.

The long Road. Part 8 of 9: U.S.A.

God loves the USA 'They paved paradise and they put up a parking lot.' The text of Joni Mitchell dates back forty years ago and since then many parking lots were built in the urban centers of San Diego and Los Angeles. A plurality of avenues, highways and freeways connected the parking lots. Millions of people were moving over these roads from the one to the other parking lot. By car. And preferably a big car. California, the Golden State, might be the most prosperous place on the planet. Not only the cars were big. The houses, the shopping malls, the skyscrapers, the freeways, everything was great. The Golden State shines brightly, but not for everyone. Between the polished office buildings of downtown San Diego, the luxurious malls of the Mission Valley, the Baywatch beaches of Santa Monica, everywhere I saw homeless people. Life was expensive in paradise. During my stay in California, hiring a small apartment cost $ 1200,- per month, a night in a basic hotel $ 80,- ($ 120,- during the weekend) and an overnight stay in a campsite with basic facilities (shower and running water) was $ 35,-. Paradise was not only expensive, it was not so nice. At least not for everyone. Life in the suburbs was monotonous and lonesome. People moved anonymously in cars, cut off from the rest of the world. People lived in a self-imposed isolation. In air-conditioned rooms. At home, in the office, in the car. The luxurious life was at the cost of loneliness, but there was another big prize. Fear. Fear of losing your job. Fear of not being able to pay the house. Or the car. For most Americans the loss of the job means at the same time the loss of the house and the loss of the car. If you fall, you have to get up immediately. Those who do not rise quickly, join the growing group of homeless people. I stayed with John and Christie in San Diego. During the day I limped and pimped my bike. The evenings we spent together. John was a novice surgeon. Inexperienced surgeons had to make very long days. Workweeks of a hundred hours were the rule. I asked John what was the reason for these long working weeks. "We want top quality surgeons in America." "Are you performing top quality after thirty hours of uninterrupted work?" "Apparently that's still what we all want." John complained that many Americans are so selfish: "It stems from an important element of the American Dream: we did not want to do what the king says. America was the land of the unlimited potential. And to a large extent America still is the land of unlimited possibilities. But freedom is not unlimited in an urban area of three million people (San Diego + suburbs) or seventeen million people (Los Angeles + suburbs)." Only a modest range of hills separated the population centers of San Diego and Los Angeles. Before I entered the area, I had to stop at a checkpoint. The officials gave me the instruction to take a left at the fourth traffic light. After ten minutes I had passed the third traffic light. The fourth traffic light did not show up though. Mile after mile I drove further inland. Then I finally reached the long-awaited fourth traffic light, where I turned left. In accordance with the instruction. I ended up in a wasteland of abandoned naval bases and meter wide trails for armored vehicles. I could not imagine it was a good idea to be riding here. But I was sent this way by the authorities. And according to my GPS this was the only road too. After half an hour I passed a prohibition sign for cyclists. Since I had cycled over thirty kilometers through an area where trespassing is supposedly forbidden, I decided to continue. A kilometer further I ignored a new prohibitory. A moment later I heard a car, the first sign of life in two hours. A minute later a car followed behind me. The silence was broken by a call from a loudspeaker: "This is the federal police. We order the cyclist to slow doen to stop" I pulled the brakes. An official-looking police car came to a standstill beside me. "You know that you are in forbidden territory?" "Are you true???" "We ask the questions. You know that we can take you in custody for this offense?" "I think you can even take me into custody without offense." "How have you cycled?" "Look at my GPS. At the fourth traffic light, I turned left. I followed the instructions of your colleagues." I showed the route traveled on my GPS. "You had to turn at the third traffic light." "Your colleagues told me otherwise that I had to turn left at the fourth traffic light." "You're trespassing, boy, you're in trouble." The police were clearly not selected on empathic qualities or sense of humor. "Tell me what I should have done, I have followed the instructions from your colleagues." "We can pick you up." "I know. You have told me that three times now. But you still have not told me how to leave the base legally." "We make sure that you get the hell out of here." Sbsequently the car rode away, a lot faster than permitted, in the direction of where the men came from. It was not clear to me if this was a new instruction. Whether I had to follow the police car in the wrong direction, or that I had to continue my route. I did not want to cycle all the way back again and decided to simply continue. Five kilometers later I reached the exit of the base. Los Angeles brought new avenues, new freeways and new suburbs. More than a hundred kilometers uninterrupted urban sprawl I had to cross to reach my accommodation address in Santa Monica, in the north of metropolitan Los Angeles. I stayed overnight at Eriks house, a researcher that had exchanged Groningen for Santa Monica. We went out to eat in the small center of Santa Monica, which owed a good choice of restaurants with all kinds of exotic cuisines. I heard many negative stories about the American kitchen, but the first impressions were moderately positive. But that could possibly change from the moment that I would swap the big cities for Small Town America. The service in the restaurants was generally friendly indifferent. "How are you doing today?" was a typical opening of a conversation. It was clearly not supposed to provide an answer, the question only had a decorative function. The goodbye statement was everywhere the same: "Have a good one." It was difficult to come back with a more meaningless answer, but I found one: "Have a very good one." God drove man out of paradise, then man lived five thousand years in war and misery to eventually create his own paradise in California. Along the Baywatch beaches and subsequently over the Pacific Coast Highway I cycled north to Malibu. Malibu is arguably the longest village of the world. Malibu is one hundred meters wide and forty kilometers long, sandwiched between the hills and the Pacific Ocean. It was the place where many movie stars and plastic surgeons lived. More than the movie stars the plastic surgeons were the actual artists of Hollywood and the LA region. Where the film stars themselves had to struggle through routine scripts, the plastic surgeons sculpted creations of eternal artistic value from the available molecular and genetic building blocks. The very first person who represented the manufacturability of life until the final polyethylene glitter hair cell, was, of course, Barbie. She lives in a bungalow that features a garden with an artificial lawn, lined by colorful plastic flowers and which is easy to rebuild in a palace or a castle. Barbie let herself be transported in a pink open sports car, but there is also an artificially manicured horse ready for her. Her clothing is easy to adjust to fashion trends or self-motivated whims. All possible novelties in the field of beauty are easy to apply and also the hair of Barbie can be restyled in a jiffy. Like all other body parts, her voluptuous hair can easily be transplanted. Barbie has always been slim and she will never grow old. Barbie is the ultimate triumph of mind over matter. California, like other parts of the United States, is much more religious than the Netherlands, but it is not so much to the life of Jesus Christ, but rather to the life of Barbie that the people have modeled their lives. Thdo not need to put their fate in the hands of God, because they have excellent plastic surgeons in California. After Malibu followed Ventura and after Ventura followed Santa Barbara. It was here that I had the opportunity to experience the 4th of July, the American Liberation Day. The whole town had gathered at the beach for the fireworks show to attend. I was not among the masses on the beach, but I watched the spectacle with some others at a discreet distance. Everywhere were waving American flags. Right in front of me was a man with a massive five-meter flagpole in his hand. The fireworks show lasted an hour. After the last explosion resounded ecstatic cries of joy, slowly dying in a heavy silence. The atmosphere was intense. Nobody moved an inch. Only after a few seconds th silence was filled up. An old man