Away before seven o’clock, it was our earliest start yet. Knowing that the day was due to climb over 40ºC is a reasonable motivator for not faffing around. Only a mile from the campground we left the road running alongside the Pend Oreille, beginning a long gradual climb (it averaged out at one percent) up a wide valley floor. The gravel began soon as the day quickly warmed.

The post-dawn light was rather lovely, and in parts the trees gave way to a bit of grassland.

The lots of private property gradually thinned – not that they had led to any traffic, the place was wonderfully deserted. A few stagnant lakes came and went as we meandered by. Suddenly, our first bear sighting of the trip! Some hundred or so metres ahead it ambled across the road and disappeared into the forest. Giving it plenty of time to clear off, we stopped and admired the beauty around – and probably ate too, we were bikepacking after all.

The gravel became an unmaintained track – the best type, with grass growing down the centre. If it were possible, things became even more sparsely populated.

It was nice to have the trees crowding in and shading us; we were pretty sure the track would go through as indicated on the GPS… Things rapidly heating up over the next hour, we happened across a big patch of wild raspberries – definitely worth stopping for some relief from the heat shortly before hitting a sealed road.

Joining Sullivan Lake Road, we could have headed up to the lake easily. The only snag in that plan is that I wouldn’t have survived well on the food we had. Quickly losing the altitude we’d gained, we were soon crossing the river to reach the small town of Ione.

There was at least a fantastic red, grated bridge to cross. Looking down through the steel deck, which was mostly empty space, to the river far below was rather unnerving.

Resupply in a dated supermarket was sufficient, if not mostly forgettable. We did at least get to cross the river again.

Of course, we could have taken the direct road to the lake and climbed less than two hundred metres. But why do that when you can head deep into a national forest, try to navigate on roads that are nowhere near those marked on the GPS and climb an extra four hundred metres? It was going to be cooler at 1200 metres anyway, why wouldn’t we sweat all the way up there to find out?

Also, we hadn’t had our fill of tree-sighting for the day.

A good two and a half hours took us from the river to the summit with plenty of stops for rest and refilling. It was grand, a wonderful climb and so much the better for being on gravel with no traffic.

With all that effort, we did get to bomb down through four hundred metres of descent in half an hour. Brilliant.

Fortunately a youth group had checked out early – otherwise the two large campgrounds at the head of the lake would have been completely booked out. After thoroughly checking all the sites and finding few available, and resting in the shade, we set up camp and continued resting in the shade and in the cool of the lake.

While our shortest day of the trip after leaving Whitefish, the 41ºC really sucked a lot of energy and the afternoon off recovering was much needed.

The two campgrounds were only two because there was an airstrip bisecting them.

And the planes had tents next to them, it was completely adorable.

Another searing day forecast, our plan for the day was to generally follow the Pend Oreille River upstream, but try at least to escape the busiest roads for some quiet gravel roads in the hills. Finding the cycle paths out of town, we crossed the third incarnation of Long Bridge – at two miles long, it certainly was that. The highway is now on the fourth Long Bridge, so the one we were on was foot and bicycle traffic only.

Osprey sightings were common on the trip, usually seen in and around large nests on pallets that had been attached to the top of tall poles. Just after the bridge, I finally got to see an actual eagle (I’d taken to claiming any sufficiently large bird was such). But this was a bit different: the eagle had taken over the nest, and the poor displaced osprey was desperately trying to evict the invader. Despite much noise and many spirited swoops at the eagle while we watched, it was all in vain.

Not even an hour into the day’s ride is none too early to take full advantage of an extraordinarily good German Bakery. Eating far too much for that hour, there were still plenty of treats to try to find space for on our bikes.

The cycle path ended and we were dumped on a highway again. Startlingly, while having plenty of traffic and a noisy railroad on the other side, this one had a very wide shoulder, courteous traffic and a silky smooth surface; for a highway, it was pretty good. It didn’t last long as we cut west for the river on quieter roads. A rural area, we were once again struck with how much nicer it is to cycle on Idaho roads compared to those in many other places – most drivers gave us the whole lane when they passed. I’ve since found out about the Idaho Stop law – cyclists get to treat red lights as stop signs, and stop signs as yield signs; brilliant.

Not bothering to cross the river to Priest River, further attempts to stay on quieter roads ensued. With some success – we struck another gated community; but there were trails in the woods, not to mention shade. A short hike-a-bike later we were back on track and heading for the Washington border. Through Oldtown we crossed the border and sought respite from the midday sun lying and lunching on shaded grass in a central park (also here) in Newport (someone really was scratching the bottom of the barrel for place names here).

Heading out of town, we chose the quiet road away from the river – our first steep climb of the day. People stopped to ask for directions (surely we didn’t look local) and to offer help (we may have paused in some more shade) as we toiled toward Bead Lake.

Once again surrounded by private property, this was as close as we got – one lot early enough in the building process to have a clear view.

Then this happened, and there was much rejoicing.

Chief-namer of landmarks struck again with No Name Lake; mid-afternoon and we hadn’t really climbed that  much yet – it was still stinking hot. The walking track down to the lake was steep and just mostly-rideable. There was a pretty large group out swimming and playing around on various inflatables, their voices and laughs echoing around. (Overheard line of the trip rang out around the lake as one of the group loudly proclaimed “Bitch, calm down, I just got on a floaty”.) It was lovely to cool off in the water; although, we really should have left our bikes nearer the top of the track – it was a tough push back to the road.

Not a bad spot for a mid-afternoon dip on a scorching day.

Bead Lake Rd turned into Cook Lake Rd, narrowing and becoming more remote as we went. Contemplating camping at Cook Lake, it was decided against as there was still plenty of daylight left and the lake was rather manky.

The high point of the day was reached and we started to race downhill, the air rushing past a welcome respite. The track marked on the map that would point us on a more direct, but hillier, route didn’t eventuate. Route pondering continued.

Instead we had prevening snacks with these bears; they were guarding yet more huckleberries – but not well enough to keep me away from them.

A hundred kilometres, ten hours and a hundred degrees (Fahrenheit) having been surpassed for the day and nearing the river it was time to decide: down to and along the river to a campsite we knew was there (but not exactly what facilities it provided) or into the hills.

Early evening starting to cool ever so slightly.

I must have been getting tired from the heat, as we chose the lower option. Twenty-five kilometres left, the pace picked up a bit along a deserted wide, sealed road. Still not knowing what we’d find at Panhandle Campground, we stopped at a rushing stream to fill up with water – this would also make a good back-up campsite. As it was, Panhandle was right next to the river and itself a well-serviced and popular place. Pretty exhausted from the unrelenting heat, the wide Pend Oreille River washed off more of the day’s sweat before dinner was cooked, devoured and rampant mosquitoes avoided as best we could – mostly by collapsing into our bivy bags.