"BIKER!" Menno had yelled behind to me. Hmmm, I assessed, incoming at about three hundred yards; it's a mountain bike, medium load, male cyclist. (When you're pumping pedals for eight hours a day with little human interaction, a single soul approaching from the opposite side of the road approaches Christmas morning excitement.)
"Where'd you come from?" I asked as he braked to a stop on our side of the road. Dustin, it turns out, had begun his journey from just south of Minot, North Dakota and was concluding his adventure in Palmer (near Wasilla), Alaska.
"So why the long trek," I queried. "Well, I just graduated and thought I'd celebrate by biking to Palmer." Dustin had just earned his Batchelor of Science degree in Paramedics and was hoping to see some back-of-the-ambulance action in Palmer before returning to North Dakota.
Stopping for lunch in Jake's Corner, another cyclist approached us. Didn't quite catch the name since he spoke better French than English. But "Lemioux" was a sight. He wore a disarming smile over his gaunt face and straggly beard and head. His clothes were worn and weary; his shoes obliterated by layers of duct tape. Lemioux had been on the road for two years going thither and hither. His next hither, he thought would be Asia.
We clicked our phone cameras at one another and prepared to push on. Our cheerful tattered traveler became even more cheery with the two candy bars Menno gifted him with. So we left another passerby among the thousands that meander on foot, cart, thumb, bike, and wild hog bikes throughout the great Northwest.
No comments:
Post a Comment