Bicycle Riding in Montana

Going-to-the-Sun Road; the scenery, the legend. And Glacier Park. This trip offers so much to the avid cyclist. We took a day off at Lake McDonald in Glacier. Some kayaked, some hiked or lounged at the Lodge or why not? Cycle Going-to-the-Sun Road twice! The Glacier-Fernie Loop is one to remembered and perhaps repeated …..often

Our tour was led by Rick Gallo. David Batten drove sag and Bob Hargrave provided GPS maps. The support team was superb. Our group numbered twenty. Most every evening (except rest days) we gathered for a social hour followed by a brief on tomorrow’s route.

The tour began in Missoula, Montana. Like many of the hotels on Glacier-Fernie, the Grant Creek Best Western Plus in Missoula offered a pool and sauna.

Missoula is home to the Adventure Cycling Club and their Tour Director and wife (friends of Rick) agreed to a cater a home barbecue on day one – with guest speakers June and Greg Siple (co-founders of Bike Centennial now Adventure Cycling). The next day Greg led us on a tour of the Adventure Cycling office.  As founder and for many years, the chief photographer, Greg gave us the inside scoop on the many trophy bikes mounted on the walls as well as how the Adventure Cycling Association came into being.

Our first day, the road to Ronan was a short and easy shakedown ride. These first couple of days and the last couple of days featured easy grades with beautiful mountains in the near distance.  Along the way, stops at the 1,000 Buddhas, the Jesuit Mission Church at St Ignatius and the Windmill Bakery gave us a chance to pace ourselves and stretch. Huckleberries were a prominent item on the menu everywhere; at coffee, snacks and dinner. How can a wild harvested berry be so abundant?

Our first hotel, the Starlite Motel in Ronan was clean, comfortable and no-frills. Our rooms were ready early, and even in this small town there was a choice of dinner spots. Like a few of the hotels on the tour, the Starlite did not offer a breakfast but they did have in-room coffee, mini-fridges with supermarkets nearby for the frugal. The breakfast portions at the Ronan Bakery and Cafe were ample, tasty and filled with country charm.


We often started early, sometimes at 7:00 because the temperature could soar into the high 90s by early afternoon. Although this meant arriving at the nights lodging before rooms were available, finding things to do was easy. In Big Fork, the outdoor swimming pool was most refreshing. This trip is as much about visiting the town(s), sharing adventure stories with others and of course bike upkeep. Rick provides oil, shop rags and other such maintenance items as well as advice and even assistance with repairs as needed.

I mounted 28cm tires on my rims which served me well on the Big Fork bike trail and the occasional gravelly shoulder on the highways, though other cyclists in our group had no problem with 23cm tires.

Montana proudly claims Flathead Lake to be the largest body of freshwater in the States west of the Mississippi and riding along its shore was one of the many pleasures of this trip.

We spent the fourth of July in Kalispell where we enjoyed a concert by a “One More Time Around” Marching band with their repertoire of Sousa, Cohan and Lee Greenwood. The ice cream portions at the concert were dished out free in two flavors; Huckleberry and Cherry, Our lodging, the Historic Grand Hotel in Kalispell will make you yearn for yesteryear. The next three days were all about Glacier; climbing into those mountains that in the days before looked so picturesque on the horizon. The climb up Going-to-the-Sun Road was followed the next day by a climb past Chief Mountain and a gorgeous descent past the buffalo reserve and on into Waterton Provincial Park. The ride into Pincher Creek was short-spurring some of us to climb up to Lake Cameron.

We took another rest day in Fernie, where I enjoyed a Tandoori Kabab at the Himalayan Spice Bistro (recommended) as well as a climb up Mt Fernie. Others tried mountain biking and again, the pool was a welcome afternoon pause.

The trip back to Missoula along the western shore of Flathead Lake featured many quiet side roads along the lakeshore, an easy cruise allowing time to reminisce over the incredible time we all had in the Mountains of Montana and Alberta.

Parents brawl in stands, youth footballlers pulled from the play-offs.

