Good Seeds: Cycling Central Washington During the Apple Harvest

This story originally appeared in the Sept/Oct 2024 issue of Adventure Cyclist magazine. 

Apples got their start 12 million years ago in Central Asia in the area we now call Kazakhstan. There in the Tian Shan mountains, wild apple trees grew and evolved, creating fecund forests rich with birds, bears, and every variety of apple imaginable.

A small town eventually grew near this forest and called itself Almaty — “king of the apples.” Almaty became a commerce hub between the East and West, and by 1500 BC, the apples that had evolved millions of years in Almaty’s forests began to spread to Persia and Europe via horse panniers and digestive tracts. (Apples’ hard, teardrop-sized seeds can survive animals’ digestive systems perfectly intact, finding themselves miles away from their origins and starting life anew.)

The Persians and Greeks soon not only created bucolic apple orchards, but refined their apples’ flavors. Orchardists used grafting, the technique of inserting the bud of one tree into the stem of another, to propagate particular varieties of apple, creating apples consistent in tastes and textures they desired. Eating dinner al fresco among the apple trees was a way to experience beauty and showcase their power.

In the second century BC, Almaty became a node on the Silk Road, the 4,000-mile trading route connecting Rome with China. While silk and Buddhism went west and gold and Christianity went east, apples went far in both directions.

Centuries later, the apple would even cross an ocean and spread across North America, in part because of an unusual, not-yet-famous character named John Chapman. Chapman believed that every plant, animal, and object in nature correlated with specific spiritual truths. Thus, he believed, one shouldn’t merely observe nature but help regenerate it; more natural diversity led to a more spiritually rich world. Chapman didn’t believe in grafting fruit, so he spread apple seeds from America’s East Coast to Indiana by planting them in the land he was traveling on. Apples never before seen on the continent grew across the land. Colonists arrived to settle land where apple trees were already bearing fruit. We now know Chapman, of course, as Johnny Appleseed.

Neither I nor my traveling partner (and this piece’s photographer), Hector Dominguez-Maceda, knew anything about the migratory history of the apple when we planned a bike trip during the apple harvest in Washington State, famed as “the apple state.” On one hand, we were interested in heady topics: immigration, nature, and food systems. On the other hand, we sought some adventure.

Hector and I are good and unlikely friends. In the early 2010s, I taught him language arts at one of the most diverse and innovative schools in the U.S. After he graduated, we stayed in touch as he made his way through college and then a career. After the school where I worked closed and Hector’s father, a native of Puebla, Mexico, passed away, Hector and I talked about cycling more and more, and about not only seeing new lands, but seeing land in general from a new perspective.

In this spirit, in October 2023 we set out to experience apple country from the saddle of a bicycle.

Washington State generates 10 billion to 12 billion apples a year, nearly all of them along the Columbia River and its tributaries, from Okanogan in the north to Yakima in the south. Hector and I started our journey at the midpoint of those regions, on the southeast side of Lake Chelan in the last town up the lake, called Manson.

Lake Chelan and Manson are well known for their apples. Before the 1950s, apple packers advertised their brands with colorful, iconic labels glued to their wooden crates. The crates were adorned with gorgeous waters at the base of steep peaks, and that imagery is Manson. From the shores of Lake Chelan, the third-deepest lake in the U.S., 7,000-foot peaks rise towering over Manson, a town described by its chamber of commerce as “agri-artisan,” though I might describe it as Edenic.

A typical October morning in the region starts at around 40°F. Indeed, when we hit the road at 8:00 am, we could just make out our breath in the morning light. We warmed up while riding the twisting roads on the hills above the lake. The anxiety of scrolling through the national and international news on my phone softened as the sun rose, and in just a few minutes, the joy of riding for pleasure returned. The birds, lake, and wheels created a cadence that detached me from data and reattached me to earth.

The feeling comes easy in Manson. Abundance abounds. Hundreds of thousands of bright red and green apple orbs hang from thousands of trees, and squeezed among the orchards are vineyards and blueberry fields. The roads were wide enough to afford space to ride side-by-side, so when we weren’t struck silent by the region’s natural beauty, Hector and I were able to discuss things like Tolstoy, Oppenheimer, fathers, and hip-hop. At one point a truck with a Michoacán sticker — the name of a state in central Mexico where many migrant workers in Washington come from — on its tailgate passed us. (When I studied the Mexican education system in Morelia, Michoacán, in the summer of 2006 through a university program, I was not only stunned by how similar the landscapes were between the two states, but also by how much Michoacános knew about Washington State, rattling off the names of small towns ranging from Sunnyside to Mt. Vernon.) Serendipitously, Hector and I saw five men warming in the sun outside of a white, barracks-like building where many apple pickers live. We pulled over to talk with them — a bicycle always helps people let the guards down.

