Author Archive: Mike Ehredt

Thus far I have had no bad experiences with cars. Its all been good. I have came up with a few rules: #1 No music unless there is a stretch of road as bare as a babies butt. #2 Go with the flow….of traffic. This has been the safest. Motorists have been kind and they don’t swerve suddenly like they do when you are coming at them. #3 Have a mirror on the bar of the stroller. It lets me know whats coming up and when I have food in my teeth. #4 Utilize woods whenever possible….porta potties are few and far between but often appear like an oasis. #5 Sing. Alot. I now realize why I never quit my day job. #6 Talk. To my 30 companions for the day. They have stories. I thank them. They watch from above and lift me down the road to the next.

She smiles at me as we meet and I extend a hand to hold hers and her eyes dance in appreciation. His hand is strong and firm as we shake.   She moves little from her wheelchair. He is Wilbert and she is Nora. They are in the golden years of their life and I suspect each day is one more gift in this race with time for them. We sit at the dinner table and he tells me their story. Nora has Huntingtons Disease and is losing all her motor skills. She is in her mid-80s as is Wilbert. They were married in 1944. The draft had taken him away to war but before he left they were married. It was a whirlwind of 3 days. The joy of being husband and wife and the sadness of having to part. Wilbert would drive a landing craft on Iwo Jima and come away untouched. He talks of many things pertaining to those days. The sand, the foxholes, storms at sea and he is silent on other things though I see the sadness and pain in his eyes 66 years later. For a year and a half he wrote Nora each day and she kept every letter. Nora listens intently and often speaks a word or two to correct him on certain facts. Under the stamps on those letters they had their own code in single letters. No words. It was a way for her to always know where he was. In the ports of the far east he would buy her silk fabric and send it home. Nora then says “and gum” and smiles like a child. She loved gum back then so Wilbert always included some in his packages. We continue to eat dinner and as Wilbert talks he stabs a piece of watermelon and without hesitation places it in Noras mouth. So tender, so loving, so caring. I ask Nora if Wilbert looked good in uniform and she replies with a twinkle “Real Good!”. I am touched by her eyes. How she looks at him and how he looks at her after almost 66 years of marriage. I see two young hearts that never grew old. The bodies and mind may be showing the signs of age but their smiles and true affection is intoxicating. If I could bottle that love, that appreciation, that I see in them for each other, I would give it to those who still think that all is lost in this world. You see, there is hope, there is happiness and there is love because there is Wilbert and Nora.

I roll down US 12 into quiet little Waitsburg. Hmmmm nice bridge and nice creek and water I should be soaking in. Maybe later. My mind is still on my meeting a few miles back. A stop for iced rosemary tea given to me in a mason jar at the top of a long hill and a chat with the gentleman who lives across the road in a grain elevator. “Two stories of living space and 8 stories of attic” he says. How wild that must be. Back to Waitsburg.

Quiet main street, turn of the century buildings, a hardware/general store and colors of red and brown and green and maple trees in front of old Victorian homes. A scene straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. At the Whoop Em Up Hollow Cafe, Sarah the waitress tends to my growling stomach with a plate of delicious frog legs, black eyed peas salad followed by the most wonderful catfish I have ever had. No meal is complete without dessert and banana pudding and warm cookies finish me off and I stumble home to my room full and satisfied.

I roll into Dayton and the hills begin just out of town, rolling wheat fields of green in various shades of color. Horses that stop and stare as if the know what my cargo is. That night my hosts treat me to delicious salmon and halibut and a fruit salad I embarrass myself on by literally devouring the entire contents of the bowl. I sit and listen to Bob, an 85 year old Iwo Jima Vet tell me of the day he landed there in WWII, 1st wave and untouched. He was lucky and came back to Dayton and has led a simple, hardworking, good life. I see years of wisdom and goodness in his eyes. I am lucky to have the pleasure of meeting men like that. There is history, laughter and knowledge in them that should be shared. Small town America holds many values. True and rich. I see it as I  move along.

In a few days I will be in Idaho and this lush farmland will be behind me and the topography will change as will the people. Here in Pullman tonight my hosts Pat and Colleen take us to dinner at the Cougar Country Drive-In and a double quarter pounder with fries and a banana shake never tasted so good. A good, loving couple fiercely proud of their loyalty to their alma mater her at WSU and very thankful to live where they do. Each day is a deposit of generosity by my hosts. …… each day the treasures build….

So I crest a short hill near the intersection of 730/12 in Washington….now I am kinda dying for some fruit as the salty beef jerky provided by my hosts is oh so good but needs to be topped off with something….ahaaa a guy selling bags of oranges out of the back of his truck. Kevin tosses me a couple and we have a little chit chat and I head down the road. At 80 degrees a cold orange is pretty damn good in fact probably the best orange I ever had. The rolling countryside opens up to even more rolling fields of wheat and the greenness of it all is intoxicating. I drift back in my thoughts to my last view of the Columbia as it turned north. It had been a secure source of comfort for me….always there each day stretching out with periodic steps in its flow created by the dams and now we had parted company. In the small town of Touchet I roll into a Chevron in search of a cold Starbucks Mocha and have a chance meeting with Arnaud, a young frenchman riding across the country to New York. For 2 days he had followed a trail of flags not knowing their meaning until I told him. Travelers…one on foot, one on bike, 2 different countries, one gas station. The day ends well in Walla Walla and my hosts, the Pluckers treat me to a fine dinner of steak/potatoes/pasta salad/ strawberries/cake and ice cream. They clearly love their community. Their family goes back 150 years in this area….so obviously it must be love. Tomorrow new miles, new smells and sights and new faces and the tales build…….goodnight.

I get dropped off…….Rain gear on or off? cold? no not yet, feet feel good….sort of, legs? still there…man should have had another cup of coffee, kinda hungry, first mile, i-phone on, check name, damn ground is hard, stick that flag, salute, move on, whoaaaaaa big truck, close! Gotta find a bush, nooooo not yet, wonder if the Cubs won? Wow the Columbia river is big….bushes lotsa sage, green and green, fields and smells, cattle trucks….Thats a big bridge, a high bridge….whew don’t like the interstate….need a gu, need another gu, did I take an alleve? maybe two? oh well, kidneys are strong…chafffffffing, shoulda lubed up….hungry, hungry, find a bush…again….drink more knucklehead…ok eat, ahhhhh mini-mart.. burritos and coffee and chocolate zinggggggg…..another flag, thank you, salute, your parents must be proud, I feel for their loss, are you watching from above? You push me forward….on and on