The Idaho Panhandle

  Clarkston, Washington, United States
Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Sandpoint is a resort town set amid a bowl of green hills at the western tip of Lake Pend Oreille in the Panhandle of northern Idaho. In summer it draws the boating crowd and in winter people come to ski. Accessible by road and rail, Sandpoint (pop. 6,835) is indeed a pleasant place for the traveller to unwind.

I'd known about the road links of course, having come in from Montana on Interstate 200. Feeling bedraggled after an early evening cloudburst on the northern shore of Lake Pend Oreille, I'd set up camp in the lee of an embankment that was cloaked in a dense thicket of shrubbery. Sandpoint's rail connection I learned of much later, on being jolted awake by the slow grinding advance of some terrifying mechanical beast, which turned out to be the first of many. I was still telling myself that the odds of a derailment were infinitesimal when the last train rumbled by sometime after four.

Next morning, bleary-eyed, I wandered over to the municipal beach. A steady breeze blew across the lake and the resultant waves hurled spray over a scaled-down replica of the Statue of Liberty that stood atop its own little pier. Out among the white horses, a red sailboard raced hither and thither, intermittently catapulting its rider into the chilly depths. Underwhelmed at the prospect of another day on the Interstate, I headed back to camp and fell fast asleep.

Waterfront At Sandpoint ID

After leaving Sandpoint next day via the mile-long bridge that carries busy Interstate 95 across Lake Pend Oreille, I was confined for several hours to a rough stone-littered shoulder, which, as well as slowing me down, inflicted a couple of punctures. My vain attempts to escape across the rumble-strip onto the smooth stone-free surface of the highway itself were invariably greeted by angry horn-blasts from fast-approaching trucks to my rear. Several times I fled back onto the shoulder in claxon-induced terror, having been reduced to size. Occasionally, especially if the perceived aggressor's Idaho license plates bore the slogan 'Famous Potatoes', I would vent my spleen, shouting 'You can stick your f**king potatoes up your ****!' at the back of his truck. After one particularly close call, it dawned on me that it was best just accept the maxim "Might Is Right". For the remainder of the forty-five miles to Coeur d'Alene (pop. 34,514) I stuck firmly to the shoulder.

It was late afternoon when I arrived on the outskirts of the city, the largest in the Panhandle. Still feeling somewhat fraught after my experiences on the Interstate, I made my way to a trailer park situated in the midst of a vast suburb of retail outlets and fast-food joints. The superintendent told me that, while she normally catered for itinerant workers and those who couldn't afford housing, I was welcome to pitch my tent. Having temporarily joined the ranks of the 'trailer park trash', I went out on foot after dark to investigate my new surroundings. I soon discovered that these consisted of a dreary commercial sprawl that I didn't much care for. Islands of cheap nasty architecture, adorned with lurid neon signs, floated in a sea of tar macadam on which fleets of vehicles were anchored beneath the fluorescent orange glow of streetlights. Outside automobile dealerships, giant Stars and Stripes flags fluttered over lots filled with the latest merchandise: pick-up trucks built like tanks and SUVs the size of small buses.

I ventured into the heart of the city the following morning for a look around. Like Sandpoint, Coeur d'Alene is a resort town set on the shore of a lake - with a clutch of stylish boutiques, up-market galleries and trendy eateries. Determined to avoid the monster-truck extravaganza on Interstate 95 at all costs, I called into a cycle shop to pick-up some inner tubes and seek advice on route finding, a quest that met with only partial success.

Lake Couer d'Alene ID thru the Treetops

Later, I found my out through the eastern suburbs to a cycle-track that ran for a number of miles along Lake Coeur d'Alene's northern shore, past dog-walkers, joggers and marinas filled with shimmering yachts. When the track ran out I joined a quiet back road that climbed steeply away from the lake, over the freeway and up into the hills beyond. Several miles further on I found myself on a gravel track in the middle of a mountain forest with a deflated back tyre and no idea as to where I was headed. Fortunately, a passing motorist, with the aid of GPS, put me right and, shortly afterwards, I emerged from the trees high above a narrow blue finger of lake, having wasted a couple of hours on an unnecessary detour - I learned subsequently that riding on the freeway shoulder is legal if there is no alternative route.