They were indeed apple pickers. They all came from Mexico, from Nayarit in the north to Puebla — where Hector’s family is from — farther south. They had the Saturday off and seemed to relish having nowhere to go and nothing to do. They were happy to speak with us.

Some of them worked three-month contracts picking apples, some six, and others nine. All had left family in Mexico to earn money here in the U.S. When Hector asked if anyone else worked the orchards, they proudly answered, practically in unison, “Puros Méxicanos.” Pure Mexicans. They described the work to us, ancient labor. In addition to picking the ripe apples, they discard the unripe ones and trim the trees so they grow more fruit the following year. They pointed to the hundreds of scrapped apples along the side of the road.

When I asked them about the industry getting more efficient and work going to robots (the only word I could find in Spanish), they seemed unconcerned. I couldn’t tell if they were nervous about talking to a journalist about this topic or if they were legitimately unworried. We moved on, and although they politely said no to photos, I sincerely thanked them for their labor and they paused their affable laughter, nodding in a way that suggested perhaps we understood each other.

On our way out of Manson, we passed an apple picker just starting his day. We yelled “Hola!” and he waved to us, smiling. Hector and I cycled silently, digesting the abundance of what we’d seen and heard in just a short time.

As we headed into the town of Chelan at the southern end of the lake, the traffic picked up. We rode single file on the wide shoulders, passing “bicycle on the road” signs every few miles. The homes got larger, the flags more frequent and political, and the trucks newer, cleaner, and shinier. Soon we found ourselves passing putt-putt golf courses, pizza joints, and a long line out of a Starbucks.

Chelan is a good spot for amenities. For our itinerary, it was the only spot. We picked up snacks and a lunch for later and cycled away from Chelan and the lake, past agricultural warehouses and processing plants, to the edge of town and beyond.

From Chelan’s outskirts, it’s a fast, steep descent to the Columbia River. The lush landscape quickly vanished and was replaced with the austere and arid high desert. In less than 10 minutes, Hector and I had the sense we’d gone from “up above” to “down below.” The cliffs that frame each side of the Columbia River now towered above us.

I love this dramatic landscape. While apples were having their heyday in Central Asia 25,000 years ago, this landscape in Washington State was shaped by constant cataclysmic floods. For thousands of years, the ice sheet that covered most of what is now Canada dammed the Clark Fork River in Idaho and Montana and formed glacial Lake Missoula. When the frozen dam burst, the water of Lake Missoula rushed out in unfathomable proportions across what is now Montana, Idaho, and Washington.

These floods had once covered the land where we now rode. Their waters were at least 1,000 feet deep, as tall as the cliffs above us. They cut rock and stripped soil, carving out canyons that millennia later would be drawn from for irrigation. Traveling at 10,000,000 cubic meters per second, the floods would have easily kept up with the cars that passed us. Rocks pushed up by a “geologic elevator” from 15 miles below are scarred with deep striations of this period.

Crossing over the Beebe Bridge — the least comfortable part of our loop, with no shoulder and cars going 60 mph — the setting was more redolent of a Cormac McCarthy novel than a pastoral.

As we headed south along the river, the apple orchards were dwarfed by the cliffs. The landscape became more industrial, but just as compelling. Through dams, irrigation, land ownership, genetic modification, pest control, automation, immigration, power, order — this is what humans contend with to push life out of the seemingly unyielding earth.

If Manson was the idyllic past, this river gorge was time immemorial, spreading prehistorically toward the future.

On this side of the river, the east side, most of the orchards are “high-density.” It’s impossible not to notice. Whereas traditional orchards have about 350 trees per acre, these high-density ones have about 1,450. High-density apples grow on trellises, resembling hops more than trees. Long sheets of fabric often cover and surround them, like functioning Christo and Jeanne-Claude art installations. We heard recorded falcon sounds above some of the fields that seemed to keep pesky birds away. At least, that was my interpretation. There was no one to ask. The laborers here — the ones we could see — worked far back in the orchards, diminished by the ancient landscape. Even if we wanted to yell hola, the frequent semi-trucks carrying tons of apples to the warehouses outside the town of Wenatchee would have silenced us. The harvest runs from late August until early November, and the frequency of the trucks was relentless evidence of mass productivity.

