8 August 2009
We're sure you regularly find yourself lying awake in bed at night pondering what life is like on the trail. And so in the name of restful slumber we provide for you, “A typical day on the PNT”.
Saturday August 8th began for us high on Bussard Mountain in the panhandle of Idaho. The night before we had camped just off the trail near the first water we had seen in miles. After another 3000+ foot elevation gain on Friday we were headed down the west side of the mountain and into the Kootenai river valley where we would head north to the burg of Porthill on the Canadian border.
The route seemed simple enough, follow the trail down 11 miles to US 95, go a mile and a half southwest to Idaho 1, then north to Porthill (another 12 miles) where we had a food box waiting for us. But the route wasn't the problem. By the time you reach US 95, you have left the Kaniksu National Forest and are surrounded by private lands meaning camping is a problem. Ideally we would stop in Copeland (one mile up Idaho 1) where our food box would be waiting, a hot meal from a local eatery would greet us, and a soft spot to pitch our tent awaited. After all, Copeland is the location of the only bridge across the river between Canada and Bonner's Ferry (15 miles south). Unfortunately, while Copeland appears as a name on the map, it fails to possess any businesses to hold our box or feed us. Porthill, on the other hand, holds nothing but promise. Because, while we know that Copeland is devoid of assistance, Porthill is a blank slate. We know that it has a border crossing and a post office (where our box actually awaits) and are pretty confident it has a tavern – but for all we know it could also have a Hilton hotel with an Outback Steakhouse in the parking lot.
So we are headed down the hill with no known place to stay the night and even if there is someplace to camp in Porthill, it is about 25 miles away. And of course we need more than just one night. Our food box sits at the post office which we had hoped to reach the day before. Now we will have to wait until Monday when they reopen. Should we stop short and camp in the forest? Of course not – that wouldn't be any fun. So off we go...
The first part of the walk is great, the temperature isn't too hot, the trail is wide so we can talk with one another, and a whole string of mountain lion tracks are preserved in the soft sediment on the side of the trail. By the time we hit US 95 it is early afternoon and we've already got 11 miles under our belts. But the shoulder of an interstate isn't much fun to walk along and the concrete gives little under your boots. Especially when you look out and realize they have changed the route in order to add more lanes sending you over a mile south of the junction with Highway 1 shown on both of your maps. Ah well, what is another couple of highway miles when you've already put in a dozen? Who cares about the cars whizzing by at 70mph when earlier that morning you had been buzzed by a hummingbird going at least that fast? What does it matter that Porthill seems to be getting farther away, not closer, or that the border isn't open 24/7 (any businesses will probably close when the border does)? Serendipity is with us – we'll find somewhere to sleep.
Serendipity. A concept for early mornings when anything seems possible or late at night when nothing does. But while late night serendipity happens, few believe in it until they've seen it with their own eyes. This was the case early that Saturday evening with the concrete road miles piling up, many still laid out before us, and the promise of Porthill fading. We had resorted to hitchhiking, but got no takers. Perhaps they could smell our trail days upon us. Perhaps Callae was just too intimidating. Perhaps all these Canadian vehicles passing by didn't want to get caught smuggling Americans over the border, eh. Whatever the case, each passing car was like another ground ball out late in a close game. All we needed was a single, something to get a rally going, something to make us believe again, one car. All we needed was one car to slow down, pull to the shoulder... “Where you headed?”
We took a break. Dropped our packs by the side of the two-lane highway. Drank some water. Ate some trail mix. Tried to look pathetic enough to garner sympathy and a ride, but not too pathetic. No takers. Callae's thumb must be broken. Maybe I need to hide in the brush until they pull over. Maybe she needs to show more leg...
Coming to believe our good fortune is running out, we take matters into our own feet, saddle up and continue north again. North along the broad river valley. North through this rural landscape that intermixes horse pastures and row crop agriculture. North to the home of Sam and Robin Ponsness (for sale, only serious inquiries please), where their young son Brody is out watering the garden with Dad. This fine looking gentleman could probably fill us in on the dream that Porthill has become...
