed to offload the whole lot both at OTE and Red Rock Bicycle Co. in St. George in my last couple days there. I may not be paying the bills with this stuff just yet, but at least I can fund my habit!

 

Bam!

Since the weather was uncooperative for a decent chunk of this rotation, I am very relieved that I will be going back to Hurricane for their MTB Festival, which runs March 18 to March 20. It's going to be a ton of fun, and everybody should sign up and get out there for some sweet slickrock singletrack!

Next stop: a well-earned travel week adventure in Sedona!

Extreme Prejudice: The Art of Finding Your Crew

This used to be much easier.  Back when mountain biking first came into being, there was really only one kind of bike, and one kind of outfit to wear while riding it (heavy rigid steel bike with fattish tires and stretchy roadie clothes, respectively).  Nowadays, we have approximately eleventy billion choices of mountain bikes and many different “kit” options to match.  NSMB did an excellent job of breaking down the basic rider types in this video, and the list is thus (Step 3, at 0:30):

Now, since nobody likes being categorized so impersonally, I shall further streamline the process by presenting an efficient series of questions to determine into what camp any given rider should be unceremoniously shunted.

Of course, when a mountain biker is in his or her natural environment (on the trail or in the trailhead parking lot) it is relatively easy to determine what kind of rider they are and whether or not it is safe to approach them as a kindred spirit.  The presence of fermented libations (aka beer), in particular, is an indication of acceptable association in almost all cases.

Beer, tutus, happy faces: it is probably safe to approach this crew.

However, when you encounter someone in street clothes who communicates, either directly or indirectly, that they ride a mountain bike, it is necessary to resist the urge to immediately bond over the connection. (You may rely on other cues to determine whether a cyclist is road-only.  A whiff of embrocation, an air of smug superiority, a doping charge, and a head injury from being hit by a texting vehicle operator are all reliable warning signs.)

NOPE.

Since there is no succinct answer to “what kind of rider are you?”, I have, through careful research, testing and observation, created a short list of questions that will allow anyone to find out whether it is appropriate to invite the person being questioned to go for a ride.  As we all know, the consequences of mingling with riders of incompatible disciplines and enthusiasm levels can be quite dire, ranging from boredom and ruined Strava segments to sheer terror and grievous bodily injury, so it is essential to use these questions before any invitation is extended so that disaster may be avoided.

1. What kind of bike do you ride?

This question is actually somewhat deceptive.  The answer does not automatically assign the subject to a given category.  The most ideal answer, of course, is any bike with 27.5” wheels with a minimum of 150mm of travel front and rear, because it tells you the rider has adequate equipment for anything between an epic trail ride or a day at the bike park. This person is also likely to be able to tell you in detail about all the components on his or her bike and provide recommendations on each. He or she is probably a wealth of information on the area trails from whence he or she came.

The Santa Cruz Nomad (2014 and newer) is an excellent example of an acceptable answer.

If the answer is “I dunno, I think it’s a Specialized”, then the questioning is done and you should not ride with this person. Someone who can’t be bothered to know the model of the bike they ride is also unlikely to wear a helmet less than 10 years old (if at all) or to carry appropriate tools or sustenance on a ride. Or they will do things like this:

If the answer is some kind of downhill bike with a production date within the last 4 years, this person will not be able to join you on trail rides, but will mostly likely be able to show you all the fun lines at the all the area lift-serviced bike parks.

If the answer is a specific kind of hardtail 29er, it is tempting to write the person off as a Trail Fred (aka a roadie who got talked into buying a mountain bike for cross-training), but wait.  I personally know a guy who absolutely shreds on a hardtail 29er and crushes gnarly downhills.  Therefore further questioning is required to truly pin down a potential riding buddy.

2. What kind of shorts do you wear?

If the answer to this is “roadie shorts,” and the answer to the previous question was “a hardtail 29er,” you are done.  This person thinks that climbs are more fun than descents and will therefore be a major drag to ride with.  Smile politely and tell them that you’re late for your underwater basketweaving lesson or whatever, and GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE! 

If the answer is some equivalent of “baggies,” you are in the clear.

Like these.

This does not guarantee that this person is a suitable riding companion, but it does mean that you won’t end up seeing their asscrack, or the very clear outline of their junk, or waaaaay too much hairy man-thigh.