came to an unprecedented emotional outburst: "I love the USA!" He screamed with everything that was in him. Another bystander screwed the intensity even further and brought the Almighty to the party: "God bless America!" A new silence fell. Until a third man broke the silence. With trembling, cracking voice the words came from his lips: "God loves the USA !!" God loved America, so much was clear. But the Americans, did they really love their country so much as they do make believe so frequently and passionately? The coming months I would try to find the answer to that question. Pacific Coast Highway After the smoke had cleared, I saddled my bike again. I headed further north on the Pacific Coast Highway. More and more was I surrounded by nature and there were ever less suburbs. An unforgettable highlight was San Simeon State Park, where I was given a place for a dollar to pitch my tent. A state park is different from a National Park. It is usually a small area, which is more focused on recreation and camping than on nature or breeding programs for wildlife. Both types of parks complement each other. The phenomenon State Park is driven by profound idealism. The idea is that a State Park should be as accessible as possible so that everyone can enjoy American nature. Despite financial problems of the State Park organization of California, no compromises have been made yet. Hikers and cyclists can pitch their tent for a dollar, even if the area is actually booked like during my presence. San Simeon State Park lies central in populous California and is a fwe hours driving from San Diego, los Angeles, San Francisco and Sacramento. And the tiny San Simeon State Park lies on a fabulous oceanfront location, with rocky outpours that rise from the sea and with beautiful hills on the land. In San Simeon State Park I was offered one of the most beautiful sunsets of the trip. The sun sank down in the Pacific like an orange fireball and put the ocean and land in a shimmering glow. The coastal zone was usually being submerged in the fog, a result of the cold ocean water. Even during the summer it was fresh along the ocean. A less pleasant characteristic of the climate were the stormy north winds. This was the reason that all cyclists were riding from north to south on the most popular cycle route of North America. I was the only one who was cycling against the wind. The most beautiful part of the route the area was just south and just north of Big Sur, where the mountains steeply crashed into the sea. I saw the first redwoods, giant trees with characteristic red stems. After five hundred kilometers of Pacific Coast Highway I reached San Francisco. I cycled over the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin County, a collection of villages and towns, wedged into the hill country between the Pacific and the San Francisco Bay. Skag and Anne had invited me to spend a few days in their wooden house between the woods of Marin County. Between the meals and the conversations we took short hikes in the redwood and Douglas fir covered hills, went swimming in lakes and made a canoe tour in a cove in the sea, right above the San Andreas Fault, one of the most earthquake-prone areas of the world. Skag grew up in Amsterdam, but left the Netherlands at a young age, a defining moment in his life: "In the Netherlands, everything is planned from the cradle to the grave. I could see my whole life passing by before my eyes. That was not how I wanted to live my life." Anne worked at a food bank for the homeless. She told me that there were much more homeless than a superficial observation would suggest: "The homeless are invisible. Most stay in vans or tents in the blind alleys of the villages and towns." "How many homeless people are there in your commune?" "Here five percent of the population is homeless. We are one of the more prosperous communes of the United States. Elsewhere, the percentage will higher." "Do the homeless have enough to eat?" "Our commune is socially involved. With us there is enough food to survive. But we are a wealthy and socially-conscious commune. The situation in other communities is much worse." After the Gold Rush I crossed the Central Valley, a flat agricultural area with non-assuming, medium-sized cities. East of the Central Valley were the mountains of the Sierra Nevada, including the immensely popular Yosemite National Park. Yosemite is a few hours drive away from the population centers of San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego and attracts millions of visitors each year with its vertical, hundreds of meters high granite walls and its surrounding wilderness. Black bears and mountain lions are living everywhere in the Sierra Nevada but in the national parks of Yosemite, Sequoia and Kings Canyon are substantial populations. Wild camping is therefore risky. So I had to find a campsite with bear lockers, iron containers for food and drink and other scented luggage. To get a campsite in Yosemite National Park, it was necessary to reserve half a year in advance or be at the campsite before nine o'clock in the morning. I had not booked in advance and it was not possible for me to reach a campsite before nine o'clock. However, sometimes you have luck in your life. Late in the evening I found a cheap bed in the hostel of Groveland, just outside the national park and the surrounding national forest. The next day I made a long trek to all the granite walls, waterfalls and viewpoints in and around Yosemite Valley. Yosemite National Park is visited by millions of people a year, but the catering was lousy. In a radius of hundreds of kilometers around Yosemite Valley are vast, protected forests without any facilities. In Yosemite Valley itself only junk food was available. The breakfast burrito that I had to reheat in a microwave oven with half-rotten food scraps came on the first place of bad meals on my trip through the Americas. With a head full of wonderful visual impressions and a stomach that felt abused, I started the monster climb to the Tioga Pass. The route is one of the classic road trips in America. The climb led first through a vast forest of redwood trees, a landscape that after a few hours made place for a whimsical landscape of white rocks and finally through the beautiful high-altitude grasslands of Tuolumne Meadows. After crossing the small plateau followed the final climb through pine forests and new grasslands. This ended up in a setting of icy mountain lakes surrounded by high mountains with snow fields. Late in the evening I reached the pass. After a short descent I reached the Mono Lake, where I made camp. The area east of the Sierra Nevada was breathtaking. Eastward I had views over a vast desert landscape covered with sagebrush shrubs with their trademark eerie, silvery gray-green sheen. Lonely ridges accentuated the loneliness of the landscape. To the west the Sierra Nevada rose steeply and high above the surrounding land. The scenery was reminiscent of the high plains of Bolivia, if not in the atmosphere of its settlements. I had the feeling if I found myself in a western movie. Visually a hundred years after the gold rush not much seemed to have changed. Often there was only a single street, the main street, a straight line through the desert, flanked by saloons, trading posts and gun shops. The Wild West was not a phenomenon of a recent past or an invention of Hollywood, it was the reality of the here and now. Americans are fighters. The Americans have fought its territory from the Native Americans and from Mexico, they have fought for the separation of European interference of Great Britain and Spain and they have fought their way to the west. Since then, no country in the world had been engaged in so many wars as the United States. No country has so many firearms per capita. Many Americans believe in weapons as an indispensable tool for personal safety. An oft-mentioned quote of Thomas Jefferson, one of the founders and third president of the USA, is that "gun control is a last fallback for a citizen to protect himself against the tyranny of the government." During my stay there was an unprecedentedly bloody shooting incident at the premiere of a Batman movie in Colorado. A young man fired a full magazine of bullets into the five hundred people audience. The general reaction was not that it was unbelievable that a mentally confused boy could legitimately buy an automatic firearm, but that there were no people around with a gun in the pocket to prevent the drama. America had more than its fair share of mentally disturbed men. Many of them were traumatized in the wars in Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan or other distant countries. In a campsite in Nevada, I met Rosie. She had just fled from her husband. After returning from Iraq, he was not the same anymore. He had extreme dreams and the nights were dominated by continuous anguished cries. The days were not better than the nights. There were ever