What a disturbing story. Parents brawl while injured player lays on the field. It happened this fall in Washington State. Presumably the parent who started the fight was the one whose student was laying injured on the field. Sports injury are no fun. But not nearly as ‘unfun’ as fighting in the grandstands at a youth game.  Activities like this give “spectatoring” a bad name. Others have labeled such actions “parental involvement in youth sports.” But that just soft-soaps  the word “involvement.” Parental Grandstand fights could better be called “Parental interference in youth sports” Frankly, I have a hunch the offending parent may have shown his hand earlier than at this specific late season game. One commentator suggested banning the family from the league. Clean, effective, a little more low-key and focused.

Here’s a better idea: Nip the bad behavior in the bud, early on. Families that exercise bad sportsmanship, bad spectatorship, etc, etc, should be removed from the roster immediately. They don’t play any more. Put this policy in place from the get-go; Long  before the season even begins. Get everyone to sign off on it, and understand that playing on the team is a privilege.

If more teams adopted a code like that, then the league would not have to be so heavy handed. So, as I see it, a league level decision to ban the whole team from the play-offs can be bull horn broadcasted as  a cautionary tale to the rest of the world. “Watch the game, and watch yourself!”

Grandstand fights may stem from some kind of misguided “sense of parental pride in a job well done,” but when the “chickens come home to roost,” is it really in the child’s best interests to see their parents as some kind of a rock ’em, sock ’em Godzilla out to pave the way for junior’s primrose trail to the Superbowl? I think not and the sooner that lesson is learned, the better for everyone.

Randy, his Mother, Alone together at Union Station 1968

An excerpt from Chapter 2, The Bouchard Legacy.

                                                        Paul has earned his place in the World but Randy owns it.


After what seemed like forever, Mum’s l960 Cadillac swung into the turnaround. The car still had its bright turquoise sheen, even if it was eight years old. The turnaround empty of traffic, the sidewalk all but abandoned, Mum spun in fast.

            Coming to a stop, Mum put down her power window. She said, “I’m sorry I’m late.” Once out of the car, wearing her big oval sunglasses and a scarf covering her hair, she hurried to the curb.

            Randy greeted her with a hug. “I’m sorry I’m late, dear,” Mum repeated. “That overpriced roofing contractor just would not take no for an answer. Finally, I chased him off. Well, here we are. My God, Randy, nobody travels by train anymore. Oh, we’ll talk about the roof later. You look tired. Are you all right? And to think…I haven’t been here in years. The place has really fallen apart.”

            Randy took the keys from her and put his bags in the trunk. Mum remained outside the car. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

            “No. Not just yet. Excuse me. There’s something I need to do…so long as we’re here. Why did you take the train?”

            “What?” Randy asked. His mum had turned to walk across the street to the old fountain.

            A vast bathtub of a thing some forty yards wide, it was filled with concrete fish, water fairies, and mermaid sculptures. It was bone dry. It looked like something out of a mason’s nightmare. In the central piece was a man-sculpture with broken arms poised to dive at a female figure carrying a water jug on her shoulders. The fountain looked ready to crumble into dust.

            Randy quickly followed Mum to the fountain.

            “Oh, Randy,” Mum said. “This old train station, this fountain…brings back so many memories. You don’t mind terribly, if we linger here a moment, do you? Then we’ll go someplace nice for lunch.”

            “Sure,” Randy said, looking back toward the car. He had to laugh. All the life of the station depended on the train, and now with the train gone, the place was a graveyard. A sign next to where Mum parked stood in stark contrast to all the quiet. It said “No Parking-Loading Zone.” About the only loading Randy could see going on were two winos sharing a bottle of fortified wine. What’d Mother see in all this decrepitude? The fountain was in worse repair the closer they got to it. Orange, red, and purple graffiti splattered all over the mermaids. A couple of the water fairies had been tipped over.

            Even so, there she sat, his mum, Margaret Bouchard—corporate powerhouse and high-society insider—on a bench, gawking at the derelict monstrosity. Paper cups, crumpled newspapers, and food wrappers scudded about the dry basin, driven by the wind. Dandelions grew in the cracks that ran the length and breadth of the concrete basin, which was as large as the infield of a baseball diamond.

            “I can’t believe it’s come to this,” Margaret said. “Only just a few years ago, this place was the showplace of the city.”

            Randy had to lean in close to even hear Mum, her voice was so low. He didn’t sit on the bench. It was too dirty.