Don't look too close.  Just trust me that that's a clearly visible ass crack in the background

These two questions should significantly aid in identifying those that will make good crew members, but if you are having trouble there are a few more follow-up queries you can use:

3. What kind of socks do you wear?

Only acceptable answer: Awesome socks.

#grumpypurpleowlsocks

4. What is your favorite trail?

Acceptable answers: Doctor Park, Lithium, Amasa/Ahab, The Whole Enchilada, Kennebec Pass, or a trail of similar excellence.

Badass ladyshred crew at the top of The Whole Enchilada

      5.  Do you dance party?

Acceptable answer: Of course. At every possible opportunity. Preferably with glow sticks.

Photo by Eric Rasmussen

      6. Safety what?

Acceptable answer: Third.  After looking good and having fun.

Photo by Yann Ropars

So there you have it.  No longer fear that you will waste a perfectly good Saturday riding in a place or at a pace that does not make you deliriously happy!  Unending two-wheeled joy is yours: go and get it!

Obviously, this treatise is meant to be purely entertaining and not at all judgmental. I support all bicycle-based pursuits and I’m happy to ride with anyone who wants themselves and everybody else to have a great time on a bike.  The more cyclists we’ve got out there, regardless of equipment, the better it is for the whole of humanity.  #getrowdie!

Trailer Life Stop #3: Bozeman Again!

Lots happened during our second stint in Bozeman!

Here are some highlights:

1. A guy shot a llama because he thought it was an elk

During Mike’s first week at the Kurtz clinic in Belgrade, there were several visits from drug reps.  The reps mostly just brought lunch for all of the employees, but one of them came with lunch and a bonus: news that a hunter in Bozeman shot a llama, put an elk tag on it, and rolled up to an elk check station with it, causing considerable consternation for the DoW staff working there.  I very much hope they rescinded his hunting privileges.  For life.

If it helps, here is a head to head comparison of the four-legged fuzzy creatures in question:

Elk.

Llama.

And here's a couple of llamas having sex, because why not:

Ha!

 People in this part of the country are legitimately gun crazy.  It was practically impossible to go hiking or XC skiing anywhere without hearing gunshots or seeing spend shells scattered on the ground.  During one hike with the dogs, Mike actually heard shots whizzing over his head and arrived at the parking lot to find a guy blasting into some trees right in front of the trail.  We were also seriously concerned about Paddington’s safety, since she looks about as much like a coyote or wolf as a llama looks like an elk, so all of her time outside was spent in a high-visibility coat (to her immense displeasure and embarrassment).

We weren’t as concerned about Ellie, although she could conceivably be mistaken for a beaver, or perhaps an especially chubby grouse.

2. The trailer’s water heater exploded

When we arrived in Bozeman, the high temperature was a balmy 30ish degrees.  There was a brief snowfall, then a prolonged wind storm, more snow, and then the temperature dropped to zero during the day.  The pipes in the bathroom froze, but the kitchen faucet kept working, so it wasn’t the end of the world. Then one morning as we were preparing breakfast, there was a sudden and concussive thud from under the oven, which I imagine sounded much like a whale giving herself a head slap when her whale dad tells a terrible whale knock-knock joke. The thud was immediately followed by the sound of running water getting into places it shouldn’t.  We frantically searched for the source, and discovered that the 6-gallon water heater tank had frozen, expanded, and burst at the weld.

Up to this point, I think we had been dealing with the trials of trailer life in Bozeman pretty heroically: the KOA showers that lacked adequate pressure, heat, and a pleasantly non-sulfurous smell; the wind storm that rocked the trailer for several nights, which is less relaxing than it sounds; the bone-cracking cold that cost us a hundred bucks in propane for heating in the course of two weeks; the constant humidity from the exhalations of four organisms, which froze menacingly on the window frames despite the constant running of the dehumidifier; and our faintly worrisome neighbor, whose camper-toting pickup arrived in its spot on the flatbed tow truck and whose occupant seemingly only emerged late at night to add more empty beer cases to the growing pile beside. The water heater’s callous betrayal of our trust, however, seemed to be the last straw.

Mike’s preceptor had offered his guest house to us when we first arrived, but I initially didn’t want to deal with the hassle of moving all our crap from trailer to house and back again, then having to clean the place once we were out.  But the siren call of a hot shower and sunlight coming through the windows was too strong, so we tucked our tails between our legs, vacated our space at the KOA, and bailed.

