Even in the most remote region it sells like iPhones.

Woke to the sound of a cacophony of wild birds–blasted avian creatures–at 0530.  Rolled around for bit before dragging my sleepy arse to the shower.  After the morning ritual complete, made tea on the JetBoil and discussed today’s ride with fellow camper Jon.  We decided to take a jaunt up to Sumpter, named after the famous Civil War fort.  After yesterdays dietary debacle we vowed to skip lunch for those filet mignons in the cooler.  We stopped in the Squeeze Inn for breakfast; where we were waited on by a waitress with bad English density and positioned next to some obese family, with the fat kid listening to some movie with the volume blaring from his smartphone.  As we began to load up in the parking lot who of all people should ride by, none other than our hippy guest from last night, hitting on some twenty-something Rainbow child.  We fueled and headed out of town.

I had no idea that the Strawberry Mountains were so large and tall (9,000+ft), still snow-capped.  We rode into the Blue Mountains, past a field, a blanket of incredible violet.  We stopped on the return to take pictures of the sight.  We got behind a red Ford from Illinois charging through the mountain roads at a whopping 35 mph, zoom, past him.  We made it into Sumpter on a beautiful sunny day.  I did some shopping for soap in the general store, where they sold everything from chainsaw parts to Chef-boy-ardee.  Outside we settled into the collection of table and chair, along with some older gentlemen from Nevada and California scouting out campsites for the Eclipse this summer.  They were old Army men, so we swapped war stories and smoked cigars.  While we sat there for over an hour we witnessed a steady stream of customers going in and out of the local pot shop.  He must be doing over a million dollars in gross sales.  To fully appreciate the significance of this, you have to understand how off the beaten path Sumpter really is, its over 3 miles off the main state route and with the main street turning to dirt going north.   It truly is a destination point, not a impulsive stop passing by.  It looked like a downtown Seattle Apple store selling the latest iPhone edition.

We left Sumpter and who should we fall behind again, but that same Ford from Illinois going West now, argh.  Took awhile to find a path of dotted lines to pass.  Sticking to our vow of no lunch, we stopped–actually had to do a U-turn in a weigh station to get there–at a quaint chalet with an giant ice cream cone sign out front.  We could get a little snack, right?  The lady working the ice cream bar wasn’t anywhere near as inviting as that sign out front and the Bavarian-esque exterior.  Maybe she had a painful pimple up her arse-crack or something, but her attitude didn’t stop us from getting our diary delight.  We enjoyed our cones outside (furtherest location from the Wicked Witch of the West inside) on the shaded patio with a young couple who were devouring a berry cobbler.

Back on the road, we stopped at the aforementioned flower scenery, and then stopped in John Day Radio Shack for another usb plug to add to the hundreds I have at home so I could recharge my phone.  Once back at the campsite, Jon poured himself a heavy glass of Wild Turkey on a stomach filled with a scoop of ice cream.  We then cooked those filet mignons, finally.  We enjoyed our dinner, but Jon was sweating trying get the pound of beef down.  He over did it and went down hill fast.  About 8:00pm he began getting ready for bed.  I was just coming alive.  I sang sea shanties as he grumbled in his tent for some local philanthropist to blow my brains out.  About 10:00pm I got bored talking to passing campers and singing songs so I climbed into the tent.  Another day of motorcycling adventure entered in the journal.