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Heading south out of Salmon, Idaho  I see the plains open up in a wide expanse of vegetation between the Bitterroots and Lemhi Mountain Ranges. It is quiet out here in a soothing way with much less traffic. I can probably count the cars that pass me each day on my hands and left foot. I stop briefly in Tendoy at the tendoy Store and speak with Viola, a white haired woman behind the counter. In her 80s and with an infectious smile, she had heard of me on the radio and knew i was coming. She shares a bit of history. Tells me that Sacajewea was not born in Salmon as they claim but 2 miles outside of Tendoy. It is an area rich with Lewis and Clark lore. A few of their encampments are nearby with the history exhibited on large wooden historical markers along the road. A short distance from the store I take a picture of the oldest working 1 room schoolhouse in Idaho, established in 1912. Like so many things it will one day close its doors and the stories, the laughter, the knowledge shared within will be gone forever. Late in the day I roll into Leadore which sits at 6000 feet and stay at the Leodore Inn which is run by Mike and Aleta Reis. A pleasant and hardy couple they interest me with their lifestyle and love of this valley. Mike is a taxidermist part time and Aleta makes porcelain dolls in her spare time. They tell me stories of the history of this town. How the population grew to 600 in the 1920s, dwindled to a few hundred in the 1940s and now sits at less than 75. A rail station once ran through here but was short lived and the tracks were pulled to support the WWII effort. I hear stories of people who come and go on the road. One night the state patrol dropped someone off he had picked up in a nearby canyon. The next morning the patron is seen walking outside down the street…….naked…….Mike goes out and says “Look, you gotta put some clothes on” at which the man replies “The birds don’t wear any” at which Mike replies ” Well I don’t see any feathers on your ass, so get some on”…………ahhhhh yes we never know what or whom we will encounter…….Tommorrow I roll out of here and will go over 1000 miles and 1000 flags.  As I finished today, which was particularly hard because it was 33 miles of gradual climbing all day, I looked upward and said thank you. You see, when I look up its not really the sky I see, but rather those faces of those who are gone, looking down on me, smiling. They carry me and protect me and hold the gate open for me when I start again tommorrow…On, On my friends.

Friday dawned to a dreary, cloudy day that turned to rain rather quickly. Fortunately a bike path would emerge rather quickly but not before two interesting incidents. The first was an encounter with a black Audie with dark windows that pulled over. A huge guy gets out and is waiting for me and holding the hand of his young daughter. I notice the license plate and it says “Marine Veteran” He has a thick Polish accent and tells me how it was an honor for him to serve our country in Iraq and Afghanistan. He thanks me and then…..he salutes with wet eyes. I am caught off guard and salute back. About an hour later outside a Stop N’ Go a young man walks up and says hello. he introduces himself as Cole. He had just gotten out of the Navy a few months ago and would soon be leaving for Malta to marry his girlfriend and then live there. He tells me of his brother who is serving in Iraq on his 2nd tour. We exchange other small talk and then I must leave. He thanks me and then he says “You deserve this” and crisply, sharply he comes to attention and salutes me, looking at me with wet eys also. I am stunned again, salute back and then go into the store to get my Gatorade. My eyes are watery, my composure lost for a brief moment. When I come out Peggy says it about made her cry….We run down the bike path to Stevensville in the wind and rain and wind and rain and wind and rain.

As I pass through the Bitterroot Valley the towns of Hamilton and Darby pass by on a beautiful Sunday. Rolling into Sula a couple travelling with bags on their bikes stop and ask for a picture. They are Marco and Muni and they are from Costa Rica riding across the country. They had been following my flags since Oregon and every 100 miles would stop and take a picture and what is the chance on this remote Montana road we would meet?

Thank you Ari and Danielia for opening up your home for 2 nights and for the great barbecue at which I was presented a Montana Service Award Challenge Coin. With some sadness I said goodbye to Montana and to Peggy who has given me so much faithful company in this first section. Now its on to Driggs!!!!

