On November 12, 1995, I turned sixteen while my friends sang to me. My friend Wendy taught everyone the song. "You can sing it whenever you need to remember how much we love you," she'd said to me. "Sing it when you need strength."
For each child that's born
A morning star rises and
Sings to the Universe
Who we are.
We are the breath of our ancestors
We are our grandfather’s prayers.
We are the breath of our ancestors
We are our grandmother’s dreams...
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The day I rode out of Baker City without Jesse and Daniel, I needed my song. The day was going to be almost sixty miles, with triple summits: Sumpter, Tipton, and Dixie. In between each 5,000'+-foot pass, I'd go downhill several thousand feet, which meant I'd be climbing a lot.
I left town following the Powder River, and after thirteen miles I began heading uphill more steeply. Around the next bend in the road, I faced a bizarre dwelling. A skull and crossbones on a black masthead was flying high, in front of a house with high gates in front. A green, tank-like vehicle was parked in front, and out from behind it two dogs came running, all teeth and snarls. I could have sworn that the white one had fangs, and I hadn’t seen dogs like these since Kentucky. They came at me at full-speed, and wouldn't stop, despite my best imitation of a deep-voiced yell.
For only the second time on the trip, I used my MACE on the mutts. A moment later, I pedaled like mad. Was I crazy? What if the owner of the dogs—who probably also owned that large, tank-like vehicle—had seen me? I wanted to quickly get as far away as possible.
No one came after me, but I was on edge all day. This is stupid! I told myself. You wanted to ride alone, so enjoy it, for goodness' sake!
At mile thirty, around 2:30, I reached Sumpter Summit. It was hot now, and the downhill seemed way too short. The road wound on and on. Everything was quiet. This is what you wanted, I kept reminding myself. You wanted to test your mettle. You’ve gotten yourself this far, and you're gonna do it.
Oh yeah? the nervous part of me countered—the part of myself who, before the trip, never liked physical exertion. Why? Why should I make myself do this? The bugs buzzed nearly as loudly as my internal banter. I reached Tipton summit around four o’clock.
By the time I started up Dixie, I was exhausted, mainly from gripping my handlebars like I expected them to be pulled out from under me at any moment. Cars passed infrequently now, and my imagination concocted awful, elaborate scenarios in which somebody would come along and do Something to me. "Seventeen-Year-Old Girl's Bicycle Found by Side of Highway," the headlines would read. "Lone Cyclist's Body Still Missing." My illogical mind was beginning to take over the rational side of me, and as I began the steep part of the six-mile climb to Dixie Summit Campground, I was not just nervous: I was scared.
By 5:45 I was riding through deep forest, and as the sun started to sink below the trees and mountains, it was beginning to get dark. Be quiet! I said to my imagination. Who would want to do anything to you anyway? There’s no reason to be afraid. I didn’t believe it, though. The sun had sunk below the trees completely now, and it felt dark even though there was some daylight left.
At that moment, a gray pickup truck came speeding down the mountain. There were four guys inside, all leering out the window, all hooting at me. Their laughter, derisive and shrieking, rang in my ears and echoed in the silent evening air. They passed quickly, but I was physically shaking for minutes after the last echo had slipped into silence again. All of a sudden I had something tangible to worry about, and worry I did.
Just put it into perspective, I pleaded with myself. What could they do, anyway? Cars are coming by every so often, so you’re not really alone—and even if those guys did come back, what could they do to you? Horrible images flooded my mind—I could think of plenty of things. I began scanning the trees at the roadside, looking for likely places to run if I needed to.
Then a red pickup truck came by, screaming its horn, more guys yelling out the window. Oh my God, I said to myself, and my muscles burned with exertion. The next two miles were a blur. I pedaled faster, trying not to stop, trying to make myself do something besides watch in my mirror for the return of either of the trucks. Fear had overwhelmed me. I've never been so scared, I thought dimly. The night was falling quickly, and at one point I thought hopefully that the whole thing was a bad dream. But it wasn’t.
I was pedaling much faster than usual and I was out of breath. But suddenly I made myself slow down; I forced myself to stop shaking. “Sing,” I commanded myself, out loud for extra emphasis.
For the last mile and a half, I sang My Song, over and over again, as loudly as I could. I made myself concentrate, hear the words, let them become a meditation to carry me up the hill.
For each child that's born
A morning star rises and
Sings to the Universe
Who we are.
We are the breath of our ancestors
We are our grandfather’s prayers.
We are the breath of our ancestors
We are our grandmother’s dreams...
Over and over I repeated the words, into the deepening twilight on the mountain. I sang to remember that I was strong, that I could make it. At 6:30, with tears of relief and tiredness dripping onto my handlebar bag, I turned off the main highway and rode into the National Forest campground.
The campground was deep in the woods and practically empty, and the stillness and peace of the forest made me feel safe. But more than any external force, there was something inside that comforted me that night. I had faced my fear and pushed past it, and I knew that I wouldn't have to face it again on this trip. For the first time in five months, I wasn’t riding with someone and I wasn't hoping I would soon find someone to ride with. After today, I knew I could make it alone.
The trees sang me to sleep. "We're proud of you," it sounded like they were saying. I was proud of myself.
After nearly five months of riding, I was at home on my journey.