more severe forms of domestic violence. After a serious incident he received a short imprisonment, which gave Rosie the opportunity to flee. Marianne had horrifying experiences too. She was stalked by a man with serious mental disorders. She found out that he had been improsoned over twenty years for the attempted murder of another woman. The victim turned out to being stalked for months too. A third example I was able to experience 'live'. While I was drinking wine with Madeleine in a campsite, she was called by a man for a first date. On a deserted car park in Carson City. Luckily she thanked politely. Carson City is the capital of Nevada, Las Vegas, although nearby Reno is considerably bigger. Over an eight-lane highway I cycled into the provincial town. On the six kilometer long strip I passed casinos and gambling palaces, dilapidated motels and junk food chains. Carson City was not radiating the prosperity and extravagance of Las Vegas; it was rather a place for the compulsive gambler. Almost without exception, the people were fat. A healthy mind in a healthy body, that was not exactly the motto here. For decades the Americans waged a fierce war on drugs in several places in the world, but the baffling poor food supply on their own still have not been addressed yet. Carson City topped the bill in terms of the supply of post-industrial fat explosion hamburgers, fried chicken and other flop genetic and hormonal deformed food chain products. In the whole city I had not seen a catering facility, grocery or convenience store where potentially healthy food was available. There were only the worst of the fast food chains, all at a glance: McDonalds, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken and the less internationally oriented chains such as Wendy's, Jack in the Box, Chicken Delight, Fatburger (!), Arby's, Carl's Jr. and many others. The eight hundred kilometers that followed in Nevada, would not show any improvement in the food supply. For many residents of Nevada the only source of vitamins would be the onion ring on the hamburger. Carson City was not only the place for - to quote the local tourist brochure - 'Traditional style Nevada casino and family entertainment' - it was also the beginning of the loneliest road in the United States, the US 50. Thousand kilometers of straight road through the desert separating me from the next town of any significance, Cedar City in Utah. The Lonely Highway Cycling is meditation. The cyclist sits silent and motionless between heaven and earth. Only the legs are moving in a rhythmic cadence and draw circles in the air, without leaving a trace. The long, straight roads through the empty landscape had a deep meditative effect. The flow of observations was passing by in ever-changing compositions of light and color, sound, smell and feel. Every hundred kilometers or more there was a settlement with basic amenities - running water and junk food - and one or two gambling palaces. But the vast part of the route there was nothing but the bike, the road and the landscape. Lonely ridges arose from the plains and accented the Big Nothing. The endless desert landscapes between the settlements were impressive in their rugged, desolate beauty. Time and space. Space and time. Lots of space and lots of time. The landscape changed constantly but imperceptibly. Clouds went by, solved into nothing and grew out of nothing. The sky was sometimes dotted with thousands of small clouds, then again she was completely cloud-free. On other occasions, the landscape was covered under deep black clouds. Thoughts rose up and died down. Loneliness, euphoria, love, anger, happiness, boredom. I felt how the ebb and flow of emotions dissolved in the infinity of the landscape. Everything was passing by without leaving a trace. I often had tailwind. A pleasant detail in a desert with only once every hundred kilometers, the possibility to restore on water. Another side effect was the lack of the expected heat. It was summer, but the weather was unstable. At times heavy rain showers lashed down on the deserted landscape. The cloudy skies were brilliant, yet frightening as one of the many thunderstorms discharged itself. The vast majority of the United States is very sparsely populated. It was therefore not surprising why loneliness and freedom are such dominant themes in American culture. On the Road by Jack Kerouac or Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig could not have been written in Europe. Nowhere the feeling of being on the move is stronger reflected as in American music. The Americana of Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash or Townes van Zandt are infused with images of long, straight roads, isolated settlements and the infinite space of the landscape. The protagonists of the songs dream of freedom, but are at the same time chained by fate. Success and failure, love and abandonment, heaven and hell, in the hard reality of American society life can take a fateful turn in a single struck of thunder. My life was determined by the long road to the horizon, floating among heaven and earth. The bicycle trip through the Americas was a dream, which had come true. I had experienced moments of timeless beauty, which I could carry with me for the rest of my life. The journey also had its more earthly aspects. The trip was a project like any other project. It was important to deal in a healthy way with possible bears on the road. There are so many problems looming, that it is easy to lose the nerve. It was important not to solve tomorrow's problems. The trip also consisted of a good dose of daily routine and that was certainly true of my days in Nevada. Getting up, loading the panniers, adding water supplies, stocking up on food and then the long road. After a working day of eight hours, I would reach the next settlement, where I would look for a place to stay, eat, and write in my diary. Since the settlements of Nevada were just as lonely as the hundreds of kilometers of desert in between, there was usually nothing that broke the solitude from outside. I was on my own. It was the art to continue experiencing every day and every moment as a gift. After more than a year on the road I had developed an earthly imperturbability and perhaps also a certain detachment. Everything changes, assumes constantly new forms. I was more or less indifferent to whatever observations, emotions, feelings and thoughts were passing by. The Grand Canyon thousand kilometers before me, was equally far removed from the here and now as the massive granite walls of Yosemite Valley thousand kilometers back. For my emotional landscape the same held true. Happiness can only be found in the here and now, in the people, landscapes, thoughts and feelings that are actually there. The paradox was that it was much easier to realize objectives like this bike journey, when I let them go. Into the Wild The road has no destination. There is no beginning and no end. After a thousand kilometers of meditative, lonely roads I reached Cedar City, the gateway to the canyons in Utah and Arizona. With Frank, a South African cyclist, I cycled to Zion National Park, where we entered the first canyons, starting with the Kolob Canyon. The bright red vertical rock formations and green vegetation were a welcome change after the endless desert landscapes of Nevada. Through a hallucinatory thousand color landscape of buttes and canyons we rode to the Zion Canyon. The next morning we started a small trek. We climbed to the Angels Landing, a dizzying rocky outcrop which rises vertically from the canyon. The views were therefore, to express with Dutch understatement to express, well worth the effort. After the small trekking we got back on the bike. Through the canyon landscape we climbed to one of the many high plateaus of Utah. Once up on the plateau, the scenery was spacious again and more or less flat. We headed off to the Grand Canyon. After Kanab began a climb that was not steep, but very, very long. The landscape had an average gradient of one to two percent. Almost flat but still the road goes up. We had to cover seventy kilometers and climb more than one thousand meters to reach the plateau. On the exposed climb we were treated with heavy showers and thunderstorms and heavy winds as well. Anyway it was one of the dullest climbs of the world, without highlights like a nice view or a descent on the other side. Above was nothing but a desolate flat landscape with the same stiff headwind. Frank had a tight schedule and now we were not at that schema anymore. Miraculously we got luck at the right time and so we still got the chance to visit the Grand Canyon together. In Jacob Lake, I was talking with Stephen and Nancy, a couple from Flagstaff, who would visit the Grand Canyon the next day. The next day all of us would go together and Frank would was offered a ride to the train station in Flafstaff the following day. There were different thunderstorms scattered over the