Across the Palouse

  Umatilla, Oregon, United States
Friday, October 27, 2006

Hell's Gate State Park lies on the eastern bank of the Snake River at the point where it emerges from Hell's Canyon four miles south of the city of Lewiston, Idaho. On either side of the Snake's placid waters - which have long since been tamed by a dam downstream of Lewiston - rise steep bluffs covered in buff-coloured sage grass.

Jaded after my travails among the mountains and forests of the Idaho Panhandle, I broke my journey to recuperate amid the warmer climes of the canyon floor. I availed of the opportunity provided by a few days' rest to research the history of American exploration; indulge in a spot of amateur anthropology; and do some writing.

The Snake River divides Lewiston (pop. 30,904) from its sister city, Clarkston (pop. 7,377), which lies in state of Washington. Each morning I would cycle along the riverside cycle-track that led to the bridge carrying Interstate 12 over the state-line, and cross to Clarkston. At the Jawbone Flats Café I would dawdle over coffee to read the newspapers and chat with the locals, before ordering lunch from a charming waitress who would invariable persuade me to have some pie and ice-cream too. The clientele, which consisted mainly of retired people and workers coming off night shift, would discuss the issues of the day around the breakfast-counter. Chief among these were the corrupt practices of local church ministers and, following on from the day's papers, U.S. foreign policy.
Even the religious conservatives among the regulars seemed resigned to a negative outcome in Iraq. One pillar of the church reserved his ire for a longer-standing enemy, North Korea: 'That dirty gook' he fumed, referring to 'Dear Leader', Kim Jong-Il, 'He just couldn't wait to get his slimy little hands on the bomb!'

Wall Mural in Lewiston ID

At a cyber-café over in Lewiston, I heard disturbing revelations about deviant Christian pastors from the café's owner, a giant of a man who styled himself Big Daddy. Sickened by horrific tales of sexual abuse at Bible camp, Big Daddy had given up on organised religion - though he still maintained a 'close personal relationship with the Lord'. Big Daddy explained his mission: to keep local kids away from the twin evils of drugs and porn; and get them gaming on-line.

Altogether, I spent three afternoons in the library at Clarkston. Between catching up with recording my cycling exploits, I conducted research into the groundbreaking Lewis and Clark expedition to which the twin cities owed their names.

In 1803 the adolescent United States accomplished a major diplomatic triumph when it persuaded Napoleon Bonaparte, who was strapped for cash for his European wars, to sell France's remaining possessions in North America - the so-called Louisiana Purchase. President Thomas Jefferson immediately dispatched the Corps of Discovery, under the joint command of US Army Captains Merriwether Lewis and William Clark, into the newly acquired territories. Their mission was to find the shortest navigable route to the mouth of the Columbia River. Discovery of the fabled North West Passage would enable the U.S. to strengthen its territorial claims on the Pacific seaboard; increase its share of the Indian fur-trade; and facilitate commerce with Asia.

After an arduous canoe journey to the headwaters of the Missouri River, the Corps of Discovery continued across the Rocky Mountains on foot, arriving at the confluence of the Clearwater and the Snake - the site of present day Lewiston and Clarkston - as spring turned to summer in 1804. Waterborne once again, the expedition proceeded down the Snake to its confluence with the Columbia and thence to the ocean, where the explorers endured a miserable winter before setting out for the United States again. Retuning via broadly the same route, the Corps of Discovery arrived back at St. Louis in the fall of 1805.

The Snake and Columbia Rivers had proved un-navigable to shipping - Lewiston became a grain-exporting port only after the construction of a series of dams - but within a couple of decades pioneers began streaming west along the Oregon Trail. America's 'Manifest Destiny' was to be fulfilled.