            Mum furrowed her brow. “Oh,” she paused. “Oh, when was I last here? 1954, ’55, ’58? I can’t remember. That must seem like ancient history to you. When the boys returned from World War II, oh my, this was the place to be. VJ day. Everyone so happy. The reunions. My, my, but those were some days. I wonder if the Chamber is even aware how bad things have become…”

            “Maybe you ought to tell them,” Randy said.

            Mum perked up. “Me?” she said. “Now? No, Bruce and I are too busy now with our own business. We don’t have near the time. Your grand-pere would be the one…He’s got the connections. It’s just too sad that something this beautiful gets forgotten.”

            The wind picked up, sending litter scudding across the empty fountain basin. “Grand-pere? You mean the Colonel. I thought the two of you weren’t talking. Has that changed?”

            “No. Sadly, most of our communication has been through his CPA, Bernard Jeams.”

            “Involving the Colonel, hmm,” Randy said. “That’s not a bad idea. He’s big on nostalgia, right?”

            “Yes, he is.” Margaret Bouchard laughed. “Oh, look at me. I’ve fallen into something of a funk, haven’t I? Never mind. So how are you, Randy? How are your studies going? She tapped the stone bench by way of suggesting he sit next to her.

            “Schools great,” Randy said, pacing a bit. “But I don’t think you and I just sitting here will bring this place back. Can we get out of here?”

            “Yes, yes, of course, Randy. I just needed a moment. Now, see? I’m done. You being the age I was when this place was hopping…well, I’m getting carried away, aren’t I?” Mum stood up and took his arm.

            Randy led the way back to the car.

            “I do so miss you living at home,” Mom said as they crossed the street. “I guess I’m not ready to see you grow up and me grow old.”

            “You’re not old—not in a bad way old, ah that is. You’re elegant, esteemed old. There’s a difference.”

            Margaret laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I guess. Young people today are so frank.”

            Randy suggested Balboa’s Italian restaurant for lunch. Then he drove them both there in the vintage blue Cadillac.

Read more of the Bouchard Legacy, paperback or Kindle editionImage



Need to update the email address of a Facebook Friend? It’s easy.


Hello Cyberwonks, wherever you are–

Portland has shut down as four inches of snow has arrived, making the place a snow holiday. Eat your heart out, Minneapolis. While I wait for the sun, what better time to update all  my email contacts –who are also Facebook friends? I don’t know if you have this problem, but my email server can’t handle this much intimacy. My Hotmail account won’t let me delete old email addresses that are connected to facebook accounts. It slams the old email address in the ‘send to’ box every time I email someone. even if I list the new email address in the address book. I’ve got to open ‘properties’ on the ‘send-to’ listing, remember what the old email addresses was and manually select the updated email address. The old email address just  won’t go away. Major hassle screw up, especially with email friends who change ISP’s or break out a new email address to stay one step ahead of Spam-Jam.

So…. today, I updated as many contacts as I could find that had this problem, as witnessed by this email I sent to Evans:

Email Evans,
OK, I think I solved the problem. Here’s what I did. Really nothing to it. Eight easy steps to fluid email communication. (1) First, I wrote down all of Rachel’s new contact info and (2) unfriended her on facebook, then I (3) deleted all her contact info from my email server, (4) signed out of my email server (5) after writing down my password, (6) restarted my computer, and then  (7) relisted all of Rachel’s contact info in my email address book –

Voila! Her old email address from five years ago when she used AOL has finally disappeared. Hurrah. If I knew it was this easy, I would have updated her info long ago.
It appears the problem is solved.

Oh, and then I (8) refriended her facebook. Here’s looking at you, girl!


A Momentous Day in the American War in Vietnam; Monday, February 12, 1973, The Day the POW’s came home

POW coming home

Chapter Fifteen: Operation Homecoming


Monday, February 12, 1973

The following is an excerpt from The Bouchard Legacy, a novel of how one family changed and survived the years 1968-1979.

Paul spent the last few months of his army tour at Clark Air Base in the Philippines. As the American presence in Vietnam dropped, Clark started becoming less a staging area and more a quiet backwater—until that is, Operation Linebacker II kicked into high gear. A new vigor shook up the flight line.

Bright brawny B-52s, air-tankers, and various other military aircraft flew in large numbers.

Tents sprung up on the athletic fields and the flight crews ran around the jogging trails and stood in formations under the mimosa trees. They drilled up and down the tarmac and stood stiffly in formation under the wings of their planes.