Grand Canyon area. The local population spoke of the Arizona monsoon. In the first instance I did not take the phenomenon completely serious - we were, after all, in the desert, weren't we? After three weeks of daily showers and thunderstorms in the desert states of Nevada, Utah and Arizona, I could I no longer deny that there was something going on climatically. The Grand Canyon was not really a feast of color under an overcast sky, but the subdued pastels had their own cozy charm. Most of all I was impressed by the millions of details. A huge three-dimensional chessboard with thousands of fields stretched before me. As far as the eye sees. Sometimes grand and spectacular, sometimes as tiny elements in the landscape. Stephen had in his younger years, many times walked through the canyon landscapes of Utah and Arizona. As a result he had contact with various Indian groups. That fact in itself was special. Most of the tribes live isolated from the surrounding American society. After many years of contact with the traditional and secluded Hopi Indians, he was adopted by a leading Hopi woman as part of her family. That was a special honor, which virtually no outsider ever gets. A few years later, Nancy was also adopted as part of the family. Consequently Stephen and Nancy were one of the few Americans who literally and figuratively have been able to look in the kitchen of the Hopi. The sociology of the Hopi differs fundamentally in a number ways from that of our Western societies. The Hopi society is matriarchal. All the possessions belong to the women and they make the important decisions in the communes. So politics in the Hopi communes is not left to the men, but to the women. Nancy had not only looked in the kitchen of the Hopi, but also in the American kitchen. She led a restaurant and catering company and so she had in-depth knowledge about the way of cooking in the (fast food) restaurants. I already had some chilling culinary experiences behind me, but after the explanation of Nancy about the ingredients and preparation of many restaurants, these experiences were in retrospect even more daunting. In spite of the American preference for steaks and burgers Nancy was able to run a flourishing company that was able to offer healthy and sustainable food to its customers. An organic oasis in the barren desert of the American food supply. Having said goodbye to Frank and Stephen, Nancy and Tom, I could begin to retreat the hundred kilometers back to Kanab. I descended on the route that Frank and I had climbed the day before yesterday. The road was downhill with tailwind considerably more enjoyable than uphill with headwind. Two more days I cycled in the Arizona Monsoon before I reached the final campsite before Bryce Canyon in a crackling thunderstorm. Miraculously it was beautiful weather the following morning. I reached a beautiful viewpoint at sunrise. There was a delicate play of light and shadow on the thousands of pink stone pillars of Bryce Canyon. On the many viewpoints, I met the Dutch Paul and the Argentinean Marcela and their son Lukas four times. The encounters with the friendly people brought me back in the other two worlds where I lived. That was partly the Latin American world, where I had lingered a year and where many new friends and my girlfriend were living. And that was partly the world of my home country, where my friends family were living. But at this moment I was in a third world: North America and in fact in one of the most beautiful spots around, between the giant amphitheatres of rosy red pillars of the Bryce Canyon. I cycled on the famous Highway 12 through the Grand Staircase - Escalante National Monument. The name Grand Staircase refers to the 'Stairs' of multilayer plateaus of southern Utah. At first I went down a few steps to end up in a wild landscape of bare, eroded, white and red rocks. There I could start the long ascent - I had to climb all the steps in the landscape - to a high pass over the Boulder Mountains. After two steps, I found myself on a narrow corridor, far elevated above the surrounding landscape. The road seemed like floating in the air. After a few kilometers on the corridor I reached the base of the plateau and the settlement Boulder. Thunderstorms arrived early this day. At noon I was already forced to look for a place to stay in Boulder. According to my map there would be a campsite, but that proved to be fifteen kilometers away on a dead end road. With the storm chasing over my head, that seemed neither an attractive, nor a sensible option. At the moment that I wighed the possibilities and impossibilities, a slightly untidy man started a conversation with me. Bob said that he lived half a kilometer away in a tent by the river. He invited me to camp with him. Over a short, dead-end road, we got access to the place. The small riverside terrace was a perfect campsite, located in one of the rare forests of Utah, with a river with flowing water. Bob lived for the landscape. His great passion was to single-handedly trek through the rugged, lonely landscapes of the big outdoors: Utah, Colorado, Yellowstone, Alberta, Alaska. Sometimes he spent a few months in the wilderness before returning to society. There he would typically work a few months as a gardener, so he could go back into the wilderness again. Where I had the feeling that I had retreated quite far from everyday society at this campsite along the river, for Bob the campsite represented a return to society. Or at least a return to the margins of society. "How do you control the supply when you are more than a month in such remote places?" I asked. "I make sure that I have enough water with me, that's the only thing that really counts." "But are you never hungry?" "Yes, but food is not necessary. The only really important thing is to to have sufficient water." "Don't you eat at all?" "If I do not have food, I do not eat." He looked at me quietly. There was no trace of machismo in his expression. "How long can you survive without eating?" "I had not eaten three consecutive weeks. That happened three times." "I am hungry after cycling a couple of hours." "You burn a lot more energy than I do on a bike. Still, you could do much longer without food." "Do you see how skinny I am now?" "You look perfectly healthy." "I am so much looking forward to eat after a long day of cycling." "That's something else. I'm just saying that you do not need it. You can eat the wasted energy back later." What this man is doing, is the real deal. Breathless I heard him tell how he traveled in his youth to the Hopi Indians to ask them to teach how To survive in the desert. Or how he survived a grizzly bear attack in Alaska. And how, after three weeks in the desert without food in the canyons and rock towers of The Maze in Canyonlands National Park, he met an old man who also wanted to do a remote hike once in his life. Rather than looking for a restaurant, he acted a few days as a free guide for the old man and gave him the greatest experience of his life. Bob lived on the edge but tried to guard his limits as well: "If you're wandering in the vast wilderness of the American continent, it is difficult not to be completely overwhelmed by impressions. You have to watch out that you don't get carried away. That you no longer want to return and die of hunger or thirst." I could not help think of the movie Into the Wild, which tells of a young man who withdrew from society to live in the wilderness. After a number of groundbreaking experiences he took more and more risks and eventually died in Alaska. "He made some big mistakes. I wished he had gone to me first for apprenticeship." I had to agree that Bob would have been the right person indeed to play such a role. Bob stared at the river, deep in thought: "But he died where he wanted to be. He had a short life. But he also had a beautiful and meaningful life." The road of my bike buddy Piet Vercaempst, with whom I traveled in northern Peru, also had come to an untimely end. After returning to Belgium, he picked up his old job again, but he could adapt to his old life again. Piet had changed and his surroundings had changed. He picked up an alternative career as a journalist and critic of music and art, and also worked on a collection of poetry about his camino. Romantic unrest drove him back to South America. From Tierra del Fuego he wanted to move north. After a grueling journey full of setbacks he returned to Belgium a few months later, sick and exhausted. Piet lived with the head in the sky, with his mind focused on a higher level of being, and with his feet barely in contact with the earth. Eventually his feet also lost the last contact with the earth. He chose to leave on his "last great journey". He cycled from his home to the nearby river and "to forever immerse in a shining and radiant being". Visions in the Desert I started on the last and greatest 'stair' of the Grand Staircase. I climbed to the pass over the Boulder Mountains