Pedalling out of on Clarkston on a clear blue Friday morning, I followed Interstate 12 north for several miles along a narrow strip of land between the Snake River and the foot of a high bluff. The highway turned west, away from the Snake, following the course of a small tributary upwards, gently at first, into a narrow valley enclosed by rounded hills, the steep sides of which were bare but for the dull beige hue of sage grass. The stream divided and the highway climbed upwards, steeper now, through a long winding ravine. I found my lowest gear and dug in, intent upon finding what lay beyond the next bend. But the answer was always the same - steep, rounded hills and sage grass - and my stops grew longer and more frequent.

Snake River Near Clarkston WA

After a couple of hours of steady climbing, I extricated myself from the claustrophobia-inducing sage-grass ravine to emerge onto a high, level plateau that was covered in wheat for as far as the eye could see. I hadn't proceeded very much further, however, before the highway divined another wrinkle and carried me into a gully similar to that which I'd recently escaped. This time, though, it was downhill all the way. I whizzed along the valley in double-quick time, attaining my objective for the day, the town of Pomeroy (pop, 1,517), late in the afternoon.

I had just set up camp in the municipal park when a phalanx of black-shirted, helmet-clad youths wearing marched by, chanting in unison, before disappearing into the adjacent football ground. Then a couple of fire-trucks pulled up and a couple of dozen over-excited teenage girls spilled out, accompanied by a handful of boys dressed up as pirates. A girl with a painted faced explained that it was Homecoming and the Pomeroy Pirates were about to play. I paid five bucks at the stadium gate and went in to investigate. Out on the pitch, the coaches put their respective teams through their warm-ups on the pitch; in the stand, the school band fine-tuned their instruments; while on the touchline, a squad of modestly attired cheerleaders performed a half-hearted routine, watched disinterestedly by a crowd which was a couple of hundred strong. I grabbed a hotdog and took my place in the stand.

The game duly kicked off. Fortunately, the guy standing next to me, whose nephew was on the Pirates team, was kind enough to explain the rules to me. The game ebbed and flowed during the first quarter and the Pirates scored an early touchdown, spurring the band into life and causing a brief outbreak of enthusiasm among the cheerleaders. The opposition rallied during the second quarter, which ebbed considerably more than it flowed, replying with a touchdown of their own. Then, at last, it was halftime and, amid wild cheers from the younger element in the crowd, the Homecoming King and Queen were unveiled. Together they made for a handsome couple; the King with his tux and crown; the Queen, an evening dress and a tiara. Cameras flashed as they toured the field on the back of a pick-up truck, all waves and gleaming smiles.

I left the football match delicately poised and went off in search of something a little more entertaining. Silvery moonlight filtered down though the trees onto silent streets and, on the surrounding hills, shrouds of sage grass glowed a ghostly shade of green. The sound of a rowdy chorus drifted along Main Street. I stepped inside a bar to find Country and Western Karaoke Night in full swing. The compère, a giant of a man with a long bushy beard and a Stars and Stripes bandana wrapped around his brow, directed proceedings with great gusto, waving his arms around like the conductor of a honky-tonk orchestra.

I fell in with a group of locals around the pool table. Some of them had spotted me earlier on the road into town and wanted to know more. One guy, a musician, had Irish connections and even shared a family name with my mother. Phone calls were made and a sister, who'd been back to the old country to trace the family roots, was summoned to meet me. She turned out to be a lovely girl, good-looking with an artistic bent that she felt was out of place in an isolated farming community. Together we shot pool, got drunk and sang along to Elvis. And at the end of the night my newfound country cousin gave me a ride home - to the park.

Grain Mill near Pomeroy WA

The next morning I awoke with a pounding headache. On crawling out of my tent I discovered that it was a beautiful day. After breakfast at a local diner I set out again to the west, feeling marginally less awful. Fortunately, I was able to coast downhill for several miles before the valley widened out and the highway levelled off amid a patchwork landscape of golden wheat and bare-brown soil. At intervals the architecture of grain production punctuated my progress: hulking grey sheet-metal granaries; and brightly painted wooden pioneer barns with high-eaved roofs.