3. We moved into the Kurtzes’ guest house

The guest house was built around the turn of the 19^th century and then updated with the modern amenities by the Kurtzes after they bought the property around 20 years ago.  It’s probably only around 800 sq ft, but it felt like a mansion.  Ellie’s favorite part about it, we assume, was the heater, which kept things much toastier than she had been putting up with.  We think Paddington appreciated the two queen beds in the upstairs area, which meant she could have a whole bed to herself, while keeping an eye on us, her hopelessly wayward human charges.

The coziness of the house was enhanced by its being chock full of tchotchkes.  Every available surface, vertical and horizontal, looked like several garage sales had been blasted into the house with a cannon.

The property was guarded by a ferocious attack dog, a basset hound known as Sally Ann, who was always apoplectically excited to see us. She liked to follow us around on P & E’s bathroom excursions, but I felt bad that she had to heave herself around so energetically to keep up with her longer-legged (and lower percentage body fat) canine compatriots.

I very much hope that she gets dressed in a hot dog costume for Halloween.

The house was also conveniently close to a less-popular trailhead on the west side of the Bridger mountains, Truman Gulch, where we had several very pleasant hikes.  Except for one, when…

4. We almost got smushed by falling trees

I’ll never forget the terror!

When we started, it was a totally normal winter day for Montana: cold, cloudy, light winds.  We hiked up a mile or two, then on our way back I stopped to take some photos of the dogs launching over a fallen log, which they seemed to be getting a kick out of.  

Suddenly, it got much darker around us, a huge wall of wind came up the gulch, and the spindly dead trees on the north-facing side of the gulch, which we were on, started falling like dominoes.  So naturally, we started running for our lives, although every time we heard the sound of a tree coming down nearby we had to pause and figure out which way it was going to go. After thirty seconds of this I had a brain wave and started bushwhacking across the ravine to the north side of the gulch, which had fewer, and much sturdier-looking, trees.  Mike and the dogs followed my lead, and we could slow our pace to watch the other side flail and fall like bowling pins.  Eventually, the wind exhausted itself and we crossed back to the trail, where we noticed that the air smelled distinctly pine-ier due to all of the recently splintered logs.

Despite the fact that Truman Gulch tried to squish us, we returned there a few days later.  There had been a snowfall of a few inches, and we could clearly see the tracks of two bikes (one fat, one regular) on the trail.  The fun thing about snow is that you can see what the people who were there before you got up to.  In this case, one of them had a run-in with gravity, and left a ‘bike angel’ in the deeper snow just off the trail:

Been there, done that.

5. I got a new phone

Because the one thing that makes a smartphone still a phone, and not just a toy, stopped working on my deeply, enthusiastically detested Motorola Droid.  Don’t get one.  Ever.

But, being on a budget, I didn’t want to spend any extra money.  My free choices were a Samsung Galaxy S5 and an LG 6.  I read a million reviews, which were completely unhelpful because the phones are so similar, and ultimately went with the Galaxy because it was marginally less enormous.

It also has a pretty badass camera, and I immediately started playing around with it, and applying the photo effects:

(Selective focus)

(Sepia effect)

(Cartoon effect)

6. We went to an ice climbing competition

This sounds much more exciting than it actually was.  The competition was at the fairgrounds near the Walmart, which, being deficient in waterfalls or anything else that could turn into a wall of ice, necessitated the employment of a tall scaffolding with angled sheets of plywood bearing strategically placed climbing holds.  The climbers had crampons and ice axes, as well as 4 or 5 minutes (depending on gender) to get as far as they could up the rakishly angled surfaces to the top hold, some 3 stories above the frozen ground.

We had taken the dogs with us, and Paddington quickly took advantage of the freezing metal bleachers to cool herself off:

Ellie, on the other hand, required a lap to sit on to keep from shivering.

The technique of the climbers was incredible, and the grace and power was easy to appreciate even at a distance and a viewing perspective that made the overhang of the plywood difficult to perceive. I was struck by how all the female competitors were uniformly tiny, even in their bulky winter gear.  If only I had grown up somewhere colder! I’m made for that sport!

7. A big snowstorm finally arrived…just in time for us to get back on the road

There is some really excellent downhill skiing just half an hour from our location in Belgrade, and a couple of days after our arrival, I took a quick trip down to Pocatello to retrieve our skis from the storage unit, because we assumed that Montana might have some usable snow.  Crazy, I know.