and from there I descended to Torrey. Via the grand rock cathedrals of Capitol Reef National Park I cycled in a few hundred of kilometers of desert to Moab, the capital of outdoors Utah. In Small Town America most of the people were plump or fat, but in Moab I merely met slim and well-trained people. Everyone I spoke, used to do kayaking, climbing, race cycling or mountain biking or rather a combination of all kinds of outdoor sports, preferably the whole day long. In spite of the heat. It was not as hot in Moab as in Baja California, but still the mercury rose to around forty degrees Celsius. I would reside in Moab the next days to explore the surroundings. East of Moab was the popular Arches National Park and west of Moab was the Canyonlands National Park. I started with a visit to the Arches. The landscape of red rocks was weathered so that in many places large natural bridges and arches of rock were exposed. I cycled past all the viewpoints and walked from the parking lots to nearly all the bridges and arches that were to be found. Logistically this was not so easy. There was only water available down below at the entrance of the park and at the top, at the highest and most distant parking lot. On a day like this I drank about fifteen liters of water. Because I did not want to cycle and walk to all the different arches with so much weight, I had to continually count whether I had enough in stock. And occasionally I had to suffer of thirst. The next day I was riding into the Island in the Sky section of the Canyonlands National Park. In the park would not be any free water available at all so I simply had to carry large amounts of water. On the eighty kilometer road to the Island in the Sky, the ultimate viewpoint, would only be water at the visitor center, where I could buy water. But I could just as well bring my own stock, I thought. On this day 'without luggage' I therefore still carried fifteen liters of water. I approached the Island in the Sky. On my left the Colorado River cut deep into the multi-layered rocks and right of me cut the Green River in the same rock layers. Deep down before me the two river arms came together and flowed like the Colorado River in the direction of the Grand Canyon. The viewpoint actually formed an island in the sky, far above the surrounding landscape of plateaus and incisions. Down below was a wild canyon landscape of reddish purple and shimmering white rock layers, lonely rock towers and deep, jagged inlets. A dizzying array of horizontal and vertical elements was sculpted in the landscape. I could discern the huge vertical rock section of The Maze, where my friend Bob had been traveling around for three weeks without food. I cycled the eighty kilometers back to Moab. Here one of the many tawny, muscular cyclists of Moab passed me by: "Hi, where do you come from?" "I just cycled to the Island in the Sky." "Good for you. And how long are you traveling?" "At present, more than fourteen months." "Fourteen months? Wow. Where have you been?" I explained in a minute, what I had done so far. "I am a mountainbike guide, but I do not need to guide you I think..." "No, I think that is not necessary," I said quasi-modest. "I also have a big challenge ahead of me." He looked at me defiantly: "I am planning to row across the Pacific." "If you ask me, that's a much bigger challenge." "Do you want to go with me?" I had to laugh: "No, I'm more of a country man than a sea man." In my ultra cheap hostel we philosophized further about his plan. We took place on a large table. Meanwhile, there were several guests who had something to say about the subject. "The plan is to go in a five-meter boat," explained the mountain guide. One of the guests of the hostel jump into the discussion: "In such a boat you are never able to row against the current with two people." "The route is mostly in the same direction as the ocean currents," said the guide confident. "Ocean Currents are treacherous." "What do you think?" "You have got to have a lighter boat!" "Under stormy condition, the boat will half of the time be under water..." "You just must not get separated from your boat, then you are lost. Ask Erik..." "Oh, I've often been separated enough from my bike, though. For example, to eat in a restaurant. Or atending the planning of a rowing trip across the Pacific. It has not caused me too much trouble... But I think you have found each other. I understand, that you still have some details you need to work out..." Moab was a liberal island in a conservative Utah. The canyon state is the Promised Land of the Mormons. One day in 1823 there appeared an angel to young Joseph Smith. The angel pointed to the place where golden plates were found. The golden plates proved to be nothing less than misplaced parts of the Bible, written in 'Reformed Egyptian'. Using a seer stone Joseph Smith was able to translate the texts into The Book of Mormon, the sacred writings of the Mormons. Joseph Smith had showed the golden plates to several confidants, all of which acknowledged the authenticity, ans subsequently the angel commissioned the golden plates to be buried back in the cave. As a result of torture by the apostles after the crucifixion of Jesus Christ and the resulting weak leadership within the early Christian church, the church had lost its true course from the very beginning. And that would result in the incompleteness of the Bible. At least that was the vision of the Mormons or Latter Day Saints. With the gold plates Joseph Smith had undone the error of the in a dozen fractions disintegrated church. Despite the lack of evidence for the gold plates, despite the fact that the language 'Reformed Egyptian' never existed, despite the fact that there is no cave in the hill where the gold plates were buried and despite the rattling and implausible character of his story, enough people believed Joseph Smith. In fact, among the Mormons, Joseph Smith is still seen as a prophet with the stature of Moses. The group of Latter Day Saints grew rapidly, partly due the polygamous marriages. Sometimes very young girls were married, sometimes with men who could be their grandfather. The Mormons were looking for a place to raise their Zion, the New Jerusalem. First in Missouri, then in Illinois she became entangled in local wars with their neighbors. Eventually, the Mormons found solid ground under their feet in Utah. Today, the utopia of a Mormon Zion is still alive and the Mormons are an important political force. In all campsites or hotel rooms was a version, and sometimes even a whole pile of The Book of Mormon. After explaining the history of the Mormons,the kindly droning Maria phase two of its conversion offensive: "Take a copy with yoo!!" "But I do not have much space in my bags." "One copy? Can't you take one little copy???" "I'll think about it. If I want to have one, you will hear it. Is that okay?" "Don't forget please!!" I cycled to the area of the Four Corners, where the states of Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado meet. In the town of Cortez in Colorado I met George and Sandy. They took me out for a trip. A long day trip by car brought us to the abandoned thirteenth century Indian settlements of Hovenweep and Canyons of the Ancient. Finally we visited Monument Valley, with its famous cone-shaped table mountains of the film Once Upon a Time in the West. The next day I cycled to the Indian cliff dwellings of the Mesa Verde National Park. In the whole area of the Four Corners area flourished an agriculture-based Indian culture until the thirteenth century. At that time the inhabitants left all the settlements of the comprehensive area, never to return. Until today, it is a mystery why these people have left, where they went and why they never returned. The next morning I got up early. I was not alone. After preparing my bike, George called me to them. George and Sandy wanted a 'good' way to say goodbye. The couple took me by the hand. George held my right hand, Sandy my left hand. George raised a prayer. With solemn and at the same time personal tone he spoke to God. Sandy looked serious. In the half hour that the prayer lasted, all aspects of traveling and life passed by. The dreams, the hopes, the obstacles and the hazards. The prayer ended with the question whether the Creator could realize, that I would find the way to Him. Like himself, when at a moment of great distress he also prayed to God and found happiness on his way. The American Dream I left the Four Corners area and rode straight toward the Rocky Mountains. I had left the desert landscapes behind me. For the first time since my days in California me again in vast forest areas. On the long climb I was overtaken by a group of road cyclists. A bit later I overtook them again. We started talking. Jeff and Finnish American Erik asked the details on my trip. Jeff invited me to join him and his wife Debbie for an overnight stay. Gratefully I accepted his offer. We went down to Telluride, in