Misery loves company.

Missouri, yet another state to impress beyond all expectation.  Maybe the fault lies in those who expect.  Every westbound cyclist we encountered, from eastern Utah to western Missouri, warned us about the Ozarks.  Though these steep hills don't reach the heavens like the summits of the Rockies or the Sierra Nevadas, there may be just as much climbing; only it's not sustained, but instead in consistent intervals. Moving over this steep terrain, momentum can only help so much.  The residual speed gained from riding downhill is quickly absorbed by the immediate transition uphill.  Once all the leftovers from the inertia are gone, each hill seemed just long enough to find a pace, which was interrupted by the following descent.  Rolling hills on a bicycle.

Although physically demanding, the stretch of road across southern Missouri is significantly more stimulating than the terrain in all of Kansas.  We managed the distance from Joplin to Cape Girardeau in six days.  The sweatiest six days of my life due to the high Missouri humidity.  Our direction happened to take us onto a stretch of the famed Adventure Cycling Association TransAmerica route.  Coincidentally at the same time many westbound travelers were crossing Missouri on their way to Astoria, or other parts of the west coast. It's great to see so many people attempting such a feat, many of them existing within different demographics from the three of us.  The obvious exception being an interest in bicycles.

At the end of our trip through the show me state, we were extremely lucky to have made a connection in Cape Girardeau.  Our new friends Matt, Valerie, Ally, and Zac shared their wonderful abode with us for two nights, fed us, loaned us a car (to manage an emergency bike repair), and let us hoard their TV to catch a few stages of the tour.  We can't express enough gratitude for reaching out and opening their home to us.  Also, a big thanks to Brad for getting the ball rolling. I'm constantly amazed by the support many people have extended to us over the course of this adventure.  Friends are subjected to obligatory benevolence when we come through town.  By nature, friends help friends; it's the basic mutual understanding built into most relationships.  What has amazed me is the voluntary kindness from strangers to three smelly, potentially homeless young men.  From cold water to way finding to open houses.  Friends or strangers, all the people who have helped us along the way are showing me the potential for generosity we Americans have.  One good deed leads to another, and so on.

As we steer towards Louisville, I'd like to share a thought from Mark Twain on the topic of exploring, which seems appropriate for the topics of Missouri and traveling.  

"If you are of any account, stay at home and make your way by faithful diligence; but if you are "no account," go away from home, and then you will have to work, whether you want to or not.  Thus you become a blessing to your friends by ceasing to be a nuisance to them--if the people you go among suffer by the operation."

Joplin, MO.

When the powerful tornado hit Joplin, Missouri on a Sunday evening in May, we were somewhere in Eastern Nevada or Western Utah. Spending most of our time outside and partially disconnected, the news of the devastation didn't heavily saturate our information intake in the days and weeks after. But at some point between then and our arrival in Joplin, we decided it was only appropriate to give a hand, if only for a few days. This decision brought upon us the most rewarding and humbling experience of the trip.

We rolled into town from the south, on our way to Wildwood Baptist church, which would house and feed us for the next two days. As we turned into the city, we first reached a vantage point of the hospital. The strength of the winds broke all the windows out, and apparently moved a part of the building off it's foundation. Moving towards our destination in Duquesne--the town bordering Joplin to the east--we travelled down Main Street, through a section the funnel crossed on it's path west to east. At this point, the weight of the devastation began to set in. What we could only deduce to be a neighborhood was a giant pile of debris segmented by the now clear streets. When we reached Duquesne, a few miles east of Main Street Joplin, we found a different scenario. Instead of giant piles of debris, we found empty lots with remaining foundations, a few obvious signs of landscaping, and occasionally an intact house. As we learned later, the crews cleared this area before we arrived.

Wildwood Baptist happens to reside at the apparent end of the tornado's path. The church housed volunteers and Joplin area residents until July 1st, which forced us to relocate to the Abundant Life mid way through our stay. Both churches were more than hospitable; providing not only a place to sleep, but also three meals a day, and endless hydration. A big thanks to those churches, as well as any other church or organization that housed volunteers and displaced residents.

