Back after a shorter-than-expected stint in the woods; back in Salmon, ID's wonderful little main street library... seconds are ticking off my 30-min. time limit clock. What do you do when you get out of the woods? You shed your dead skin- in this case, a jump into the North Fork of the Salmon River and Dr. Bronner's Eucalyptus soap take off the initial layer of trail grime; the UPS store helps me shed some of the deadsy weight I've been hauling around. Now my rig is so streamlined I could kick out a quick crit if I wanted to. I don't want to. I want to stick around for yet another night in this six-horse town, drink beer, and mingle with the locals (love or fistfights are in my immediate future, I reckon, and I'm ready for either or both). To the Pictures!My illustrious and faintly-smokey smelly home in Missoula, MT. 65 dollars gets you all this, the history channel (Watched a documentary about silver, then aluminum, back to back, but had too much metal to stick around for gold, so I switched to a PBSer about Prison Towns (see my previous post)). Oh, Ruby's Hotel and Conference Center, yer grease-stained towels and ravaged breakfast buffet will be in my heart for always...

Perhaps you've heard of MT's Meth problem. They're fighting back, with wicked, wicked propaganda. I mean, c'mon, meth ain't that bad fer ya.

This here's Greg Siple, founder and acting head (I think?) of Adventure Cycling. I posed for his wall of thru-biker fame, then made him return the favor. What a nice guy, and still, after 30 years of helping tourists help themselves, is still uber-jazzed on bike culture and travel. He and his now-wife and a few pals biked from Alaska to Tierra del Fuego in the early '70s, a two-year odyssey featured in the annals of National Geographic (some issue in 1973, wild white horses fighting on the cover... I've got one laying around at home, I'm sure...)
A nice little creekside campspot on the North Side of Lost Trail Pass, only 10 miles off the beaten path to the summit.

Thimbleberry PB and H on Birdman Seedbread (it's got freakin' polenta in it, which to my hummingbird-like metabolism is somewhat more addictive than crack, or even a fresh batch of MT meth).

Roads have been friendly, generally, but apparently some highway repairs are taken on rattle-can vigilante style. This little warning sign musta got the attention of the DOT, as fresh asphalt salved the once gapin wound.

Yeah, this one speaks for it's un-pc self.