a valley among high mountains. The house was outside the village, on the flanks of one of the mountains. I thought that Jeff intended that I could place my tent in the garden, but he opened the door of a chalet, surrounded by aspen, with stunning views in all directions. "Wow, you are living truly wonderful." Jeff laughed: "This is not our home; this is the guesthouse." "But where do you live then?" Jeff pointed to a spot behind me. I turned around and faced a chalet which was a lot bigger. "That is where we are living..." I had to get used to the idea that I could stay in such a nice place. Jeff interrupted my thoughts, though: "I will put on the soil heating, it can be quite cold in the night... " The next day I did a short hike with Debbie. Like Moab in Utah, Telluride appeared to be focused on outdoor activities. I met some friends of Jeff and Debbie and most of them did cycling, climbing or skiing. In the evening we met Erik and his wife. After modern California, down to earth Nevada and religious fanatic Utah, I found myself in Utah in an interesting new world. A world where everyone was positive and where everything seemed to be possible. Everybody did what he wanted. Life was free from worries. And free of financial concerns. In this part of Colorado live almost exclusively rich people and there are quite a lot of (multi) millionaires. My bike route ran no less than fifteen kilometers along the ranch of Ralph Lauren, the famous clothing manufacturer. People were cosmopolitan, certainly by American standards. Even small villages owned Thai or Indian restaurants. I passed houses with waving Tibetan prayer flags. Above all, the people were healthy and sporty, a big contrast with the desert states which were behind me. The mountains of Colorado is a great outdoors experience. I met a lot of road cyclists and mountain guides. Everyone who was here, had something to do with the landscape. The residents were curious about other people live their dreams. Enthusiastically they asked about the how and where and why of my trip. For the first time in the United States I passed the Great Divide. The divide between the Pacific and the Atlantic was an important benchmark at the time of the pioneers who sought their way westward. For me the crossing of the Great Divide was a memorable moment too in the long road that I had traveled in the land of the endless possibilities. The next days I meandered through the Rockies and ultimately descended to Denver, a possible end of the journey. In the balmy summer evening I walked through Denver, the famous town at the foot of the Rockies. In spite of the heat, the end of the summer was tangible. Autumn could fall every moment now and I could expect the first snowfall within a few weeks. In the mountain areas facilities such as campsites and hotels were about to be closed for a long time. The season was in a similar phase as my journey. Also my camino neared the end. After all these months with so many impressions, part of me began to look to the end of the trip. The thought of a period without heat, cold, wind, rain, hunger, thirst or fatigue started to become more attractive. It seemed attractive not to defy the daily discomforts for a certain amount of time. On the other hand I still had the curiosity and the energy to travel for a fixed time. I decided that I should continue to cycle to Southern Canada. It would be too late in the season anyway to travel further north to Alaska. In Denver I visited Rachel, a young woman who I met five months ago in Nicaragua. After completing her studies she traveled to Nicaragua and Ecuador to volunteer. She had undertaken some outdoor activities, including the ascent of the Cotopaxi. Rachel and the guide were the only ones in the group who had reached the summit. She had returned to the United States and lived with her grandfather in Denver for a while, before moving on to her own house in Kansas. When I came along, Rachel was busy in the kitchen. She had made all kinds of dishes for her grandfather so he could eat for a month of the tasty things she had prepared. While the young woman finished the cooking process, her grandfather gave me some useful suggestions to cross the metropolis of Denver on quiet roads. His geographical knowledge was still very accurate, despite his age of 85 years. Rachel's grandfather told how he had lost his wife recently in a car accident. They were driving in the night. At a given moment Grandfather was tired and he asked his wife to conduct. After some time she must have fallen asleep behind the steering wheel and subsequently the car must have left the road. Grandfather woke up after the car was overturned. Grandmother would never wake up. He told the story with involvement, but without visible emotional charge. He must have had a very firm conviction, that all would turn out well in the end. Grandfather and granddaughter were both deeply religious. After grandfather had left the kitchen, I had an interesting discussion with Rachel. "Your grandfather was a remarkable man ..." I opened. "The old generation is the only generation that still has got a connectivity with the country and with its people, the younger generations are completely absorbed in modern-day money and consumerism society..." "You are not included in modern money and consumerism, are you?" Rachel laughed: "I hope I succeed to organize my life in a different way." "What are you going to do in the future?" "They asked me for a new volunteer project, but I want to earn my own money." "There you go..." "What are you gonna do when you get back then?" Rachel asked. I made up my mind. "Making money... No, I do not know. I just want to 'help' somewhere and it would be good for me if I could pay the expenses." Rachel took her feelings and thoughts together: "For both of us the future is uncertain - but I have every confidence, that for both of us a good and valuable future awaits." In parting I received a religiously tinted card along with a 'Blessing for Erik': a selection of personal and Bible texts with a spiritual charge. I was stirred. We said goodbye to each pursue our own way. The USA is one of the most hospitable countries in the world. In Boulder, Colorado, a small university town with well-trained residents at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, I was put in the limelight again. Everyone was enthusiastic about the "story" of my trip and the people spontaneously offered all forms of assistance. A cycling professor of the university gave me an escort to the next village, where he treated me on a lunch. The Supper at Estes Park, at the foot of the Rocky Mountain National Park, was also free. My neighbors at the campsite had just made a lot of tacos and they had enough for one person extra. The US is doing little for the homeless, but the people took care well of the Lonely Cyclist. While having breakfast in Estes Park, I was talking with Dietrich. The long, energetic man had grown up in Germany and had moved ten years ago to the USA. He had risen to one of the leading professors in the field of cancer. Dietrich was extremely positive about America: "The move to the United States was the best thing that could happen to me in my life. It is like Plato's cave. All the time that I was in Europe, I thought that we were good for each other in Europe. I just did not know that a so much bigger and fuller life was possible outside the confined cave of Europe." "Many Americans at the bottom of the company will have a very different vision of American society." "Europe is struggling to ley the bottom fifteen percent of society dangle. It is not going to work. It's a losing battle." "Should we just leave these people to fate?" "In America there are many private initiatives, that is such a warm feeling." "A state would be able to raise much more money from the rich to distribute the needy, then all your warm private initiatives together..." "In America, we assume that you yourself are the only one who can really master your own destiny. If you like to make a mess of your life, well, that is up to you as well." From Estes Park a long climb in the Rocky Mountain National Park led to a pass over the Great Divide, the watershed between the Atlantic and the Pacific Ocean. After a few hours of climbing, I found myself at the highest point, just over 3,700 meters. I was not rewarded for the work. Spontaneously big, gray, icy rain drops fell down from the sky. I did not know what exactly came falling down, but it was something between rain and hail and it was freezing cold. I was completely numb in the downhill and I also got a new leak. A centimeter piece of glass had punctured my tire and had even cut its way to the inside. That meant that I not only had to change an inner tube, but I also needed a new tire. As soon as possible. My hands were too numb to be able to replace the inner tube, but after deciding that it was possible, it turned out that I was indeed able to exchange the tyre. In