Large, older, pine trees magically appear as you walk into Idaho. Eastern Washington is pillowed with rich wheat farms. Each town has its grain elevator sturdily situated next to an aging railroad siding. Northern Idaho small towns are all about lumber. Yet, it apparently isn’t that easy. “Now you got strict logging coordinates. They’re monitored by helicopter. Ain’t how it used to be”, a store owner tells me.

At dinner, locals are talking about recent wolf sightings. As I check in to Worley’s Pine Hotel Ken the proprietor cautions me, “If you are going up that dirt road to St. Regis, Montana, watch out for wolves. They roam in packs”. Knowing he has my attention he goes on, “They hunt wolves around here even though they are an endangered species. The Governor says he won’t arrest no body for shooting a wolf” I remember my wolf encounter along the Dalton road in Alaska.

OK, I am a little spooked but the show must go on, I think! And I am headed up that same dirt road. Without hesitation, I end stage 7 of My Dream Walk, have a celebratory glass of chardonnay, and prepare to launch Stage 8 irrespective of the timber wolves.

Debbie Clems, the waitress at the Coeur d’ Elaine Casino restaurant is a fourth generation descendant of pioneers. “We burn the blue grass fields every year after harvest. This lets the nutrients nourish the soil which gives the field’s new life –lasting seven years.” Then he frowns; “Only problem is you can only burn fields on reservation land. That’s why our blue grass, sir, that’s hay, is the best feed for horses.” Deb goes on to tell me that in times past in order to raise money the tribe sold a lot of land to farmers like her ancestors. Their families can now take advantage of the field burning advantage.

“Now I live in Worley cause that’s where my husband’s from”, Deb relates as she serves me freshly caught trout. “But, I don’t like towns. Actually, I’m a country girl. In Worley we have 200 people. That’s too much”

2000 Slots
“We have 2000 slots in this casino”, Christine tell me.”Don’t know how many people come here but we are always busy”

I’m Puyallup
Darryl, the busboy, has a small bear claw tattooed on his right hand just above the thumb.”It’s a family emblem, he explains.”Only I and my grandfather have this tattoo. Actually, I’m not from this tribe. I’m Puyallup.”

It has been a wet dreary day with rolling but not obstinate hills. A hooded Gortex jacket, sweater, and wool hat, keep me warm. Then, unannounced, alongside a newly planted wheat crop, a tiny sign announces “Entering Idaho”, and the Coeur d’ Elaine Indian reservation.

Finally, I am here and have only had to walk 2867.6 miles to experience the joy of what I call “The Potato State” Growing up Mom always told us that potatoes which we were both obligated and delighted to eat, every, every, night were from Idaho. I call Doris to announce my triumphant arrival. Now an Idaho adventure begins.

Downtown Spokane reminds me of White Plains New York before White Plains went through its urban renewal. Spokane has an old musty flavor. The rejuvenated waterfront area around the Columbia River is peaceful artful with a modern touch. As you walk along Spokane Avenue the weathered look, mixed with the new, demonstrates the future potential of this little town.

Today’s Tricks of the Trade

In order to get a great start in the early morning, while the air is still crisp, and the sun is  overanxious to sizzle, I try to select a motel directly on the walking route,. Then, with wake-up coffee in hand, I am off on a 6 to 8 mile warm-up. I carry water in a fanny pack sufficient for a three hour workout, and to quench a thirst, given the temperature.

“An ounce of prevention is worth ten pounds of care”. I solve foot problems immediately, when I first feel their twitch. From long racing experience I know there is no long term benefit to waiting to a planned rest stop, or convenient time, to take care of a problem.

Before going to bed I lay out the specific gear I will wear in the morning. [An old working days habit]. No time is wasted snooping around for that missing sock or fresh water bottle. I also know in advance the precise route I will follow for the first session of the day.

