I just made it into Oregon, spending the night camped somewhere along the Snake River (the border between the two states) near Copperfield.
Feeling none too peppy in the a.m., starting out, I covered the 30 or so miles into Cambridge by about noon where, questing for a place to eat, I saw another bike parked in front of the local cafe. Yet another Bostonian proved to be the rider. I never got his name, but learned that he had started from the Oregon coast and hoped to get to the Virginia coast by mid-October. He was pretty green; I had to show him how to use his pump! He was also riding a Fuji Royale, but it seemed like a rather small size for his 5′ 8” frame …only 21”. I hope for his sake that his legs don’t get a little cramped a long time before he hits the East Coast. He didn’t remember having met Jeff, which means he probably didn’t; Jeff is hard to forget.
After members of the Bikecentennial group caught up with me in Cambridge, I hurriedly left town. It was a long hard pull uphill for a while, but then a lot of downhill. As I wended my way along a narrow road beside the Snake River, I suddenly became aware that I was in the infamous Hell’s Canyon until I saw a sign to that effect. They’ve set up a lot of free campgrounds along the rive, perhaps a concession to conservationists bitching about all the dead fish in the river.
The entrance into Oregon was unspectacular, unmarked, and when I reached it I was ready to call it a day, but was forced to ride 11 more miles to find a campground. I got there just before the rain did. Football player, son, and Gramps returned to their tents next door and used the rain delay as an opportunity to pepper me with questions.
I retreated to my tent. As I lay there, the rain subsiding, another cyclist appeared. He was, I learned, Don, from Kentucky. He rode a Trek bearing front and rear panniers, wore jeans with Avocet bike shoes, and had just ridden 120 miles. He started in California, and is headed for Missoula. He had a tough exterior, but was a sweet guy. I was interested to learn that his dad made rocking chairs for a living.
At this point, Football and co. got more interested and invited us over to their campfire for beers. Don did most of the talking, more from discomfort than because of any natural garrulousness, it appeared to me, and we retired at 11:30.