It was late afternoon when I joined Idaho 97 at the northeastern tip of Lake Coeur d'Alene. Clinging tight to the base of a steep wooded hillside, the road followed the southern shore of the inlet for a few miles before curving round into a secluded cove lined with boat-jetties and rambling houses, then climbed sharply into the hills beyond. I laboured upwards around a series of tight bends to emerge atop a broad promontory, the sun sitting low in the sky to the west. Light flooding through the trees, I raced down a long shallow grade to meet the eastern shore of the lake's slender main body where a succession of small wood-fringed inlets host the stylish summer homes of the boating fraternity. I skipped from cove to cove as the setting sun filled the lake with liquid gold. By the time I rolled out of the woods and into the village of Carlin Bay the waters had become a sea of pink. It was time to make camp; but the glamorous blonde lady who ran the trailer park had other ideas. 'We don't do tent camping' she informed me with a disdainful regard.

Amid falling twilight, I rode off into the trees cursing the miserable bitch for all it was worth. By now the only traffic on the road were the deer that leapt out of the forest around me, intent on a Friday night guzzle down at the water's edge. The highway began climbing, bend after bend, for what seemed an eternity to a man as frightened as I was. Headlight fixed on the twin gold lines in the centre of the road, I worked the pedals until, at last, I arrived at a pass from where I could see the lights of a settlement in the distance below. Sounding my tinny little bell at intervals to ward off wildlife, I coasted down off the mountain and over a bridge into Harrison (pop. 265). It was just after eight when I arrived at a lakeside campground, grateful to have defied the odds again.

I hadn't been there long when a man, who introduced himself as Gary, came over from a nearby trailer, bearing a plate of hot food: 'I guess you'll be needing that' he said - and I didn't argue. After bolting down the meal I spruced myself up and went off in search of the amber nectar.

Before long I was sat at the counter of the local tavern with a beer in front of me. A very attractive blonde took the next barstool and began chatting to me in a forward, flirtatious manner. I regaled her with my tales of life on the road and she exclaimed 'Oh my Gawd, I love your accent. Tell me some more!' She laughed uproariously at all my witticisms and then introduced me, inevitably, to her husband who, just that minute, had finished a game of pool. If he was jealous he didn't show it for he bought me a beer and began waxing romantic about his new wife. They were 'aquaholics' he told me, whose shared love of boating had brought them together after failed first marriages. After a while some of the couple's boating friends came in and I found myself invited to a party back on a boat.

A silver half-moon illuminated the water as half a dozen of us ambled down to the dock, sharing an illicit cigarette. But my vision of a midnight cruise along Lake Coeur d'Alene was to remain unfulfilled for it transpired that there was a problem with the boat's electrics and, despite hubby's best efforts, it wasn't going anywhere. Blondie, thoroughly pissed after a few more vodkas, seemed disappointed, judging by the invective she flung at her hitherto placid partner. The time had come to make my excuses and leave. As I wandered back to the campground I wondered who would get the misfiring boat after the divorce.

Lake Coeur d'Alene ID

As I stood on the shore next morning contemplating what a glorious day it was, Gary, the man who had fed me the night before, appeared at my side with a cup of coffee, which I gratefully accepted. As we looked across calm blue waters of the lake to the wooded green ridge opposite, Gary gave me a quick geography lesson: the lake's depth had been augmented by a dam near the city of Coeur d'Alene; and the Saint Joe's River, which I'd crossed the night before on my way into Harrison, was the world's highest navigable river. As for the name Coeur d'Alene - well, that meant 'heart of awl' and it came from the name that French-Canadian fur-traders - les voyageurs - gave to the local Indians on account of their sharp business practices. An awl, he informed me, was a tool for boring wood.

Gary and his wife had retired to Idaho from Los Angeles to escape the rat race and lead a simple life. When I told him that I was on my way to California he went back to his trailer, re-emerging a couple of minutes later with a road atlas. We sat down at a picnic table and spent the best part of an hour poring over maps, planning my route to the coast. Eventually we came to California:

'Son, do you have a gun?' he asked me earnestly.

I laughed, though from the expression on Gary's face, it was clearly no joking matter.

'You oughtta be real careful when you get to California' he warned.

Soberly, I asked why.

'Cos it's full of assholes.'

Gary brought his gun with him whenever he went on the road. So far he'd never had to use it. But that meant nothing - one day he might run into 'a real asshole'.

