When I got to Gillette, Wyoming, the first store I saw said "Wisconsin Cheese." Although I'm on the road traveling, trying to experience life as the locals do at each place I come to, how could I pass up the opportunity to walk into a Wisconsin cheese store, 1500 miles away from home? At least, I had to see if the sign was for real, to see if it really was Wisconsin cheese. Once inside, I found it really was Wisconsin cheese, sold by an old Wisconsinite who had found a good life and beautiful countryside on the plains of Wyoming. The one thing that he didn't like about Wyoming, he told me, was the wind. Day after day, the wind would blow, he said, an interminable gale that tore away at your skin and penetrated you to your bones.
Fortunately, I had hit Wyoming at a good time, there was no wind forecast for the next few days. I crossed the plains in a hurry, anxious to get through Yellowstone and to Bozeman, MT where quarts of Wilcoxson's ice cream, growlers of beer, and my good friend Ben Rosemeyer awaited me. I crossed rolling expanses of brown, arid plains where cattle grazed in lonely, desolate fields and red, flat-topped buttes stuck out of the ground like a scene from a movie on Mars. At one point I got to the top of one of the hills and gasped as I caught my first sight of the snow-capped Bighorn Mountains. I had heard about them as I got closer, I had been warned about them, but I could only imagine what they would be like.
I'm a mountain person, I love the fresh air, the freedom of the spirit, and the potential for solitude in a wilderness untouched. I love the streams that start out as trickles high up in green valleys and get bigger and bigger until they come gushing and churning over waterfalls, through canyons in a sea of white holes, gigantic waves, and clear water that follows the path of least resistance until it meets the sea. I love the mountain meadows, full of deer, elk, bears, and bison. I love the wetlands that form high up in the meadows as a result of nature's first engineer, the beaver. I love to watch hawks, eagles and vultures, soaring on the air currents by the peaks above my head. I love the green forests that cover the mountain sides, the rocky outcroppings that jut out thousands of feet above the treeline, and the cliff faces that, despite their ominous appearance, provide homes to birds, insects, and even bighorn sheep and mountain goats. (I wish I was more of a naturalist).
But when I saw the Bighorn Mountains from 80 miles away, their snow capped peaks still visible in mid August, I realized the enormity of the climb that I faced on my fully loaded touring bike. My original plan was to bike through the mountains in one day. I would start early, summit the pass by 2 or 3, then coast downhill to the base of the peaks and camp on the other side. Instead, I started a bit later after a long breakfast I shared with Paul, a bike tourist from Vancouver who crossed path with me. By the time it was 4:30pm I had come 44 miles and had reached the first pass, 4500ft above where I started. All day my legs had burned but I was the 'Little Engine that Could,' with "I think I can I think I can" running through my mind. In need of a break and someone to talk to, I ran into a man with a Wisconsin plate parked at the top of the hill who turned out to be from Madison as well. A little way down the hill and into the meadows and valleys nestled in the peaks of the Bighorns, he stopped me and asked me if I wanted to spend the night at his campsite.
"We've got plenty of room for you, too many margaritas, quesadillas, and burritos for us all to consume, you'll be hanging out with old people, but you'll have as much as you want to eat."
I couldn't pass it up. Yet again I was shown the enormous generosity of people that admired what I was doing. A clear stream trickled by the campsite, deep enough for a refreshing swim. Within moments the cold mountain water numbed my body and I could've swum all day if it weren't for a lounge chair sitting in the sun, my book and a beer enticing me from the shore. I was given beers and margaritas, told to eat more and feel at home. Conversation lasted into the evening with my hosts by a campfire until the sun's final rays disappeared behind the mountain peaks and it was time for bed. With the help of my hosts, I had endured my first mountain climb.
The next day was the descent. Never before have I had so much fun on a bicycle. The endorphins, adrenaline and energy that my body had been pumping on the climb surged through my veins. I sat on my bicycle, didn't touch the pedals or my brake, and hooted and hollered at the top of my voice as mountain peaks passed by me at a solid 30 miles per hour. For 18 miles straight, my average speed was 27mph. As I've found with backcountry skiing, you'll never enjoy a descent more than if you earn your turns yourself. An 80 mile stretch of flat plains lay below me, followed by the peaks of Yellowstone National Park.
When it came to the climb from Cody, WY into Yellowstone, I didn't have so much fortune with the winds of Wyoming. I was following the Shoshone river canyon all the way into the park, a ride that I was told would be very gradual and not too bad. While this may have been the case, a 15-20mph headwind slowed my progress by about half. It wasn't long before the wind pierced through my skin and got to my mind. No longer was biking fun, but a painful, frustrating struggle against a force I couldn't do anything about. I would yell and swear until my throat hurt, but the wind wouldn't listen. I asked the wind "why? why? why? what did I do to deserve this?" Thoughts of giving up and trying again the next day raced through my head. But I needed to make the pass by that night to get to Bozeman by the following day. The climb didn't bother me; I was raising my potential energy with every foot I gained. But the wind sapped the strength from my limbs and it angered me to my core. It was the hardest day of biking I had ever experienced.
Just before I got into Yellowstone Park, still 15 miles of climbing remaining, I stopped at a grocer/restaurant/bar to take a break. I was fed up with life, angry and disgusted, so I ordered the biggest ice cream I could. A few moments later, a lady came up to me, "My husband and I saw you on the road earlier, he's a biker, we'd like to buy you a beer." Given the offer and the circumstances - 12 miles of pass and 30 miles remained to get to a campsite, it was 5:30 in the afternoon and I'd come only 50 miles or so on the day - I had to accept. "Ice cream and beer, huh, that's an interesting combination," I was told. Interesting indeed, but that was the winning combination. The food brought me all the way into Yellowstone to arrive at the campsite with the sun completely set, and an almost full moon rising over Yellowstone Lake. Once again, the generosity and kindness of people had saved my day, boosted me from the angry frustration that I was encapsulated in and deposited me in one of America's most beautiful locations.
The next day, I faced 155 miles of biking to get to Bozeman. I was out of camp by 7am, in a hurry, yet conscious of the need to enjoy the park. I explored the geysers, hiked with the tourists around the Upper and Lower Falls of the Yellowstone river, took a 2 mile hike up a hill to get away from the crowds and see some volcanic hot spots and finally rolled out of the park into West Yellowstone at 2:30pm - 60 miles down, 90 to go. At that point I did the only think I knew I could do - I bought a large huckleberry ice cream and ate it down before jumping on my bike and trying to keep my average speed at 20mph for the next 4 hours. By 7:30pm I was in Bozeman, just in time to catch the last two bluegrass songs at the Bozone and drink two beers with Ben before the tasting room closed at 8pm. Safe and sound and resting in Ben's Montana home, I'm pondering the next leg of my journey, north through Missoula to Glacier National Park and Canada.
