Babcock and Turner took the direct route to Missoula, continuing along what is now the I-90 corridor.
On June 18, accompanied by a tandem and several wheels, we left Spokane, where we had been enjoying our two days' rest. We had been informed that it was impossible for wagons or horses to go around Lake Coeur d'Alene through Fourth of July canyon on account of high water, so we headed for Coeur d'Alene City, to take the steamer across the lake. The distance from Spokane is thirty-five miles by our meters, and as we feared to miss the boat, we sped along at a fifteen mile pace over excellent roads. We passed two wheelmen along the way, one an Episcopal minister, with the skirts of his clerical coat pinned up out of the way, pedalling along to attend an ordination service, and the other wheelman, a sergeant of infantry. The appearance of the latter, pumping up his tires in the shade, was the first indication that we were in the vicinity of Fort Sherman, a most beautiful post, established in 1878, on the shores of the lake. A few miles further on, we wheeled across the parade ground, past the white-gloved guard, and down to the steamer landing, thirty minutes ahead of time, with plenty of opportunity to take snapshots at points of interest in the vicinity.
The steamer, Georgia Oaks, makes the sixty-mile run to Old Mission across one of the most charming sheets of water in the West. Its beauties are something between Lake Washington and Lake Crescent, and I am told by those who know, that it much resembles Lake George in its surroundings. Off to the north the captain pointed out the chute where the famous swimmer, Capt. Webb, lost his life a year or two ago, making the descent in a barrel. Before reaching Old Mission, we went up the river about twenty miles, the steamer occasionally running her nose into the bank to allow some rancher to get his supplies from town. We enjoyed our ride exceedingly, the more, perhaps, because we could not see on our map any other place where we would have any reasonable chance for abandoning our wheels and patronizing the transportation companies.
Old Mission is marked in our journals as being noted for one church and millions of mosquitoes. The old church, long since passed into disuse, is a picturesque old structure. It was built by the Jesuits under Father Ravalli in 1848, as an Indian mission. At that time, nails in that section cost $40 a keg, and this structure was made without them, wooden pegs holding the posts together. Father Ravalli was a remarkable man, and his life is closely interwoven with the history of the Coeur d'Alene. He had fitted himself especially for pioneer work, being a skilled mechanic as well as a doctor of medicine.
While we were taking a photograph of the building, a quaint old man, the guardian of the place, came from a cabin near by, and unlocked the creaking doors that we might get a view of the interior. To me there is always something of awe in an old religious edifice like this, not to be found in some of our modern and more elegant structures, and as we viewed the water-stained walls and ceiling, our minds were busy with thoughts of the zeal of those who had undergone privation and hardships to carry their creed to the remote parts of the earth.
Our road from Old Mission to Wallace was over a very rough mountain road, and it was late in the evening when we reached the hotel. Wallace is a busy little mining town, entirely shut in by mountains; in fact, it seems to be located in a little pocket. Half a mile in any direction from the center of town, and you might imagine yourself entirely away from civilization, so hidden is the place.
They tell us that the heat will break today, but we'll have to wait and see. Yesterday was another three digit day.
92 beautiful miles and more lined up today.
On the road with spirits high,
Dennis