I'd paused at the roadside to admire an old pioneer barn when a friendly old fellow came out from the adjoining farmhouse to ask if I needed some water. He told me that his German forbears had built the barn after coming west in the nineteenth-century and that it cost a small fortune to maintain the roof. A while later, as I struggled up a modest ascent - contemplating membership of the Pioneer Total Abstinence Association - he pulled in beside me and offered me a lift to Dayton (pop. 2,655), seven miles distant. I threw the bike onto the back of his pick-up and off we went. The farmer talked an unfamiliar language of 'acres' and 'bushels' in conjunction with big-sounding numbers; then dropped me off at a restaurant on the far side of town.

'Thank you fire-fighters!' was chalked on a board outside a restaurant. The waitress who brought me lunch told me about the forest-fire that had raged in the hills just south of town - it had burned for several days before the fire fighters brought it under control. I looked out the window and, sure enough, the hillsides were scorched black.

Amid the wooded floor of a river-valley, five miles west of Dayton, I came upon Lewis & Clark State Park, my objective for the day. At the campground, I paused to speak with a man wearing camouflage who was in the process of skinning a deer carcass that he'd suspended from a tree. His twelve-year old son had shot the animal that morning: 'Straight through the lungs', he told me proudly. 'Well done', I said to the boy; then went to my tent to lie down.

Farm near Dayton WA

Loud voices awoke me before dawn. At the neighbouring site a cuckold related the in-depth account of his wife's infidelity; an occasional 'Uh-huh!' or 'God, that's awful!' from his buddy punctuated the sorry tale. The conversation faded as the pair headed off to the hills, intent on blood. I emerged awhile later to find the sky overcast and a strong wind gusting from the southwest, the direction to which I was headed. By the door of the huntsmen's tent lay the severed head of a deer, cast aside like a macabre stage-prop.

I pedalled into the face of the wind, reduced, at times almost to standstill. Staying in low gear, I kept my head down and focussed on attaining the next milepost, where I would recover my breath before resuming battle. Combine-harvesters criss-crossed the slopes around me, throwing up clouds of dust that mingled with the thick black smoke of burning stubble. A tumbleweed rolled across the highway and under the wheels of an oncoming car. I struggled on, each mile hard won. Then, on the road out of Dixie (pop. 220), the rain came on - cold, hard and relentless.

Late in the afternoon I limped into the city of Walla Walla (pop. 29,686) feeling like something that the cat had dragged in. Still, the rain poured from the heavens. I went straight to a motel and ran myself a hot bath.

The next day was the same - wet and windy. I paid for another night at the motel and headed to a bookstore to pick up a copy of the journals of Lewis and Clark.

By Tuesday morning the sun was back. I set out again to the west on Interstate 12, crossing a plain planted with vineyards. Atop a low ridge that stretched away to the southwest a forest of white wind-turbines twirled in the breeze.

Early in the afternoon I arrived at the crest of a gentle rise to find the blue waters of the Columbia River stretched out along the floor of the valley below. It was an exhilarating moment for me: a re-union with old friends - the Kootenai River, Lake Pend Oreille, Lake Coeur d'Alene, the Snake River - that reminded me of how far I'd come; and, looking forward, a promise of the adventure that awaited me on the Pacific Coast.

I raced down over the slopes that led to the southern shore of the great river and, after turning west onto Interstate 170, pedalled furiously for five more miles, coming to a halt only after I'd passed the sign that welcomed me to the State of Oregon. Then, doubly content, I clambered up onto a rocky outcrop that jutted out over the river and sat down to survey my new surroundings.

On either side of the river, a half-mile apart, towered high bluffs of black basalt. Wind-eroded pillars projected like abstract sculptures from the wall above me. Along the narrow strip of land on the far shore of the river rolled a freight train, one hundred and fifty wagons long. Everything seemed to exist on a grand scale - it was just as I felt the West should be.

ENDS