the village of Grand Lake, on the other side of the pass, I ended up in a hostel where a large group of people were attending a spiritual energy workshop. While I was busy with the organization around my bike - I repaired the tube and I called bike shops in the area to arrange a new tire - I chatted cozily about the energy fields and the chakras. Unfortunate enough, the group was tired of the many energy work and the ladies and gentlemen all went to sleep at eight o'clock. I only had done a bit of cycling in the mountains and I was full of energy. Fortunately I had another tube to reapir, a transcendent and meditative task before bedtime. Cowboys and Indians I changed Colorful Colorado for Windy Wyoming. I found myself in the wide open spaces of endless grasslands. As far as the eye could see and much further, there was nothing but the yellow grass and the ubiquitous sagebrush, domed by the Big Sky, the typically intense blue sky with white clouds. Once every hundred or one hundred and fifty kilometers, there was a one horse town, but in some cases the last horse had left the village as well and I was the only soul in the settlement. Wyoming is the least populated state in the USA. The depopulation will probably not be over yet. The youth in rural had abandoned Wyoming long ago. Almost only old people still inhabited the steppes and grasslands of Wyoming. There is little or no farming possible on the steppes. Only cows seem to thrive a bit on the plains. The ranches and saloons were the appropriate setting of cowboys, which are still drifting the cows together. The rodeo was still the dominant event in the agendas of the residents. Mostly older men were keeping the romantic all American lifestyle alive. They fully lived up to the archetypal image of the cowboy. Jeans, leather boots, leather hat, gun in the holster. A man with a beard and a wind and the elements drawn skin was casually leaning against a fence, a cigarette dangling loosely in the mouth. Much money could not be earned as a cowboy. The region was so depopulated that in many settlements there was not sufficient critical mass to keep the basic facilities such as schools and bakers running. Usually, the last remaining facility available was the gas pump. After the last remaining resident had left the town, he could at least fill the tank to drive to the nearest town. Probably the car would be an old-fashioned energy wasting vehicle so that one full tank might not be sufficient to bridge the required distance. There were not only cowboys in Wyoming. There were also Indians. I was crossing the immense Wind River reservation. I passed a few communes, but many Native Americans I did not meet. Like most Americans, many Indians lived predominantly indoors or in the car. Many of them worked in trading posts and in big casinos. But for the biggest part there was overwhelmingly nothing. The superlative of nothingness was the town of Muddy Gap Junction, which consisted of a petrol pump and the house of the fire brigade. I happened to arrive just in time before the gas station would be closed forr the weekend. That was good for me, because otherwise I had to continue to Lander, 130 kilometers further, without food. The fireman and his wife were an elderly couple. They told me how 35 years ago the Bicentennial cyclists camped in the same spot as I was doing now. In honor of the bicentenary of the American nation several tens of men and women cycled from the 'East' to the 'West'. The woman talked as if they had just passed by the last week. Thousand kilometers of solitude, thousand kilometers of headwind. The long, straight road led across the Big Nothing. I had the "Highway Blues", stronger than ever before. The loneliness gnawed on my mind, I had not had an income for more than a year and I had no idea about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The journey had brought me all earthly and spiritual levels of satisfaction. All my dreams had come true and more. What could life reasonably give me more? I had to consider the possibility that my life would never be so good as the last year. That feeling was reinforced by the little encouraging news from the Netherlands. It was crisis, everyone was depressed and it seemed to rain every day. In that case I could better keep cycling. In the long term, however, life on the road would be a dead end road. In facr, with the cost level of North America the road would come to a dead end pretty soon. I had no money and no ideas but in the deserted roads of Wyoming, I had a lot of time. Time to think about loved ones. To friends and family in the Netherlands. To Margarita in Chile. The Elvis song Always on my Mind was the tune which will forever be linked to the windy plains of Wyoming for me. The future will show to what extent we will travel our roads together or alone, but it was evident that our lives had become connected to each other. The question was whether we would be able to solve practical problems to let our roads converge in the future. But if I had learned something on this trip, it might be that you should not try to solve the problems of tomorrow today. The steppes of Wyoming were heavy going, but I was rewarded for the work. At the end of the grass plains was one of the most spectacular mountain ranges of the Americas before my wheels, the Grand Teton. The solid rock wall rises out of the sheer nothingness of the vast plains of sagebrush. I found a campground at the foot of the mountains near a large glacial lake. I dived into the cold water to wash myself. There were no showers on the campsite, nor were there other facilities. Camping in national parks were generally spartan, without amenities, but the important things were present: drinking water and bear lockers for storing anything with a scent. Both black bears and grizzly bears have a fabulously good smell. For bears basically everything has got a scent. Even water in a bottle. In principle, everything ended in the bear lockers except for my mattress, my sleeping bag, my tent and myself, to prevent an overnight visit of a grizzly bear in my tent. When I left the campsite the next morning, I passed the 65 years old Cynthia, who made a trip on a recumbent bicycle through the National Parks of Grand Teton and Yellowstone. Since we were both on our way to Yellowstone, we cycled together. A month ago Cynthia had told her husband, to great panic of her husbnd (how is that now with the health insurance ??), that she wanted to divorce him. That was why she went out alone. Cynthia did not believe in the American Dream: "The greed of Americans is endless." "Must the taxes rise?" "I do not know why all the rich people can not make a little contribution." "Would that be enough for the large amount of homeless to provide them a basic home?" "If we stop the wars in the Middle East and if we start to buy our own products instead of Chinese ones, we will come a lot further than now." "What are you Americans still making?" "Cars, industrial machinery, IT products, firearms, defense equipment..." "I think you already buy these products from your internal market." "Now the household items, food, toys, clothing and electronics." "Wouldn't the production costs be too expensive? The price will topple ten times." "Then the state has to impose import duties." "You should not live in the USA but in Europe." "That would be great!!!" Yellowstone National Park is the oldest national park in the world. It is the ultimate North American wilderness. In recent years, the grizzly bear was introduced successfully in the park. The population has since grown strongly and the "Grizz" now populated not only Yellowstone National Park, but also the surrounding forests and the Grand Teton National Park. Armed with bear spray we entered Yellowstone. At our campsite we did not see any bears, but regularly an elk came passing by. Neither the black bear, nor the grizzly bear had I seen yet, though. We cycled into the Yellowstone volcanic arena to the big crater of thirty kilometers in diameter, which hissed, darted, steamed, blorped and produced dirty farts. It is the region with the most geysers on Earth. Various minerals are concentrated at the surface, which color the landscape stark white, bright blue, orange, canary yellow, turquoise or other colors that are usually not abundant in the landscape. In addition to the Yellowstone geysers Yellowstone was the site of pristine lakes and forests, magnificent waterfalls and mighty rivers that in sweeping meanders made their way through the landscape. Bears on the Road Montana was the last state that I would visit the United States. After the shimmering highlights of Grand Teton and Yellowstone, Montana brought panoramic landscapes of broad valleys and wide mountain ridges. It was Big Sky landscape par excellence. Unfortunately there was a lot of rain and hail falling from the big sky. The first autumn storm showed no mercy. The wind whipped in the face and freezing rain drops fell in great