NOPE! No snow when we got there, then too cold to snow, then too warm to snow.  Then three days before we planned to leave, it dumped.

Of course.

It turned our 10-hour drive back to Denver (according to Google maps) into a 24-hour ordeal, with about 4 hours of doing a tentative 30mph and a prolonged nap at a rest stop just south of Casper while we waited for the blasted cross wind to give us a break.  But we made it! Being back with family and friends for a couple weeks was heaven, and we also took the opportunity to make some modifications to increase the trailer’s comfort quotient in preparation for the next destination: that purported Mecca of mountain biking, Hurricane UT.

Travel Week: Coeur d'Alene and Missoula

Holy crap it was a relief to get out of Walla Walla. That place is more of an armpit than Pocatello, and that is saying something!

You know what, that was mean. Pocatello is fine, it just needs waaaaay more breweries to be somewhere I'd want to stay long-term.

Within 3 hours of Mike seeing the last patient on the last day of his rotation, we were back on the road towards Bozeman.  The trailer was not quite winterized yet, and we didn't want our water tanks or pipes freezing in the chilly air of Montana, so we stopped off in Coeur d'Alene for a few days to explore and stay (relatively) warm. However, we had both had a rather tiring day, so we only made it to a rest area a few miles west of CDA before stopping to sleep for the night. It was still better than staying one more nanosecond in Walla Walla.

I do not know how I ever functioned in life without Google maps.  To find a place to put the trailer while wandering around on Saturday, I zoomed in on the satellite map and found a parking area with big trailer-size pull-through spots south of downtown, and thence we proceeded on Saturday morning in search of breakfast and internets.

The parking area was next to the City Hall and library, and also serviced a large park with a fenced doggie play spot, brightly colored playground and picnic pavilion, all within spitting distance of Lake Coeur d'Alene to the south. It was really quite lovely, and we walked the dogs around for a few minutes, taking in the wonderful non-inversioned air of not-Walla Walla.

Hm, we thought to ourselves.  There's something about this place.

After breakfast at Bakery by the Lake (recommend) Mike went to the library to continue interneting and I went for a shopping spree at Costco, because we hadn't had access to one in W^2 and the dogs had been out of their Costco-brand chow for a solid 3 days. (Not that they were terribly broken up about it -- their backup food is white rice and boiled hamburger, which they adore.)  What does it say about me that I feel deprived by not being able to shop for economy packs of folding chairs at a giant wholesale store for a couple of weeks?  'Murica!

Then it was off to the nearest bike shop to ask about area trails.  I went in to Coeur d'Alene Bike Co. to find a super cute flannel-and-beanie-clad blond girl at the front counter, and proceeded to speak in standard mountain-biker lingo, with many "sick"s and "epic"s and "rad"s, presently gleaning much good beta.

Super Cute Shop Girl asked, in order to determine what trails to recommend, if I was an advanced rider, and I replied, rather equivocally, that I liked to think so.  What is that about?  Why can't I just say yes, I am solidly in the 'advanced' category?  I mean, I'm not really up to huge drops or gap jumps just yet, but I've ridden some decent gnar.  Note to self: own it next time.

Since I had a good feeling about the shop, I also mentioned that I didn't notice any bike-related jewelry on display, and perhaps they would be interested in carrying some, more specifically, mine. She said the owner would probably be interested, but he had just gone out for lunch and I should come back after 1 or so.

Roger that.

Back to the trailer to figure out where to put all of the 10-pack family-size Nutella jars I had gotten from Costco.

Mike returned from facebooking studying at the library, and we took the pups for an explore around the Tubbs Hill hiking area, which has a trail that runs along the lake with excellent views of the surrounding hills.  It was a glorious day, if a tad chilly, and at the first opportunity Paddington got into the water to cool off. Ellie, after some plying with a sufficiently large tree branch thrown into the water at a reasonable distance, also swam for a bit.  Although we had finally gotten her to jump/stumble off of a dock on a pond in Pocatello last summer, we were sadly unable to convince her to launch into the water off one of the many boulders on the shore, which would have been wonderfully entertaining and not a little harrowing. We made it to a miniature peninsula and chased each other around on the beach briefly, took the obligatory “us” selfie, and then decided that we had accomplished enough exercise to reward ourselves with beer.

But first: back to the bike shop to do some schmoozing and selling.