All through January, these big metal birds rolled down the runways, lifting off, punching big holes up into the sky. Operation Linebacker II was on task, doing its part to assist in the peace negotiations then taking place in Paris. While the North Vietnamese squabbled over the shape of the negotiations table, the B-52s made bombing runs over North Vietnam.

Incredible amounts of ordinance were loaded onto those bombers. Paul saw it. Day after day, the process repeated tirelessly.

At mess the night of February 11, Paul’s friend, Staff Sergeant Vincent Morrison, asked “Do you have anything going on tonight?”

“No,” Paul said. “I work day shift, counting boots, helmets and cases of 30.06.”

“Well,” SSgt. Morrie said “I know you take an interest in radio communications from your days in the field. If you’re up for it, maybe you can help keep me awake. Operations at the radio shack tonight could be instructive for you.”

Lt. Paul laughed, remembering the lifeline the radio had been in Vietnam. “What are you not telling me?”

“You’ve got to be there if you want to know,” SSgt. Morrie said with a wink.

So Paul went. No sooner did he step into the radio shack than he sensed it: something big was happening. The electricity, the briskness, the energy.

Several operators were on duty with SSgt. Morrie. “We’re patching calls Stateside,” he explained. “They’re coming from one of the three C-141 Starlifters in flight from North Vietnam.”

“Did you say North Vietnam?” Lt. Paul asked.

“Oh yeah. The American prisoners of war are coming home.”

The signal corpsmen were taking phone numbers from the repatriated prisoners even while they were in flight from Hanoi to the Philippines on leg one of the trip back home to the United States of America.

After witnessing a few calls, Paul began to dial and make the Stateside connections himself.

Every call was charged with emotion. If the returning POWs or the call recipients Stateside became speechless, doing little more than breathe, cry, or mutter “Oh” and the like, the radio operator had to ad-lib. “Your family is looking forward to your coming home, Lt. Owen. Mrs. Owen, you will receive further information as Lt. Owen clears quarantine. If you have any questions…”

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant.”

A few calls uncovered soldiers given up for dead—others where spouses had remarried. Even in such cases, a connection could be sensed. Other callers showed quiet strength in a trying time. “Son! You call me just as soon as you get an ETA Motown. Man! We’ll have a dinner waiting for you here that will not stop. God bless ’em all! You made it. Ben, you’re coming home. Amen.”

Time and again, all through the call list, Paul saw countless examples of how the closed culture of the military normalized demanding situations.

“What do you think?” SSgt. Morrie asked after the last call was placed.

“I’d say there are a few hundred very happy soldiers going home,” Paul said. “Thank you for suggesting I sit in with you.”

“Now you know there’s more to it than that,” SSgt. Morrie said. “Sure, you could sit out the remaining three months of your duty counting Ka-Bar knives or whatever you do for entertainment over there at Commisary, but if I was you, I’d walk over to Major Dawes right now, tell him you assisted with the Stateside patch detail, and request service as an escort for one of the returnees. Get real specific, if you like. Major, who do you have on the list for my hometown, Saint Louis?”

Another night, another skimpy catnap before dawn, and Lt. Paul waited. He was out with the crowd of GIs, dependents, and civilian workers on the Clark Air Base tarmac, waiting and watching for the three C-141 Starlifters and the lone C-9a that were bringing the POW returnees home.

Then, there.

Over the shoulder of volcanic Mt. Arayat, swooping down to glide over the cogon grass and touch down on American pavement, the planes carrying the soldiers coming home came in.

This day, February 12, 1972, Lincoln’s birthday, marked for Lt. Paul the day the American war in Vietnam ended.

The Starlifters rolled to a stop, the brass band struck up a medley of “Grand Old Flag,” “Yankee Doodle Dandy“ and the army and marine anthems. The boarding stairs rolled into place, the plane hatch opened, and the returnees deplaned. The crowd applauded and cheered as the men descended, dressed in navy slacks and long-sleeved blue dress shirts that their North Vietnamese captors had issued to them on their release.

Dan Rather, Tom Brokaw, and other TV news correspondents were there, adding a “day at the fair” commentary to the occasion.