numbers down on the Lonely Cyclist and the surrounding plains. Numb, I reached the small town of Dillon. I worried about the pace that the fall took possession of the North American continent. Would it still be possible in about three weeks to explore the Canadian Rocky Mountains? Or would the Rockies already be dominated by blizzards? The area between Dillon and Missoula was sparsely populated. The weather had recovered again and the rain clouds had passed over. Blue sky was, however, not to be seen. In nearby Idaho huge fires raged and smoke of these fires was carried by the wind over the prairies of Montana. The smoke blocked every possible view and the air was too dirty to breathe. I made long hours to get myself as soon as possible out of the disaster area. After more than four hundred kilometers I finally cycled out of the big black cloud in Missoula. This proved an attractive town with many restaurants, bars and terraces. The latter are a peculiarity in the American outback, where life takes place almost entirely indoors. But it was beautiful weather in Missoula and many people were dining outside or were drinking a beer on a terrace. The autumn showers of Dillon were forgotten. In Missoula the Adventure Cycling Association was established, the agency that published US biking trails on their Web site, including waypoints of hotels, camping and restaurants along the routes. By loading these waypoints in my GPS the American part of the journey was much easier and more enjoyable than would have been without the information. I knocked at the office of the ACA to thank them for the information. The secretary photographed me officially before the office. I was not the first cyclist that was bestowed such honor. I saw many photos of other lonely cyclists before the office of the ACA. For the first time in a long time I cycled under a blue celestial heaven, free from the smoke of the fires. I headed through a wide valley flanked by the jagged mountain range of the Mission Mountains. Locals warned me that I had to be wary of bears. It was the start of autumn and then the bears have to find as much food as possible to begin the hibernation with sufficient fat reserves. Therefore bears take more risks in this time of year and they are regularly found in villages. Sometimes they even enter houses. I had cycled nearly seven thousand kilometer in the US by now, but I still had not seen a single bear. In northern Montana, on the Canadian border, lies the Glacier National Park. Just after the entrance to the park was a camp, where I pitched my tent. After half an hour two fellow cyclists passed by. I invited them. It turned out to be Bill and Ed. They had come from the east and had just descended the Going to the Sun Highway, the route that I wanted to do the next day. Bill liked the best-known route through Glacier National Park so much, that he wanted to bike the route again. That meant that we could go together. When Bill and I went off the next morning, the weather was bad. It had rained all night and higher in the mountains was fresh snow. The rain had more or less stopped, but the weather did not look like nice. Bill still anted to join me and under a dark cloud we started on the long climb. I suddenly had some technical problems on my bike. The steering wheele needed to be tightened, but I did not have the right tool with me. Another problem was the crank, which made frightfully creaking noises. There was a gap of at least one centimeter present be between the crank and the bottom bracket. For the first problem I found soon a solution. We passed a group of road workers, where I could tighten the steering wheel. In literally no time the problem was solved. With the crank things were going significantly less. The clearance of the crank to the bottom bracket was already three centimeters or more. The Going to the Sun Highway did not live up to its name. Not a single moment were we able to see the sun. The road led through dense pine forests and climbed hundreds of meters high above a glacial valley. Sharp jagged peaks daunted against the dark sky. For the first time on the trip I saw a black bear, that was quietly picking some berries. The climb ended slightly over two thousand meters high on the Logan Pass. I verified the state of the pedal, which by now was more loose than stuck to my bottom bracket. The clearance was five centimeters now. I hardly dared to pedal anymore. If I would exert a minimum of power on the crank, it could break and then I would not be able to cycle. It was more than a hundred kilometers to the first village with a chance to find bicycle shop. And two hundred kilometers to the first town where I could surely could fix my bike. Anyway, I had to cross the border to Canada. The first forty kilometers went largely downhill. Bill accompanied me most of the descent. Then he returned. He was an enjoyable companion. It was a shame that I had to much worries going on in my head. I was in the yellow grasslands of the prairie landscape of the middle west. It was only forty kilometers to the Canadian border. Since I had a storm in the back, I tried to come as far as possible today. I took a risk because I was unsure about any overnight accommodations in this area which is heavily populated with bears. On the other hand, if this wind would have been headwind instead of tailwind, the crank would never survive. I had to take risks whatsoever. In Babb, the last village before the border, I was looking for a lodging option. There was only one hotel, but to my horror, there appeared only one suite available, for the astronomical sum of $ 250,-. But I did not want to camp in the wilderness either with my food supplies. There were loads of stuff with a smell in the bags, that could attract bears. I asked the owner if I could leave my luggage in the store so that I could safely camp outside. Or if I could sleep with my mat in the store. I would pay generously. The hotel owner saw dollar signs and went for the top prize. I was offered to get the $ 250,- suite or I had to go. Afterwards I heard that the suite did not even have a shower. Americans are among the most hospitable people on this world, but the hotel owner was only thinking of dollars when he saw the Lonely Cyclist in need. I decided not to take the suite but to cycle further, in hope of good luck. Finally I found a primitive overnight ten kilometer further, so that I would be safe from any nightly visits from bears. The next morning I got up early. The pedal could break down anytime. It made a sound, as if a chicken was being slaughtered. It hurt me to let my bike suffer this way. But I had to continue, if I would like to reach civilization in a nearby future. I was lucky that I still had a stormy tailwind. Without overburdening the pedal I could thus still generate a decent speed. Through stretched-out, abandoned prairies I cycled to the Canadian border. I saw the Canadian border post looming in the distance, the only building in a few tens of kilometers circumference. It was my last kilometer in the United States. I had entered the country over the mostly passed border crossing in the world between Tijuana and San Diego, and I left the country through the back door. In addition to the customs officers, there was no one at all in the desolate landscape. What had seven thousand kilometer of cycling through the USA brought me? How the Americans thought about their own country, was obvious. Most of them thought and felt that their country was "the greatest country on Earth". During the festivities of the 4th of July in Santa Barbara was "I love the USA" the summary of the gathered crowd. But what was my own feeling about the land of unlimited possibilities? It was too much to oversee easily. I had seen wealth and I had seen poverty. I had known happiness and misfortune. I experienced heart-warming hospitality and soulless indifference. Everywhere in the world are contrasts, but nowhere more so than in the United States. Freedom extracted all the good and all the evil out of man. I had experienced the anonymity of everyday American life. Many people felt obliged to conform to the mechanisms and routines of the American society. A lifetime of hard work, a lot of luxury and a constant fear to lose everything in a society without certainties. But there were also people who transformed the American Dream to a meaningful life. I met a remarkable number of extremely interesting people. People who lived extraordinary lives and people who really were themselves. I thought about the wise old Julia and the spiritual Rachel, I thought of Bob who lived in the wilderness I thought of Stephen and Nancy that integrated with the Hopi Indians. I thought of John and Christie, Skag and Anne and Cynthia and many others, whose path I crossed. Thoughtfully the words came from my lips: "I love the USA..." whispering so that only the wind could hear it. The message was not for all Americans. Map of the United States of America