Mountains, Redux

I wondered to myself today, if the West were the first thing settled, would we have bothered to live much on the East?

Now, don't get me wrong. I love the East for what it is: rolling green hills and a cultural Mecca. New York City will -- probably forever -- stand strong as the veritable "center of the universe" through which almost all culture filters, and most of New England will always stir up some romantic nostalgia in the hearts and minds of many Americans. That being said, however, this is because we have always known the American East to be like this. It was the first thing settled, and so it signifies some of the oldest and most important achievements of our culture. I only wondered this to myself because, as I rode through eastern Washington towards the Cascade mountains today, I couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between the wheat feilds of the high desert and the stunning beauty of the Cascade range. Even from the foothills and valleys near Omak, WA, I could see the snow-capped peaks of the Cascades looming sately in the distance. So I had to wonder, if pilgrims had landed and began to build in the verdure of western Washington state, would they have even wanted to leave their edenic landing and climb over mountains, only to come up to thousands of miles of semi-arid land before ever reaching the East. And would the phrase have become "go East, young man?" And what would that have done for centuries of writers, whose literary trope now might more signify a return to the womb than a becoming, a flourishing and a search for identity? I suppose, though, that the likeliest answer to all of this is that early Americans would of course have spread across the country, regardless of where they landed first. Is it not set forward even in the Biblical tales that man is never quite satisfied, even with a perfect Eden? So doubtless, these hypothetical settlers would have taken up their families and wagons and set off East, in search of land, opportunity, and some knowledge-bearing fruit.

As you may have gleaned, we've made it to Washington State and are very near the end of our journey. The trip has not been without its hang-ups, clearly, but we have pressed on and found ourselves on the cusp of completion, just one more mountain range away from Seattle. Looking back, it's hard to believe we've come this far on little more than the strength of our own conviction. We may have ridden a bus through most of Wyoming (the boring part) and we may have driven over a few miles of Interstate, but we've all gone on a journey far broader and more impacting than any of us thought initially. Many of our other Bike and Build riders on other trips have journeyed both longitudinally and latitudinally across this country, but few others have reached such heights of the spirit or plumbed such depths of the soul as we. We find ourselved intrepid travelers not only of the physical, but of the spiritual and emotional planes, as well. And as we climb and descend the physical mountains of the Catskills, the Tetons, or the Cascades, we find as well that we have been asked to explore both the peaks and valleys of our hearts, the limits of our strength and compassion.

Reaching Seattle and finally dipping our wheels in the waters of Puget Sound will grant, I believe, a great deal of closure to both myself and many others in this group. Even though nobody left the trip after we all said our goodbyes to Paige, it is clear that some of us have been struggling every morning to maintain a pleasant demeanor; quite clearly, many of us have had to push ourselves far beyond what we ever thought we could accomplish just to see the trip through to its end. All of this is, of course, perfectly reasonable. Paige was -- and still is -- an integral part of this group. That the whole trip didn't dissolve without her is a testament to the fact that she is still here, to some extent, floating in the ether that binds us all together. Together we form a living homage to her will, her wish, and her passion for the Bike & Build cause. Even if every day is a struggle; even if getting on our bikes is a source of great anxiety, we still will push through. And the trip is not over yet. There are still some breathtaking views to be witnessed, some dauting mountains to be conquered, and some exhilarating descents to be experienced. All this to reach the cool (i.e. frigid) waters of Puget sound and to dip our wheels, sealing in this experience and dissipating our fears towards the bottom of the sea.

Yet I still miss the smiling faces and the boundless excitement that each new day brought to our group at the start of the trip. I miss the unrequited joy that filtered down through each rider at the end of each day, our bellies full of churchlady casserole and chocolate chip cookies. I understand that in the wake of a death, the world can seem as dry and unforgiving as the high desert we rode through this morning. But I also know that there is happiness yet to be found, through the river valley and high up the verdant mountainside.

Welcome to the West

It's clearly been a very long time since I've had the chance -- or the energy -- to make an update. In my last post, things were all still going reasonably well, with the only concern being an occasional day riding on too little sleep, or a nagging pain in the knees. Since then, however, a lot has happened and a lot has changed. I can't -- and I wont' attempt to -- retrace the events of each and every day between Pontiac and where I am now (Superior, Montana) but I will try to give some idea of what's been going on on a much grander scale and some insight into the way I've been handling such events.