“Pardon us, we're looking for some local information...” (And light shone down from the heavens, the birds sang, the grizzly we'd been hoping to see stepped out of the woods and posed while Callae reached for the camera, the soreness in my feet melted away, and all was right in the world [I trust that the Israeli-Palestinian crisis was resolved at the same moment].) Not only had we stumbled upon a true local, someone who had been raised in this very valley, but a federal employee, someone whose only mission is to help (“don't worry, we're with the government...”).
We shook hands, introduced ourselves and explained who we were, where we were headed and why. To which Sam replied, “Are you sure the box is at the post office? Because I can call the postmaster and we can pick it up now. Do you want a beer?” It turns out that Sam is a US Customs agent who works at the Eastport crossing, can count everyone who lives in “town” on two hands and knows them all. No, we didn't pick up the box that night – the postmaster wasn't at home. But yes, things were definitely turning around. And yes, I did enjoy the beer.
Sam and his lovely wife Robin have two adorable children, Brody and Madison, are building a house on some land in the valley, and are indicative of the type of people we keep running across in our travels – friendly, genuine, and ready to help out two strangers without being asked. Sam insisted on giving us a ride into Porthill, including the deluxe tour (don't blink or you'll miss it), and an introduction to our hosts for the night. It turns out that Porthill does not have a Hilton. But it does have two gas stations, one of which allows camping in the pasture behind the pub (under renovation) or down by the river. While driving up the valley we discussed local wildlife, what it is like working for Customs in Idaho and his Dad's wholesale maggot growing operation (live bait). We arrived in Porthill with a place to stay and newfound faith in serendipity.
A sense of humor is an asset when traveling as are rubber gloves. We were greeted by Ken Tompke dryly... “Yeah, you can stay. A week's worth of dishes should cover the first night.” While pondering where the other six nights would be spent we unloaded our packs from the truck and heard about our camping options. No real fee was discussed. But it was clear that the Tompke's could use our help as much as we needed theirs. The pub, it was clear, was under renovation. Tools, lumber, garbage cans, and scaffolding littered the building and the yard. Old electrical wires hung haphazardly from the ceiling. Paint cans lined the floor. All around was a sense of slightly organized chaos. You see, Ken and his wife, Janie, were in the process of restoring his Dad's pub (Roy's) to working order with the help of 5 (of 7) of their children. They don't live in Porthill, of course, that would be silly. They have a home, jobs, and lives back in Lynden, Washington. So a couple of able-bodied souls to lend a hand, share stories with, and provide a refreshing break from the norm were exactly what serendipity ordered.
After setting up the tent we were invited to share taco dinner with the family, but first spent time discussing the finer points of raft-building with Shawn and John down by the river, stocking beer in the gas station store, and learning about our shared connections with western Washington, Indonesia, and seeing a job done right.
We headed to the tent late that night after laughing and talking comfortably with new friends, knowing that we were welcome to stay the weekend, eager to help move the pub toward completion, and take part in the raft's maiden voyage. We had learned about Amy's artistic talents, Annelise's amazing energy, Ashley's confidence (and tacos), Shawn's swimming prowess, John's dry wit, and Braden's absence. Janie's time in Irian Jaya and Ken's history with Porthill and the pub in particular rounded out the evening, while they heard tales of Colorado, wildlife in Glacier, and why two seemingly sane people would embark on this journey.
Naturally, over the next day and a half we would learn more about each other, work together, play together, and develop the connections that guarantee future contact. They'll follow the blog and we'll call when we hit western Washington.
But this post is about one day. A day full of ups and downs, both physically and emotionally, hard work, cold beer, and new friends that feel like old ones. And while not every day of our journey is this memorable, quite a few are, and we haven't even made it into Washington yet.
Now get some sleep, but before you do, ask yourself, “What did you do today?”
We're sure you regularly find yourself lying awake in bed at night pondering what life is like on the trail. And so in the name of restful slumber we provide for you, “A typical day on the PNT”.