During our visit, we elected to make ourselves useful by helping Americorps crews remove debris from select properties. Basically, each property must be cleared, whether the homeowner can manage the task or not. If not, crews of volunteers are charged with the task of sorting and moving the debris to the sidewalk, where it can be loaded into dump trucks and hauled off. The more volunteers can manage, the less the affected cities have to pay contractors to do it.

Clearing this debris is hard and time consuming work. When we were on our way to Joplin, I wondered what would be left to do 40+ days after the storm. After participating in the clearing process, I can now understand why there is still so much to clean up. Imagine all the stuff the common household is comprised of; appliances, furniture, decorations, dinnerware, wood, plaster, shingles, cement, insulation, etc. Now imagine a neighborhood of houses full of these things, about a half to a full mile wide and a few miles long. There is a lot to clean up after the disintegration and dispersal of these houses under the wrath of a tornado. I am now left wondering how much more labor will be needed to replace all the houses and the stuff that goes into them.

This experience was valuable on so many levels for we three travelers. Even three days after our departure from Joplin, we're still reflecting and unwinding. It would be a shame to limit this experience to a simple summary of lessons learned, experiences gained. There is just so much to be said about the value of community in times of devastation; and still much to contemplate as we reel into the eastern part of the country with these new perspectives in our heads.

After hearing a few stories from a few Joplin residents, I'd like to end with a scenario: You suddenly learn that the tornado warning is real, and you have 17 minutes to get to the storm shelter--if you have one. The storm plows through, you and your family survived the storm, but now your house is gone, along with everything in it, including your car. What do you do now? Do you stay or go? Having lived through such a tremendous experience, do you miss all the stuff you lost? Or do you now feel relief in your forced freedom from it all? Do you feel lucky to be alive? Or do you feel misfortune for having such a horrible thing hit your hometown?

Reflections from a Kansas experience.

In order to convey our full Kansas experience, I think it's necessary to begin with a general recap of our route and activities. First and foremost, a huge thanks to Katrina for reading this blog, and offering up her mother, Becky's pleasant abode in Fowler, Kansas. We were greeted with remarkable hospitality by both ladies, and their relentless care for our welfare lasted well beyond our departure after two nights of rest.

Once across the Rocky Mountains we enjoyed a steadily graded descent into the eastern Colorado plains. As the elevation flattens out, the rolling hills spread into wide open fields of grassland, corn, and the occasional variety crop. At that point east, Colorado starts to live up to the Kansas reputation of endless flatness. By the time we reached the Colorado/Kansas border, we found ourselves thinking the sign may have been relocated a hundred miles east of it's true placement. The distinguishing difference between the two states is the Arkansas River. If there's water in it, you're still in Colorado.

By the end of our second day in Kansas, we reached Becky's house in Fowler. While in Fowler for a rest day, the five of us drove north to Dodge City for a tour of the Boot Hill museum. There we learned much about the relationships and deals formed between the Native Americans and the white folk; how Dodge City was shaped by the early American cattle industry; and how entirely ruthless the hard men and women of the wild west were.

Based on sound advice from Becky, we steered south along highway 160, and eventually 166 which runs three miles north of, and parallel to the border of Oklahoma. With help, we managed to find safe camping havens in city parks from Fowler to Missouri. More often then not, these parks were situated along the banks of man made reservoirs, with opportunities for swimming. The availability of these camp sites made our sleep experience in Kansas very pleasant (most nights); without them, we would have had to resort to less comfortable measures.

Generally speaking--with the exception of the first day in Kansas--we rode against crosswinds and headwinds the entire state. The worst two days pinned us against 20+ mph gusts. When the land is as flat as it is, and the roads are as straight as they are, fighting these winds can feel worse than 10,000 feet of climbing, over the course of one day. As you grit your teeth while trying to hold a steady line, you can look ahead into the abyss of treeless horizon and realize, this will last all day. Even though the natives coined Kansas, "Kansa, land of the south wind," we experienced steady airflow from all directions; but never the west--except for the first day. We also experienced high temperatures reaching up to 111F.