So as not to mince words, it's best just to explain right away what has happened, though it's been well publicized and I'm sure a number of you know already. On July 20th, while riding from Winner to Martin, SD, one of our leaders, Paige Hicks, was hit and killed by a truck carrying oversized farm equipment. You can find the official press release on the Bike & Build website at www.bikeandbuild.org for all the details. The news came to me and the riders I was with at the very tail end of a 100+ mile day. We were about three miles outside of Martin when we received a phone call from another rider farther back, asking us of we could get in contact with Gabe. We heard that there had been an accident on the road, and phone calls were flying around in a desperate attempt to put leaders in contact with one another. As it happened, Gabe was just behind us a little ways, but his phone wasn't charged at the time, so it wasn't apparent what he knew at the time, differently from us.

Our primary goal at the moment was to ride into the host and wait for more information. We weren't clear exactly on where the host was, and we ended up riding past it in our disorganized nervousness, before discovering it behind a wall of trees and riding in. I stopped to chalk an arrow to the somewhat difficult-to-see church to alert incoming riders to its location. The rest of the riders in our pack -- about ten of us in all -- rode into the church to begin making calls and gathering information. I'll never forget the way my heart sank and my stomach turned over when, about one hundred yards away, I heard a loud bellow of grief, and looked up at the church to see everyone suddenly moving about aimlessly, as though they had all just lost something very important. As it turns out, we all had lost something very, very precious to us, but no amount of searching around would bring it back. I wasn't sure what to do with myself, either. Walking up the gravel path slowly, I knew it had to be something terrible, unthinkable. Chaz actually broke the news to me, but the words fell dumb on my ears; the pain and loss was written in his face, and in the faces of each rider standing there on the church lawn.

It was decided that we would be putting the ride on hiatus in order to attend the funeral. WE shuttled the next day, somber, quiet, contemplative, to Chadron, NE where we would be staying until we could work out the logistics of our travel to St. Louis for the funeral. We all were shaken by the tragic event, but we were all very glad and grateful to see Kristian Sekse, one of our intrepid program directors, who traveled out to Nebraska to see us through this difficult time. We did eventually work out our travel plans: we would go to St. Louis by way of Lincoln, NE, where Hailey's parents live, and then come back the same way after the funeral service, to rejoin and begin riding once again in DuBois, Wyoming. Through it all we were fortunate enough to have a stalwart and easygoing bus driver, and an ample amount of condolence cookies to keep our spirits and blood sugar levels up.

Losing Paige has been an incredibly difficult experience for all of us. She brought so much to the group with her smiling face, her always upbeat attitude, and her unbelievable joy for life. It would be ignorant to think that the trip could ever be the same without her, just as it would be to say that any of us will ever be completely the same as we were before. The loss of someone very close to you inescapably alters who you are to an extent, the way you view the world. Though I have lost people in my life before -- my uncle Doug in a tragic car accident, my paternal grandparents to poor health and age -- this does feel more immediate, shocking and unnecessary. Paige was younger than I am, a fact that haunts me. I have had one more full year of experiences; I have seen one more year of life; I have loved one more year of people than she ever will. Though she lived for a shorter amount of time than I have, she squeezed more life into her 21 years than anyone else I've ever known.

I always try to be pragmatic and think logically. It was, after all, an accident that was simply pure dumb luck. Everyone on the road was doing exactly what they should have been doing, and yet the pieces fell together in the shape of a tragedy. What is to be gained from wishing, wondering, asking what if and being afraid to go on? Nothing to be done can change what has happened... and yet an approach like that does seem to do very little to settle the tumult of the mind at a time like this. Even so, I maintain that the best way for me to remember Paige is how she always appeared to me in life, smiling, laughing, and working towards making the world a better place. To that end, I feel as though I am paying tribute to her every time I get on my bike, every time I fasten a sheet of drywall to a new home.

And once we did begin riding again, we were rewarded by some of the most incredible and breathtaking scenery we've seen on the trip thus far. It's not hard to see what has drawn people towards the west for centuries -- the mountains rise up out of nothing, pushing through the clouds and the ether to loom over us in our fragile impermanence. We rode towards them for what seemed like ages until, suddenly, we were upon them and climbing over them like the first awestruck settlers, passing through with heads bowed, aware that being so close to heaven means god can see so much more clearly. Just prior to entering the mountains, I began reading Kerouac's The Dharma Bums, which put me in a ripe mood for introspection and contemplation of the Dharma. Moreover, however, it made me very badly want to spend some time up in those mountains; in the arms of ancient behemoths; amidst stones wiser and more sage than any human master.