Finally, there is the eating plan. If I think I will need nourishment before the first 7 miles are in the bank I need to know where the restaurants, or 24 hour service stations, are located. I don’t like having to carry dated or soggy food. A good early meal also refreshes the brain. That’s important for being alert to motorized traffic and, non motorized, large animals.

Sprawling farm country and the cowboy town of Davenport fly by. Then, Wow- the nice days of plugging along have produced a dividend. By day’s end I am 10.3 miles from Spokane. {It helps to have walked 12 miles west of the town center on my arrival May 15]

The rock bands are in Wilbur also for Wild Bill Goose days. Unfortunately at 2 AM a few drunken band members start partying in the motel room next to mine. The paper thin walls yield tales of all of their exploits, dirty jokes, and stories only fit for aging musicians desperately trying to still get gigs on the road. Very weary I plod forward all day.

The big farm country continues to undulate along Highway # 2. Today is Saturday yet all day tractors diligently work the dusty fields. This must be a time in between planting and harvest. “All them elevators are for wheat”, a convenience store clerk tells me. “They’re getting $4.29 a bushel. Two years ago they were getting $15 so all the farmers started planting wheat.”

The virtually flat road from Grand Coulee to Wilbur burns through 28 miles of outstretched farm land. Fresh timothy gently flutters and twists when the occasional eighteen wheeler loaded with hay, or fully trimmed pine logs, rumbles by me. The sun is high, breeze gentle and the humidity zero. I plug along effortlessly but my lips are brittle from four days soaking in the sun. The one water bottle I carry barely lubricates me as I comfortably complete a ten mile walking session.

Two tiny farm towns suddenly pop out of the lonely landscape. Each is blessed with a two block long Main Street, grain elevator, railroad siding and the omnipresent U.S. post office.

Wild Bill Goose Days

Wally, owner of the Alibi Restaurant tells me the story of Wild Bill. “Seems Bill, a founder of the town, got in an argument about a woman. Now Bill shot and killed the other fella but Bill took a fatal shot himself. The woman got wounded too. That’s how I heard this celebration got started.” Terry, older than me and wearing a Vietnam Veteran hat, tells me he comes to Wild Bill Days every year to run the 5 K race.

The old Coulee Dam is a grand site perched on a hill side and generating enough electricity to power a big swath of western Washington State. Dam workers still live in quaint little clapboard homes built way back in the time of the Great Depressions New Deal. I arrive in Coulee City in the late afternoon, climb the road to the top of the dam, eat a bit, and then collapse into a peaceful night time sleep.  By early morning I am on the road once again.

Just five miles east of this super dam the country side turns spectacular. Old highway 155 runs beside a frosty blue, eighteen mile manmade lake fed by waters from the dam. The water ripples silently by as the hours idle on. Huge granite cliffs encase the narrow road, and of course me. It is hot but fascinatingly quiet. The dry towering landscape is mesmerizing. This is WOW country.

These painful words were spoken by Naz Perce Chief Joseph as he and his dying band of Native Americans finally gave up the fight. Once again, the dishonest white man won a very unfair fight.

I too, but in a much calmer environment, fight my way up a big hill, walking east from Coulee Dam in to the little town of Nesplelen. The air and wind now are exhilarating and God praise, traffic light.

Indian Friends

I meet three local Indian men. Calvin says he is from the Nespelen tribe. A little fellow sitting next to a dilapidated barn who calls himself Man proudly announces that he is Okanogan. “They gave us the name Colville. One good thing, now all the tribes get along”

“Fell off a pick-up truck”, Calvin tells me. “Smashed my skull wide open. I started walking when my auntie told me “Where you going boy your head is falling off.” Calvin only has one leg.  A thin prosthetic limb is propped up against a wooden fence. Normally it’s fixed to his knee. “I come up here to watch the cars go by. Ain’t nothing to do at the retirement home. My toes hurt all the time” he continues. “I ain’t got no leg but I can feel the nerves left from those toes whenever they start pinching”

After a long day race walking, only the Omak Bistro nourishes me with a good meal, as the rain continues.