Success!  The owner, Chris, was indeed interested in the earrings, and took twelve pairs on commission.

Bam!

We chatted with him and TJ and Syd (Super Cute Shop Girl) for a solid hour, learned more about biking around CDA, played with Syd’s puppy Beemer, and commiserated about the unsuitability of Cannondale lefty forks. When we asked about places to take the trailer for camping, Chris told us to just park it in the lot behind the shop, which we did almost immediately.  (When you’re a gypsy, you learn to take every opportunity like this. I sometimes wonder how serious people are when they offer space or showers or whatever, and whether they are surprised when I take them up on it. Let this be a lesson to all: don’t offer unless you mean it.)

Jewelry hawking and accommodations thus accomplished and established, respectively, it was actually now time for beer and food. There were several breweries quite nearby, but we were charmed by the name of Daft Badger brewing, and went there first.  It was quite busy, as befits a Saturday evening, and when we sat on two of the few open stools the gentleman next to us asked us if he could get us something, adding that he was the owner of the establishment. Once again, we jumped on an unsolicited offer like Ellie pounces on unfortunate rodents (clumsily, and without regard for personal safety or decorum).

 I found myself assuming that this was meant to be an opening for socializing, and with great effort tamped down my natural shyness and conversational awkwardness and pretended to be a normal human being who can talk normally to other normal human beings.

The owner and his wife (Darryl and Val) were extremely cool, terribly nice, and wildly informative about the population, activities and merits of CDA.  We learned that the cost of living is fairly low, the outside opportunities are endless, the ski/DH bike areas are close and world-class, the winters are manageable and the beer is right up there.  It got to the point where I had to ask: what’s the catch?

The catch, Darryl said, is that the town is still very very conservative. “Narrow-minded,” he said.

Ah. Well, that’s nothing we didn’t already live with in Pocatello.

But, it stands to reason that as CDA attracts more under-30 folks looking for adventure and less expensive housing, it will naturally turn a little more purple. At least that’s what I like to think.

Anyway, the beer was good and the food was great at Daft Badger, and I certainly recommend it to all.

It was only 8pm at this point, but since it had gotten dark at 4 it felt much later, and we made a stop at Slate Creek brewing for a couple tasters before going back to the trailer and crashing out early like the party animals we are.

Unfortunately for us in that particular situation, but not necessarily in general, downtown CDA apparently has a bit of a nightlife, and also apparently most of the participants in that nightlife like to take a shortcut through the parking lot of the bike shop to the bar on the other side.  The lot is ostensibly surrounded by chain-link fence on 3 sides, but we observed the following morning that there is a large gap at one corner through which people avoid going an extra 20 feet to the intersection and around the shop building.  Starting at 10pm and continuing until 3am, loud voices permeated the supposedly insulated walls of our so-called winterized trailer as though the owners of said voices were right in there with us.  At one point we heard, very clearly, some apparently amorous male declare “I just want to snort cocaine and fuck fat bitches.”

Indeed.

In the morning, detritus of the previous night was scattered over the parking lot in the form of a Styrofoam container, deposited improbably under the very middle of the trailer, and bits of burrito everywhere else, which Paddington kept trying to scoop up as we walked her to and from the park by the lake.

The nice weather of the day before had, sadly, not continued, and a gusty rain greeted us.  The plan had been to go riding, but here’s the thing about living in a camper: nothing ever dries in here.  Ever. It’s a hermetically sealed box of four respiring and perspiring organisms with no air flow.  So, if we were to go out riding in the rain and bring our nasty damp selves back inside, we might as well throw our clothing in the trash because it wouldn’t by dry again until Christmas.

Also, I’m a big wimp about being wet and cold. So, instead, we took the dogs for a hike on the Canfield Mountain trail system, which was supposed to have good riding. Like total jerks, we hiked up the down-only flow trail, but as there were no vehicles at the trailhead with the means to transport a bike, we figured it was pretty safe. The trail was cool, and the dirt was impressively non-sticky after a day of rain, which we were told is the norm for the area (and also helped by a very dry summer).

The following day’s weather was the same, which meant another hike, this time at Beauty Creek.

When we arrived, we must have just missed a departing hunter, because right there next to the trailhead sign was a pile of very fresh deer guts. Miraculously, we found the pile before the dogs did, which meant we could prevent them from rolling ecstatically in it as they most surely would have done otherwise. We spent a moment dispassionately identifying the organs in the heap, then began to make our way up the winding trail.

