"You smell like cheese."

(It would suit this article abundantly if you changed the narration inside of your head to one with an English accent)

Tonight, I write from the upper echelons of luxury. Here, at the lavish Bacon Hostel. Deep in the woods of 570 Hotchkiss Rd. in Coleville, WA is a two-story cottage, reserved for the pennyfarthers and riders of two wheels. A splendid sheltering of movie machines and clothes washers. Truly, an oasis in the parched, green land of the mirrored waters. A paradox if there ever wasn't one. 

The pay is null. A mere how do you do with an ensuing conversation is reasonable enough. In this quid pro quo, the tipped scale rather suits us most favorably. But, Shelley Bacon takes the most pleasure in merely having guests. A delightful character, she puts us brainless drifters to shame. Fresh off a venture in the land of Africa in an attempt to bring education, water, and air conditioning to the poor, she has returned to converse with the less holy. Seriously though, Shelley and her husband Barry Bacon kick poverty's ass.

Out of Sandpoint, a bike path guided us along the car-streaming Highway 20. A dastardly place for bicyclists that we thanked Zeus we didn't have to ride on. For eight marvelous miles, we zig-zagged around on the massive bike path. It was biblical; two lanes of traffic. Like two car lanes. It ran parallel to the highway over the Pond Oreille Lake. Eight miles later and an Idaho license plate later, we were on Highway 20 but not for long.

Eventually, twisting our way through backroads and small hills; we found ourselves sitting directly on the border of Washington in the town of Newport... and Oldale. We continuously went back and forth between states searching for supper.

After an ill attempt at a healthy meal with a Mexican Beef Salad, Josh and I walked bowlegged to our bikes, and officially crossed into Washington, the final state. As previously professed, I believe this is the land of mirrored pools. Lakes, ponds, even moving rivers show no ripples in water; only giving the appearance of a smooth glass surface.

We slept on a beach.

When one tends to greet the ole dream-wink early at dusk, one tends to seek reality as the mist breaks up over an early rising Helios. Although temperatures never dipped into winter threats, they did make a body on the sand quake. Two shivering shadows got up with the sun and traveled through the Kalispell Indian Reservation. 

Midway through, two wild beasts leapt out from the green beyond and gave chase to our bicycles. They attacked.

As layers peeled away like the shedding of my hair follicles, the rising sun followed us west toward the town of Ione. The Pend Oreille River guided us the entire way, through a plethora of Pine, Hemlock, and a vast array of other Evergreens. Although much of the green was losing its green.

At Ione, we chatted with some locals at another place to eat. Jack, 89, a wheel-chair bound veteran of the Vietnam War from the Air Force. Terry, 50, a local woman who bartends in Idaho but held a rental home in Ione. Dell, 56, a scarred, scabbed old man with crude tattoos scrawled on his arms, moved from Spokane to help his son (or his son help him) work. 

Unfortunately, we were very much aware of the 1,325 ft. "hill" jutting out of the countryside west of Ione (Josh calculated it). The view was picturesque for the first five minutes but then we disappeared into the brush and into the tall trees. The sun was blazingly hot, gaping down from the cloudless sky. Eventually, it came time to descend and the thirty miles to the Bacon Bike Hostel flew by with the scenery.