In the northwest corner of Illinois lies a small town called Stockton. It is an area of rolling green farmland and timber and years ago it was home to my grandparents who lived in a small double wide on the edge of town. Grandpa Ehredt worked in the Kraft Cheese Factory toiling away with a gimpy hip 10 to 12 hours a day in a building which has long since closed down. It was also the home of Sergeant Andrew Lancaster who was killed August 11, 2007 in Iraq. Andrew Lancaster graduated from Freeport High School in 2002. He was a standout football and basketball player. I had been officiating those 2 sports back in the late 90s through 2001 and had officiated Freeport High School games. Fate is never determined for we cannot control it. Perhaps Andrew Lancaster lined up on my side of the field and made a great tackle. Perhaps I called a foul on him on the court or quite possibly I may have handed him the ball. Irregardless, fate would have it that I would bear his flag on  Montana Sate Road 200 and place it at milepost 23, his would be the 700th flag placed on my journey. His name and flag overlook a beautiful valley and the Clark Fork river. I suspect his eyes were looking down upon me from the hillside. I believe too that Andrew Lancaster was an honorable, compassionate and determined young man with great integrity. In a time when sacrifice seems so outdated he faced  hardships we cannot begin to conceive, as do so many others, and risked everything to protect this country. Words are not often eloquent enough to bear the gratitude afforded so many who have been taken from us. In time the green grass around his flag here in Montana will turn to brown and then the snows will come but in my eyes he will be there on the hillside linked arm in arm with those next to him whose flags are but a mile away. They will continue to protect us for all time and will not be forgotten.

Trotting down Montana 200 this morning I am dying for a coffee. Up ahead I see a sign for the Perma Store. At one time Perma, MT was a bustling rail/timber town. It has long since become nothing but a random turn of the century house by the railroad tracks and the Perma Store. I wheel in and walk though the door of a tiny log cabin. It is dusty and it is a collection of random items for sale. Indian jewelry, camaflouge ball caps, old fishing reels, crystal stones and a dancing bass on a pedestal that does actually dance when the button is pushed. “Wow, this should be interesting” and I cannot forget to list the Flathead Nation Flag for sale for $30. Lost in a daze and to avoid being sucked down the curiosity hole I step outside and smack  dab into “Harold”. He is the proprietor and between his 85 years and the two teeth he has left, he proceeds to give me his opinions on everything from his time serving in Korea, his Pearl Harbor Conspiracy Theory, the government and his disdain for the Governor of Montana who for no apparent reason jacked his store license fee up another $25, or so he says. He is interesting, he is opinionated and a bit out of date but never the less I listen closely. He checks out the stroller to see what turns the wheels and when I smack my two legs he replies “Boy you are crazy” “Hell, I’ll probably be dead by the time you reach Maine” He offers me a Snickers (expires Jan. 07 it says..” and I thankfully accept. Really, chocolate isn’t bad even if its old. His goats peek around from behind the cabin and in the grass I spy the skull of a steer drying in the sun….now this is the real Montana I have been wanting to see. Knowing I have to make time and leave, I interrupt his Franklin Roosevelt dissertation and take his picture. Saying a goodbye, the gravel crunches under my feet, or was it bones? I walk away thanking the Harold for a great 20 minutes and realize once again there is a story just around the corner……

Running down the road today I see her sitting up on the steps of her small house, off the road at the top of a long yard. I stop to chat. Her name is Liz and she is in her late 70s. She had been calling her friend who was on the computer tracking me to see where I was on ID200. Her cat is adopted, a stray who wandered in and never left. Petite with white hair she tells me of her husband who served in the Navy. Life is simple here for her.

 It is that way in Northern Idaho. They are hardy people up here.  Strong in their convictions and beliefs and good to the core. They work hard to make a living in this wild northwest. Nothing comes easy to most folks I have met. I see it as I continue down the road. Needs are simple and wants are few. Just these lush forests and mountains and fresh lake air that fills you with life.  Random trucks honk and some pull over and drivers give their thanks. In Clark Fork outside a bar I see people waiting and they shake my hand. The connections grow through each contact and I am thankful for that. Miles flow as sure as the river does but as it goes west I go east…..