I thanked Gary for his assistance and set off south along a cycle-track that ran along the lakeshore on the route of an old railroad. Knots of weekend cyclists called out greetings as they whizzed past in the opposite direction. A mile-long trestle bridge carried me across the shallow reed-filled waters at the southern end of the lake. Beneath its main span, squadrons of duck assembled around a narrow channel, rising and falling on the wake of passing boats. Continuing south on the lake opposite shore I emerged onto sparsely trafficked Idaho 5. Proceeding east along the southern edge of the lake, the calm was disturbed only by an occasional shotgun blast from a hunting party in the marshes below. Leaving the lakeshore for the last time, I began to climb up through the trees around a series of sharp bends. Wreathed in sweat, I arrived after some time at a mountain pass where I paused awhile to catch my breath and drink in my first sight of the unfamiliar realm to which I was bound. The valley of the Saint Joe's River spread out before me, bathed in sunshine, and beyond, range upon range of forested hills stretched away to a far horizon.

Marshes by Lake Coeur d'Alene ID

I hared down the far side of the mountain and out of the woods to arrive the town of Saint Marie's (pop. 2,652). My initial enquiries took me three miles out along the banks of the serene Saint Joe's River to the padlocked gate of a campground that had closed for the season. I returned to Saint Marie's where I took a room in Bed And Breakfast establishment run by a man named Brick.

On hearing that I was bound for San Francisco Brick went directly to his bookcase and retrieved his road atlas. My arrival, it seemed, had the makings of a project. As we looked over the maps together, Brick confided that, in his younger days, he had been a keen cyclist. He was retired now, but once every so often, he would take his bicycle out of the garage and go for a ride. Speaking slowly and softly he debated aloud the merits of going over the Cascades - a possibility of snow - or through the Columbia Gorge - could be windy. I focussed my questioning on more immediate issues, namely the route that I would take for the next three days. Choosing his words with the utmost deliberation, Brick advised me that the route that I had chosen would take me through some nice country, then cautioned that it would be remote and I'd be lucky to find anyplace to stay.

Early the next morning, after a hearty breakfast and some more words of wisdom from Brick, I set out southbound under a sombre sky. There was an unmistakeable chill in the air. Idaho 3 climbed steadily through thick forest for several miles, one bend following another. The ascent seemed to require a lot more effort than it should have; eventually I realised grimly that I had a slow puncture. I pulled over onto the shoulder and started going through the wearyingly familiar routine. But something was missing on this occasion, something that I should have picked up on but didn't, perhaps because part of my brain was still slumbering back in Saint Marie's. So I reloaded the bike, gained the crest of the hill and commenced the long descent, coasting effortlessly for mile upon mile until, before very long, I'd left the forest behind and found myself amid open grazing country. Looking down to check how far it would be to the next town I discovered a dizzying void between my handlebars, a void where my map-case should have been attached to the bag that contained all my valuables: my money, my credit cards, my passport, my phone and my camera - a bag that was now missing. The realisation came like a shock of electricity to me.

There was no time to lose - I had to get back up that hill. I threw down the bike and stood in the road, flapping my arms about wildly, until an SUV pulled over, a woman at the wheel and three young kids in the back: 'Sure', she'd give me a ride. I consoled myself that I didn't appear dangerous; then chained my bike to a fence and climbed into the passenger seat.

Time dragged infinitesimally as the vehicle climbed the hill. Eventually it arrived at the spot where I'd changed the inner tube. My heart sank - there was no sign of a bag; but I dismounted nonetheless. I scoured the shoulder; then veered off into the scrub where, an hour or so previously, I'd answered a call of nature. There was nothing, not even a trickle of piss. I was thousands of miles from home, alone, without a dime to my name - completely fucked.

For several minutes I wandered back and forth along the shoulder, desperately clutching at straws. There wasn't much I could do but go to the police in Saint Marie's hoping that a passing motorist had handed in my bag - after all most people were honest, weren't they? Suddenly another thought occurred to me and, for the second time that morning, I started frantically flagging down traffic. A mud-spattered pick-up pulled over and I dived in. The driver was a lumberjack with a face full of whiskers. I told him my story. 'Bit fuckin' cold to be cycling', he drawled, flashing me a toothless smile.

Back in town, I headed straight for Brick's place. 'Well, you didn't get very far', said his wife, surprised to see me again. I went out to the garage and there, behind the door, I found my handlebar bag - in the place where it had been sitting, unnoticed, for the past couple of hours. Somehow I'd managed to go through the whole process of unloading the bike, changing the inner tube and loading the bike up again without noticing that it was missing. I felt like the immensely relieved idiot that I undoubtedly was. Brick, thoroughly amused at my ineptitude, drove me out along the highway where I was re-united with my bicycle. I thanked him for his troubles and set off on my way, still trying to make sense of the morning's events.