Right away we discovered that the trail would be really excellent for mountain biking. It had lots of little technical rock features and tricky moves, and the scenery was absolutely gorgeous. The sign at the bottom said the top of Mount Coeur d’Alene was 8 miles away, which would make for a decently burly out-and-back ride. We will definitely have to go back there at some point.

That evening, we met Mike’s classmate Fallon at Mad Bomber brewery and got to hear about some of the misadventures of the other ISU PA students. Let’s just say, for all of my complaining about Walla Walla, the clinical year has not been a cakewalk for most of these folks.

Finally, the next day, the sun broke through the clouds and riding was back on the menu.  At least it was for Mike, because it was still too cold for me to voluntarily freeze my hands off.  I hiked the dogs around again while he did a quick 1.5 hour loop at Canfield, ending on the flow trail we had explored the first time. The verdict: thumbs up, even if it is easy to get lost up there.  On our way back to the trailer, we picked up a six pack of beer to take inside the shop as thanks for letting us stay in the lot. TJ was the only one there, but Beemer the puppy was also in attendance, so we got to play with him while we chatted with TJ.  Another employee stopped by to pick up a paycheck, and the other owner, Alex, also came in briefly on some errand, so they joined us for a beer as well and we had a right nice conversation about this and that. Definitely a good community in CDA.

On Wednesday, it was finally time to get back on the road. Our final destination was Bozeman for Mike’s third rotation, but as he didn’t need to be there until Monday, we would make a stop in Missoula to hang out with classmate Meadow for a few days.  She had offered to let us park the trailer at her house and use her internets, shower and laundry facilities, and (are you seeing a theme here) we took her up on it.

Meadow’s house is up on a hill south of town, with fabulous views of the surrounding mountains. We rolled in just after dark, and she immediately set about feeding us dinner like the badass mom she is (she and her husband, Clint, have five kids between them).  Meadow was supposed to be in Walla Walla right after Mike, but he gave her a heads up about how awful it was in time for her to find something else, and happily she was able to get a hospital in Missoula to take her on so that she could be with her family. We chatted with her about rotations for a while that evening, and also learned some of the places we should take the dogs exploring for the next couple of days.

On Thursday afternoon, having spent the morning basking in the glow of central heat and fast Wi-Fi and doing a couple loads of impressively stinky laundry, we took the dogs up Mt. Jumbo, just north of I-90.  It was blustery and cold, but there was still a surprising number of people out there at the same time.  A guy was even up there getting ready to go paragliding, but the wind was strong enough that we wondered what his plan would be once he was 100 miles away five minutes after taking off.

 Mt. Jumbo features a large “L” on the west face, and we got to see it up close:

Because Mike is a huge bike dork, on our way past it he identified the pattern of a Maxxis DHF tire, left by some brave or crazy soul on the steeply inclined concrete letter:

We also had a panoramic view of Missoula from there:

Once I was sufficiently cold and cranky, I decreed that it was time to turn around.  Halfway down, we looked back to see paraglider guy hovering gently above the ridge, even though the wind was still valiantly trying to freeze my ears off.  I do not understand how air works.

Once down, we went in search of beer, and found ourselves at Kettlehouse Brewing, where we were greeted by a sea of beards, flannel and Patagonia. I got the sense that Missoula is a good town to be single in: small enough that it’s not overwhelming, large enough for a decent dating pool, and outdoorsy enough that most people you meet will be into some kind of interesting activity. The beer was pretty good, and the best one by far was a 10.5% Imperial Porter.  There’s no food there, though, so don’t go if you’re hungry.

We met Meadow and Clint downtown that evening for dinner at Flathead Lake Brewing Company. Great food and beer—definitely recommend.

The next few days were more of the same: relaxing, interneting, laundrying and hanging out with M&C. Their daughter Makenna was very taken with Paddington and Ellie, although the resident dog there, Pokey, was rather nonplussed by their arrival and attempted to mark his territory by peeing on the couch. (This earned him a lot of laughter and temporary banishment to the basement.)

I explored downtown and spent an absurd amount of time in a bead store, as I tend to do whenever I find one.

Finally, it was time to say goodbye and drive the remaining three hours to Bozeman, where there was a spot waiting for us at the KOA at Four Corners.

Next up: Bozeman Part 2!