From central southern Kansas east, trees and other green vegetation begin to slowly creep into the scenery. By the Missouri border, the straight highway gradually rolls along with defined tree lines and rich grassy fields. Eastern Kansas was quite a pleasant surprise.

Although those in and from Kansas seem to doubt the possibility that anything remotely interesting exists in the state; we found ourselves deep in thought about topics surrounding this region. The semi-monotonous landscape and straight roads served as a meditative background to consider the dynamics of cattle, wheat, and corn in this area, of which our diets depend on. We also found ourselves amazed by the various people we interacted with; all of which provided awe and encouragement in our adventure. Regardless of this country's troubled food system, of which blame is often wrongly placed on these people; Kansas is full of friendly, interesting, and hard working people who love this country as much as anyone else.

Go there, see the history, meet the people, smell the condensed bovine existence, tell me it's healthy.

Land of the south wind.

Everyone warned us about Kansas, mentioning only the monotonous terrain we would prolong by traveling through on bicycles. In terms of stimulating landscape they were right, but Kansas has not been lacking stimulation to say the very least. I have much to share and elaborate, but for now, just the usual photos. More later.

Three more days until Joplin, Missouri.

23 hours 58 minutes and 42.002234249 seconds.

On summer solstice, the day with the most hours of sunlight, or "the longest day of the year" we enjoyed the furthest distance in one day of our trip. Welcome, summer.

Saleeda, Salida,

Just on the east side of Monarch Pass is a town called Salida. We decided to make the town our temporary home for two nights while we rested our legs after the big pull up to our nation's natural separation. Much to our surprise, the very weekend we made our stop, the FIBArK Whitewater Festival was also taking place in the historic old town Salida. In fact, we would have never noticed had we not decided to visit a bike shop for supplies on our day of rest. Since we did notice, we strolled around, had some delicious beers, and watched the festivities. Among the many kayak and rafting competitions, the most entertaining was the hooligan race; a competition of creative raft building, speed, and most important, survival. The winner was a vessel titled "natural disaster" which was ultimately a whitewater flotilla complete with a burning tree.

As far as we can tell, Salida will be our last chance to take advantage of free camping on our public lands. In the coming stretch of the country, we will see less BLM land, shorter but steeper hills, and more agriculture. For us, the increase in fertile land means we will have to be more creative and more inquisitive when searching for our nightly tent sites.

Eastern Colorado, Kansas, and the Midwest are unexplored places for all three of us travelers. It is also where I think we will start noticing significant differences in the people, culture, and scenery. Until this point, we have seen a variety of different geological formations and terrain, but the general population is not much different than those in the pacific northwest. Moving east, we will be sharing the road with the corn farming communities of America, who feed our country (hogs, cattle, and people), believe conservatively, and live rurally. Of course, these are the preconceptions I've set out to explore.

Rockies: tapped.

That John Denver was not full of shit. The Rockies are rocky, mountainous, and high.

We finally reached the great divide, which means we are now watching water flow east to the Mississippi and the Gulf of Mexico, much like ourselves for the next month and a half--at least in terms of moving east. From Gunnison, highway 50 winds east up a valley before making a sudden increase in grade, which continues for a little more than 7 miles before reaching the summit at Monarch Pass. The average grade for this pass is a mere 6.5%, but pushing roughly 100 pounds of bike at such high altitudes made even the strongest of us feel drained by the top. As we reached the last mile, a few shouts of encouragement from passing cars helped feed adrenaline into the voids of our muscles. Once upon the summit, wet with sweat and shivering in the cold bursts of wind, we answered the gamut of questions ranging from our psychological wellbeing to where we would be heading next. No, we do not have mental health issues, we will be going down next, and no thanks, I brought my own beer.

Our interactions with people at the summit were encouraging to my general feeling about sharing the road. Typically, we don't interact with many motorists because of the physical separation between car windows and speed. So talking to people who've passed us, and hearing their excitement for our journey leaves a positive taste in my mouth for coexistence.