Sometime later I approached Santa (pop. 115). On the edge of town I ventured into a bar that offered hot food. There were no elves or reindeer present - just a few people sitting at the counter watching a NASCAR race on TV. A bartender wearing a ball-cap embossed 'Save Idaho - Castrate Non-Hunters' fixed me a burger while I quizzed a couple of locals about campgrounds along the road ahead. They mentioned a few possible sites; then told me how an Internet company had paid the 'city' $30,000 to rename itself. On leaving the bar I spotted a sign by the roadside: 'Welcome to secretsanta.com'.

A few miles further down the highway I arrived in Fernwood (pop. 684), where I stopped at a supermarket to pick up some food, before continuing south into the woods. The sun had by now ceased its half-hearted struggle to break though the blanket of grey enveloping the sky and the temperature was dipping again. A dozen miles beyond Fernwood I came upon a rudimentary campground in a cedar grove by a gurgling stream. Reckoning that there would be enough remaining daylight to get a fire going and cook up a meal before the wildlife came on the scene, I wheeled my bike around a barrier sealing the campground entrance and picked a site that couldn't be seen from the road.

A few minutes later I was sitting on a pit-toilet amid the pungent odour of last season's shit when I heard a voice calling outside. I cleaned myself up and went out to investigate. A short stocky man wearing a ball-cap walked purposefully towards me -a forest ranger, I assumed. But instead of telling me to get lost because the campground was closed, the man introduced himself as Chuck and asked if I want a ride to 'Moss Cow'. Slowly it dawned on me that I'd met him before - at the bar in Santa. I assured Chuck that I was absolutely fine but he was having none of it:

'Have you ever met a redneck logger?' he asked.

I thought back to the guy who'd picked me up in the midst of my crisis that morning and, it was true - he had had somewhat of a 'Deliverance' aura about him. But I remained unfazed - I would stay put.

'OK', said Chuck, trying to save me from myself, 'Do you know how cold it was here last night?'

I had to admit that I didn't.

'Fifteen degrees below', he told me emphatically.

I didn't need to perform the conversion into Celsius to know that that was damn cold. Together, we strapped the bike to the back of his jeep; then set out for Moscow, Idaho.

Chuck told me that he'd been keeping an eye out for me since I'd left the bar. He owned a welding business over in Washington State and was in the early stages of building a weekend retreat near Santa. He'd camped out there over the weekend.

Sipping hot coffee, we proceeded south along an undulating corridor of never-ending pine beneath a leaden sky. Occasionally, the forest cleared to reveal huge stacks of lumber destined for the sawmill. After passing though a couple of desolate logging towns, we turned west onto Idaho 8. I felt grateful that Chuck had made the effort to track me down. On arrival in Moscow (pop. 21,291), where it was suitably cold, I took my leave of Chuck and headed to a motel.

I checked out next morning and headed to the main drag. Finding a diner that was popular with students - Moscow is home to Idaho State University - I ordered a Denver Omelette and sat down to watch the 'rockumentary' Spinal Tap which was playing on a television set. Having killed the best part of an hour through this entertaining diversion, I got back on the road just after midday. Riding out of town I reflected that while Moscow, Idaho, might have lacked a Kremlin, it did have some awesome grain elevators.

The Road to Lewiston ID

Interstate 95 climbed south out of town, its surface horribly pitted. Mercifully, traffic was relatively light and I felt confident enough to abjure the stony shoulder and stay to the 'road side' of the dreaded rumble-strip. The road levelled out amid a gently undulating sea of wheat, and, for the first time in days, there wasn't a tree to be seen. The sky was blue and cloudless, though a cold easterly wind that blew in across the plateau kept the temperature down. My morale was boosted when the Interstate divided itself into two newly built carriageways, enabling me to increase my momentum over a silky-smooth surface.

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived at the plateau's western extremity and paused at a vantage point that looked out over the canyon of the Snake River at the point where it met with that of the Clearwater. Far below, around the confluence of the broad shimmering rivers, the twin cities of Lewiston and Clarkston, linked by a pair of long thin bridges, spread out over the valley floor; and to the west, beyond the canyon rim, bare-brown hills stretched away into a haze of high desert. Immediately before me, a sinuous ribbon of black tarmac unwound itself across the hillside. I pushed myself forward and began the descent.

ENDS