"Should be a nice day for a ride," the old guy said.

"Anything would be better than riding through eastern Oregon."

"Yeah, it's been hot lately. The thermometer on my front porch got up to 115 the other day. I was out peeling the roof off my ranch in that heat. An old guy like me shouldn't be out in that heat and I'm from Arizona. I've had this ranch 7 years and only been up here about 10 months during that whole time. Gonna try and sell it once I put a new roof on it and build a new porch. Started peeling off the roof and peeled off one layer, then another, then another. Damn thing has 17 layers of roof on it. House was built in 1904 and still has the original roof. Can you believe that? No way it's gonna leak, but looks like hell. Where you coming from?"

"Florence, Oregon."

"You from Florence?"

"No, San Francisco. Parents live in Connecticut, that's where I'm heading."

"Used to have some property in Oregon. Ever hear of La Grande? It was around there, then my wife died, so I sold it. Beautiful part of the country. Spend most of my time in Arizona. Headed through Missoula?"

"Yup, then I'll head south through Yellowstone, then onto Colorado where I'll start heading east."

"Be careful of the truckers through there. Going to Missoula, they probably won't be carrying anything, but you got to be careful. I drove a lot of trucks in my day. I was a good driver, but a lot of them, you got to wonder about. Not saying they aren't good drivers, they just don't pay attention. I don't know what they're thinking about, maybe looking at the birds or something. No, when you're driving a big truck you've got to be focused. You've got to concentrate on the road and constantly check your mirrors. I still check my mirrors. It's a habit I guess." The old guy then stopped talking and looked in his shirt pocket for a pen. He pulled it out, looked at it, then stuck it in his ear as if it were a q-tip. When he was done massaging his inner ear, he looked at the pen again and put it away in his shirt pocket. "So where in Oregon you from."

"I'm not from Oregon. I'm from San Francisco."

"I used to own property in California, along the Mendicino coast. Beautiful over there. Then my other wife died and I sold it. I guess whenever something bad happens, I pack up and move somewhere else. Leave all the memories behind. I'd like to have that property back, but it's too damn expensive. I'd have to win the lottery. Although I already won it once. Fifteen years ago, I won it back in Nevada. Got $495,000, well about $350,000 after the government took its share. Bought myself a few cars and some property. Should be pretty good weather for riding today. Want to see what the paper says about the weather?"

The old guy handed me his paper and I looked at the weather forecast. "Sunny and 75 for the next few days."

"See, should be good for riding. Be careful of the trucks though. Some of them truckers drive pretty funny." An hour and five cups of coffee later, I paid my bill and began riding.

Twenty-seven miles into my day, I reached the town of Lowell. There was a small store at which I stopped to buy food for lunch and to fill up my water bottles. When I walked into the store, Miriam was walking out. We chatted for a while, talked about how far we'd gotten the day before and how far we were hoping to get tonight. She had bought a bunch of bannanas and was certain they would go bad before her family would finish them, so she gave me one. Having a support vehicle would definitely be a nice way to do the trip, but for the time being, I'm happy to mooch off of someone else's support.

The road to Lolo Pass is a very gradual climb of over 2,000 feet and winds along the banks of the Lochsa (pronounced Lock-saw) River. The river is peppered with rapids and therefore with scores of rafters and kayakers. As far as I could tell, there were no rafting outfitters, just individuals that come to play on the river. The scenery along the river is spectacular and having people to wave at while I was riding made the day extremely pleasant. Almost every stop I made, I spoke with rafters, kayakers and even a couple of brave canoers from New Hampshire. After 90 miles of some of the most enjoyable riding of the trip, I pulled over at a campsite 13 miles from Lolo pass.