Saturday August 8th began for us high on Bussard Mountain in the panhandle of Idaho. The night before we had camped just off the trail near the first water we had seen in miles. After another 3000+ foot elevation gain on Friday we were headed down the west side of the mountain and into the Kootenai river valley where we would head north to the burg of Porthill on the Canadian border.
The route seemed simple enough, follow the trail down 11 miles to US 95, go a mile and a half southwest to Idaho 1, then north to Porthill (another 12 miles) where we had a food box waiting for us. But the route wasn't the problem. By the time you reach US 95, you have left the Kaniksu National Forest and are surrounded by private lands meaning camping is a problem. Ideally we would stop in Copeland (one mile up Idaho 1) where our food box would be waiting, a hot meal from a local eatery would greet us, and a soft spot to pitch our tent awaited. After all, Copeland is the location of the only bridge across the river between Canada and Bonner's Ferry (15 miles south). Unfortunately, while Copeland appears as a name on the map, it fails to possess any businesses to hold our box or feed us. Porthill, on the other hand, holds nothing but promise. Because, while we know that Copeland is devoid of assistance, Porthill is a blank slate. We know that it has a border crossing and a post office (where our box actually awaits) and are pretty confident it has a tavern – but for all we know it could also have a Hilton hotel with an Outback Steakhouse in the parking lot.
So we are headed down the hill with no known place to stay the night and even if there is someplace to camp in Porthill, it is about 25 miles away. And of course we need more than just one night. Our food box sits at the post office which we had hoped to reach the day before. Now we will have to wait until Monday when they reopen. Should we stop short and camp in the forest? Of course not – that wouldn't be any fun. So off we go...
The first part of the walk is great, the temperature isn't too hot, the trail is wide so we can talk with one another, and a whole string of mountain lion tracks are preserved in the soft sediment on the side of the trail. By the time we hit US 95 it is early afternoon and we've already got 11 miles under our belts. But the shoulder of an interstate isn't much fun to walk along and the concrete gives little under your boots. Especially when you look out and realize they have changed the route in order to add more lanes sending you over a mile south of the junction with Highway 1 shown on both of your maps. Ah well, what is another couple of highway miles when you've already put in a dozen? Who cares about the cars whizzing by at 70mph when earlier that morning you had been buzzed by a hummingbird going at least that fast? What does it matter that Porthill seems to be getting farther away, not closer, or that the border isn't open 24/7 (any businesses will probably close when the border does)? Serendipity is with us – we'll find somewhere to sleep.
Serendipity. A concept for early mornings when anything seems possible or late at night when nothing does. But while late night serendipity happens, few believe in it until they've seen it with their own eyes. This was the case early that Saturday evening with the concrete road miles piling up, many still laid out before us, and the promise of Porthill fading. We had resorted to hitchhiking, but got no takers. Perhaps they could smell our trail days upon us. Perhaps Callae was just too intimidating. Perhaps all these Canadian vehicles passing by didn't want to get caught smuggling Americans over the border, eh. Whatever the case, each passing car was like another ground ball out late in a close game. All we needed was a single, something to get a rally going, something to make us believe again, one car. All we needed was one car to slow down, pull to the shoulder... “Where you headed?”
We took a break. Dropped our packs by the side of the two-lane highway. Drank some water. Ate some trail mix. Tried to look pathetic enough to garner sympathy and a ride, but not too pathetic. No takers. Callae's thumb must be broken. Maybe I need to hide in the brush until they pull over. Maybe she needs to show more leg...
Coming to believe our good fortune is running out, we take matters into our own feet, saddle up and continue north again. North along the broad river valley. North through this rural landscape that intermixes horse pastures and row crop agriculture. North to the home of Sam and Robin Ponsness (for sale, only serious inquiries please), where their young son Brody is out watering the garden with Dad. This fine looking gentleman could probably fill us in on the dream that Porthill has become...