I read an article a few years ago about how the trellised orchards we passed are the likely future of growing and picking in this region; the article, in fact, inspired this piece. The trellises maximize output and minimize labor costs. Though more prone to disease, trees grown on trellises bear fruit faster, and because no part of them is in the shade canopy, the sugar content from apple to apple is consistent. On top of that, trellises create uniformity that will one day allow for machines — the “robots” I referred to back in Manson — to do the picking, rather than human hands.

Despite the many benefits of trellising apple trees and automating the harvesting process, many orchard owners aren’t excited about that future. The article I read included an owner lamenting the results of having to shave a nickel off everything in order to stay competitive. “These folks are my neighbors,” he said, referring to the puros Méxicanos Hector and I had spoken with. I identified with this orchard owner’s sentiment. I thought about what things should actually cost, and I thought about consumption and capitalism.

Passing these trellises on a bicycle was visceral. Hector and I could easily imagine the vanishing of norteño, Tex-Mex music, and Michoacán tailgate stickers; a landscape devoid of people and, thus, character.

The road along the Columbia River slowly and steadily ascends and descends, never at a grade above 3 percent. It’s easy, and not easy: the undulation means non-stop pedaling. Fortunately, 15 miles south of Beebe Bridge is Daroga State Park, a beautiful, lush river park perfect for resting tired legs. (It’s also a campground, some years open until the end of September, others until mid-October.)

Along the river’s shore, Hector and I ate lunch and put our feet in the water. While he napped on the sand, I looked at the rock formations on the other side of the river. Strips of strata rock lines ascended and descended the basalt cliffs, much like the roads we’d just ridden. I lay down and slept.

We got back on the road and pedaled south 12 more miles, past millions of apples to our left and right. We arrived at Lincoln Rock State Park, named after an Abraham Lincoln–like rock structure, and like all Washington State parks, this one luckily had hiker-biker spots. We caught the park ranger off guard when we rode up; he said we were the first hiker-bikers he had all year.

Hector and I set up camp, swam in the Columbia, and looked at the oddly presidential rock structure before us. The first peoples here had seen a silhouette in the rocks, too, though that was long before Lincoln, so I had the simultaneous experience of seeing both Lincoln and, simply, humankind.

There were many families at the campground that night, camping in tents, RVs, and cabins. Kids speaking Spanish and English biked in loops around the park, curious about our bikes, panniers, and gear.

I told Hector, “Isn’t it wild how much we experienced in just one day?”

It was clear he’d been thinking about it already because he quickly responded,

“Cycling is a magnifying glass.” All the things you normally just pass by in a car suddenly come into focus; on a bike, you actually have enough time to see them clearly.

The stars were out that night. Hector and I, like all bike tourers, had ambitions to stay up late and watch them. And also like all bike tourers, as soon as the sun set, a wave of exhaustion crashed over us. After the 56-mile day, we got in our tents and fell asleep quickly. Just before I did, the coyotes called out from the ancient land.

From Lincoln Rock the next morning, we rode part of the Apple Capital Recreation Loop Trail, which spans 21 miles from Lincoln Rock State Park to South Wenatchee; we took it for seven. It’s far off the highway and passes both traditional and high-density orchards. On this pastoral leg, we saw quail and heron, as well as empty wooden crates waiting for apples. When we stopped at the vista of the Rocky Reach Dam, the hum of electricity buzzed overhead. When cycling in this region, you can’t help but stop and think about human will and ingenuity.

The trail goes far into Wenatchee, but Hector and I crossed the Frances Farmer Bridge and headed north on the other side of the river, back in the direction of Chelan. Confusingly, this highway is called Route 97 Alternate, as if it’s an alternative to the highway we came from, which is simply called Route 97. In fact, the alternative is the busier road, less about agriculture and more about commuting.

There are few orchards on this highway. Drivers heading south wore their Sunday best heading to church, which enhanced the strange spirituality I was already feeling. Though the shoulders were wide, they didn’t feel it; rock formations and sheer cliffs pushed right up against the road. When we stopped for a water break, we heard a rattlesnake in the hills. Indeed, a word that came to mind on the stretch was “lonely,” and I thought of long, wandering scenes in Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea trilogy. In a car, this is the road that you drive to get from point A to point B; it’s an in-between. On a bike, there is no speeding through the in-between. In fact, there is no in-between at all. All must be experienced and endured at the same pace. It may not feel special or comfortable, but you must pedal it. Each part of the world is all the world, and the pace and vantage of a bicycle reinforces that vital truth.

