Paradigm Shifters
Kamia, ID to Missoula, MT
2 days
151 miles
On the imperceptible incline of highway 12 tracing Lolo Creek through the Rockies, forested mountainsides open at each bend like green velvet curtains teasing out the arrival of Missoula -- the valley city on which I'd staged my hopes for phase one of this trek. It didn't disappoint. I rolled into town early afternoon.
First stop was Bob. Former student to my bike teacher Albert, he's now head mechanic at Missoula's REI. And although he didn't quite know when I'd be arriving, he'd been forewarned and welcomed me with open arms. A stoic, sensitive and deliberate Montanan, he trued up my wheels and hooked me up with some industrial-grade tires after the damage done by that god forsaken gravel road in Washington. And, most spectacularly, he resolved the miscommunication between the rear derailleur and its cassette, allowing me to cut through my 30 gears like a sword through ghee. The problem'd been I hadn't forced enough tension between them to begin with and they'd grown complacent and disaffected with my shifting authority. Bob took care of all of that the way they do out here.
Next was Adventure Cycling, the Missoula-based not-for-profit bike-route cartographers and general kick ass support crew; their converted-church offices in downtown Missoula are an essential stop for anyone riding across the country. Fellow transcontinentalists, whose sun- and wind-blistered faces foretold the expanses to come, sprawled on the couches and lawns savoring free ice cream and cold drinks. I met with Jaime, one of the guys who made the maps I've been using. He convinced me (quite easily) of a more direct route east -- one that will save me a day and a couple hundred miles. A heavy weight lifted.
By the time I finished my ice cream cone, it was early evening and as I wandered through downtown, body aching and creaking, I spotted a woman with a rolled up yoga mat strapped to her back hopping onto a scooter. I yelled out after her, trotted up in my flip flops and asked if she knew of a yoga class I might find at this hour. She looked at me puzzled for a second, the way strangers often do, and then opened up with the most generous smile, "I'm on my way to teach a class right now. Let's go." A Missoula native, a wilderness girl at heart in pursuit of ever new frontiers, Adrienne ran back into the house, grabbed an extra mat and whisked me off to a park overlooking the city and the mountains that surround it. There on that hilltop amid the rocks, bugs and brush, with the sun edging out its set, she re-tuned my body and opened it to the Montana ground.
My three guides, my three Sherpas in this towns, have given me a tremendous sense of confidence to face the rattlesnake and scapegoat wildernesses beyond. Until then...