“Pardon us, we're looking for some local information...” (And light shone down from the heavens, the birds sang, the grizzly we'd been hoping to see stepped out of the woods and posed while Callae reached for the camera, the soreness in my feet melted away, and all was right in the world [I trust that the Israeli-Palestinian crisis was resolved at the same moment].) Not only had we stumbled upon a true local, someone who had been raised in this very valley, but a federal employee, someone whose only mission is to help (“don't worry, we're with the government...”).
We shook hands, introduced ourselves and explained who we were, where we were headed and why. To which Sam replied, “Are you sure the box is at the post office? Because I can call the postmaster and we can pick it up now. Do you want a beer?” It turns out that Sam is a US Customs agent who works at the Eastport crossing, can count everyone who lives in “town” on two hands and knows them all. No, we didn't pick up the box that night – the postmaster wasn't at home. But yes, things were definitely turning around. And yes, I did enjoy the beer.
Sam and his lovely wife Robin have two adorable children, Brody and Madison, are building a house on some land in the valley, and are indicative of the type of people we keep running across in our travels – friendly, genuine, and ready to help out two strangers without being asked. Sam insisted on giving us a ride into Porthill, including the deluxe tour (don't blink or you'll miss it), and an introduction to our hosts for the night. It turns out that Porthill does not have a Hilton. But it does have two gas stations, one of which allows camping in the pasture behind the pub (under renovation) or down by the river. While driving up the valley we discussed local wildlife, what it is like working for Customs in Idaho and his Dad's wholesale maggot growing operation (live bait). We arrived in Porthill with a place to stay and newfound faith in serendipity.
A sense of humor is an asset when traveling as are rubber gloves. We were greeted by Ken Tompke dryly... “Yeah, you can stay. A week's worth of dishes should cover the first night.” While pondering where the other six nights would be spent we unloaded our packs from the truck and heard about our camping options. No real fee was discussed. But it was clear that the Tompke's could use our help as much as we needed theirs. The pub, it was clear, was under renovation. Tools, lumber, garbage cans, and scaffolding littered the building and the yard. Old electrical wires hung haphazardly from the ceiling. Paint cans lined the floor. All around was a sense of slightly organized chaos. You see, Ken and his wife, Janie, were in the process of restoring his Dad's pub (Roy's) to working order with the help of 5 (of 7) of their children. They don't live in Porthill, of course, that would be silly. They have a home, jobs, and lives back in Lynden, Washington. So a couple of able-bodied souls to lend a hand, share stories with, and provide a refreshing break from the norm were exactly what serendipity ordered.
After setting up the tent we were invited to share taco dinner with the family, but first spent time discussing the finer points of raft-building with Shawn and John down by the river, stocking beer in the gas station store, and learning about our shared connections with western Washington, Indonesia, and seeing a job done right.
We headed to the tent late that night after laughing and talking comfortably with new friends, knowing that we were welcome to stay the weekend, eager to help move the pub toward completion, and take part in the raft's maiden voyage. We had learned about Amy's artistic talents, Annelise's amazing energy, Ashley's confidence (and tacos), Shawn's swimming prowess, John's dry wit, and Braden's absence. Janie's time in Irian Jaya and Ken's history with Porthill and the pub in particular rounded out the evening, while they heard tales of Colorado, wildlife in Glacier, and why two seemingly sane people would embark on this journey.
Naturally, over the next day and a half we would learn more about each other, work together, play together, and develop the connections that guarantee future contact. They'll follow the blog and we'll call when we hit western Washington.
But this post is about one day. A day full of ups and downs, both physically and emotionally, hard work, cold beer, and new friends that feel like old ones. And while not every day of our journey is this memorable, quite a few are, and we haven't even made it into Washington yet.
Now get some sleep, but before you do, ask yourself, “What did you do today?”
The Tompke Family (clockwise from Callae): Callae, Shawn, Ken, Janie, Ashley, Dale, Amy, John, Annelise, and Braden.
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Hey Callae and Dale!!!! Its Shawn from Porthill! i hope everything is going great! All your pictures and stories are great! im really excited to hear from you guys once you reach the ocean! Travel safe!!!
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