As we cycled north, we could see Lincoln Rock and Daroga on the other side of the river. The scale was massive and clear from this perspective. The cliffs diminished the semi-trucks that roared past us yesterday. I imagined our small bikes, small selves, pedal stroke by pedal stroke following the shape of the land like the geologic strata itself. A powerboat played country music in the river. I didn’t know what to do with this contrast — the rugged landscape, the immigrants working in massive industry, a powerboat in the middle of a dammed river, the scale of violence unfolding in the world — but I knew that for the first time in a while, because of Hector’s photos and because of my bike and because of digital detachment, I was at least seeing again. Hector and I had taken this trip for perspective, and at last we were able to see what was right in front of us.

About halfway between Wenatchee and Chelan is Entiat, a small town with fruit stands, a ranger station and a grocery store. It also seems to be the town that provides services to Chelan: HVAC, auto repair, construction supplies, and boat repair. The friendly employees in the grocery store felt like a balm to the intensity of the land. While we repaired a flat tire in the parking lot, we ate apples and Tajín-covered peach rings. Hector went in on a Golden Delicious. I scarfed a Honeycrisp. At first it was a gimmick for the article, but then something happened: Hector and I agreed these were damn good apples.

We peeled off the highway at Navarre Coulee Road, a long, low-traffic ascent to the west part of Lake Chelan. It’s steep and, at first, stark. Then we got to some spindly pines and stubborn greenery. The more we sweated and grinded, the more we anticipated the summit.

When at last we got there, we stopped cycling, felt the air pass through our lungs again and again, and absorbed the land’s awesome beauty. Below us, traditional orchards rolled down the mountainside like Tuscan vineyards. Below them was Lake Chelan, surrounded by land that was gentle and lush, but all around us was only quietude. We could see the lake (which is 52 miles long) curve its way up toward the Cascade Mountains. The topography of the mountains hinted at the depth of the lake.

Hector and I chuckled at the agony and ecstasy of getting to the literal and emotional summit, as bike tourers often do. We put our arms around each other’s shoulders with a sense of pride, friendship, and bittersweetness. When we looked back in the direction we came from — in addition to being hazy from the now annual forest fires in the region — it appeared harsh, scrubby, and unforgiving. We were grateful for the contrast of beauty and grit that we stood within, a contrast that adventure cyclists not only accept but seek out. In a land of industry and labor, we had earned a moment of glory.

We delighted in the descent to the lake. The air cooled us and our breathing steadied. Though Hector is new to bike touring, he flew past me. I’ve gotten more cautious and sentimental as I’ve aged; I took my time. It gave me joy to see him fly, and to take it at my own pace.

At the bottom of the road is Lake Chelan State Park, a beautiful spot to camp, but we had a few more miles to go before we could rest.

The ride into Chelan from this direction has little traffic and wide shoulders. Views of the lake are constant. We passed homes that were shuttered up until the following summer. There are several beloved wineries along the road, but Hector and I didn’t come for the wine. We were here for the harvest.

We rode silently, each of our minds now growing new ideas from all we’d seen.

We hadn’t just cycled. Indeed, we’d adventured. It really didn’t take all that much time, was one delicious thought I plucked.

After 56 total miles that day, we arrived back in Manson, and our trip was done.

I was back home in Seattle the next day. I went to my local co-op for groceries and held an organic Honeycrisp in my hand. I thought of the pickers in Manson, the roaring semis, the basalt rock, the peace while eating dinner with Hector. I thought of land and industry, migration and friendship. I thought about enduring discomfort and devouring joy.

Riding a bike hadn’t done this to me in a long time — inspired images rather than analysis.

When I turned around and looked at all the people in the grocery store, I had a sensation that we are all seeds in some strange digestive system. But we’re designed for it. We have it in us to stay intact. And wherever each of us is dropped, we, the good wild seeds, will spark some new variation of life.

Oh, fellow readers, friends, seeds across this country, across this incredible world, say it with me, loud and in unison and again and again and again:

Viva la manzana!

Viva la aventura!

Viva la bicicleta!

—

Sean Riley is a teacher, writer, and adventure cyclist from Seattle, Washington.

Photos by Hector Dominguez-Maceda

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