The man Lt. Paul would escort back to Cape Girardeau, Missouri, SSgt. Sidney Wentworth, came in the last plane, a C9A, from South Vietnam. He and those with him still wore orange prisoner pajamas, unwashed, emaciated, bruised but unbroken. SSgt. Wentworth stunk, his eyes were sunken back in their sockets, and he came down from the plane on a litter. But once the welcome ceremonies were over, he grabbed Lt. Paul’s arm. “Get me a wheelchair. Please, no ambulance. I have got to clamp these tired jaws of mine around the fattest, juiciest, bloodiest hamburger this base ever pulled off the grill.”

Paul couldn’t find a wheelchair, but SSgt. Sidney looked vigorous enough to stand up to a short jeep ride, so that’s what Lt. Paul grabbed. He reasoned if SSgt. Sidney wanted a hamburger, then by God, he’d jump by the CABOOM and grab the man a burger. He knew how to reply a soldier who had endured what SSgt. Sidney endured: “You got it, soldier,”

Once they arrived at Clark Air Base Officers’ Open Mess, the chef himself personally came out to serve SSgt. Sidney a chocolate malt, a hamburger, and French fries while he sat in the jeep under the shade of the mimosa tree in the dooryard.

Most everyone inside also came out. “Welcome home, SSgt. Sidney. How do you like that hamburger?”

Several soldiers shook SSgt. Sidney’s hand and asked him the name of his hometown.

“Cape Girardeau, Mo,” he said.

“How glad are you to be goin’ home?” one gushed.

Another said, “It’s going to take more than one of Arnie’s hamburgers to put some meat back on your bones.”

SSgt. Sidney asked for all the fixin’s, including pepperoncini, but after each bite, fewer fixin’s remained on the burger until, after about the sixth bite, Paul put a wrap on it. “Maybe we’d better let you digest what you’ve et so far,” he said.

The Sergeant nodded. he could hold no more. “Man,” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “That was good. If I ever see another fish head on a bed of rice with maggots, I swear to God, I will puke.”

The guys all put hands on Sidney’s shoulders. “It’s all over now, babe, you going home!”

Lt Paul said “That’s right, it would be good for SSgt. Sidney to break away from here now, guys.”

The chief cook said “Cape Gireadeau, huh? You ever get yourself to Paducah, you see my brother. His place is at Kentucky and 8th. Now he’ll fix you a burger you can really rap your jaws around.”

Lt Paul fired the jeep up and pulled away. “This man’s got a med-check…and he’s going home.”

 This is an excerpt from ‘The Bouchard Legacy.’ To see the complete book click here.

Coverage of the POW’s return on ABC news:

Zimmerman and Martin and The Two Minutes

It has been 18 months since the death of Trayvon Martin on February 26, 2012. When a tragedy of this scale occurs in the course of what might otherwise be described as an ordinary day, the word WHY pops up for me in capital letters.

         A trial lasting over a month, 15 hours of jury deliberation, and countless media stories have attempted to answer WHY, various media outlets have taken sides on WHY, drawn lessons from WHY and still it strikes me that we know more inflammatory details than facts.

Yes, passion has entered into the picture. Words like ‘racially charged,’ ‘profiling, vigilante and ‘hoodie wearing suspect’ have been hurled about. Please consider however on that fatal night, that until shortly after 7:00 pm, the two actors in this tragedy were just ordinary guys like you and me going about the simple tasks of everyday life.

         Then—in two minutes—life could no longer be taken for granted. According to Wikipedia, there were only two minutes between 7:15 pm, the time George Zimmerman hung up on his 911 phone call and 7:17, when Sanford policeman Timothy Smith arrived to observe Zimmerman and Martin, Martin by this time dead. Here’s another fact, again from Wikipedia: The scene of this death was but 70 yards from the unit where Trayvon Martin was staying at the time.

         Would that Zimmerman had waited just 10 seconds until Martin arrived at his destination, opening his door with a key that fit the lock just right.

         Only two minutes.

         Do I judge Zimmerman in this? Do I judge Martin in this?

         No, all I am saying is two minutes can last forever.

         Be careful, even on ordinary days.

Ted Magnuson is the author of The Bouchard Legacy, the story of two step-brothers, one black, one white, and a fourth generation family business set in St Louis and America 1968-1979. Paul has earned his inheritance, but Randy owns it. The Cover of The Bouchard Legacy

Link to the Bouchard Legacy