-the motto of my trip. Or, as it has been in Canada, "I just at a cinnamon roll with a coffee and now I'm ready for the cold again." The cold and impending winter freeze became a part of the tour in the north. Upon leaving Jasper, I crossed the continental divide with relative ease and sunny forecasts for the ride through eastern BC. At the pass, I started talking to a guy taking a cigarette break from his drive.
"Not much of a pass, eh?"
"This is the second lowest pass in the Canadian Rockies."
The pass was a mere bump in the road, un-identifiable from the mountain valleys and snow crested peaks; a small rise in the road compared to the routes I was imagining through the jutted, rocky pinnacles that surrounded me. But a small amount of work going up a pass usually means a small amount of coasting going downhill. So instead of the high speed euphoria that I usually experience after a summit, I was presented with relatively flat terrain and a need to pedal to make any progress for the day. Slowly, I made my way down from the pass and into British Colombia.
At Moose Lake I saw hundreds of little splashes along the shore. Equipped with a small spinning fishing rod - an old rod that Ben Rosemeyer broke in half and, still being usable, was passed on to me for my trip - I found a spot right next to the road and fished for an hour, hoping to catch some free dinner. My plan was to catch a fish, find a small pullout on the side of the road to pitch my tent, cook dinner, and have an early night. Instead, I didn't catch anything and got back on my bicycle. When I arrived at the pullout for Overlander Falls - a short 20 minute hike to see a historic waterfall - a familiar looking SUV vehicle pulled up next to me and a guy stepped out.
"I don't believe in fate, and I don't believe in coincidence either," he said, "but you seemed like a cool guy back at the pass, do you want to go camp with me tonight?"
Still grasping to figure out that this was the same guy I spoke to at the top of Yellowhead Pass, about 50 miles back, I accepted his offer. It took a little bit to find an acceptable campsite; it's much easier to camp in the woods for free when the only thing you need to hide is a tent and a bicycle - hiding a car is much more work. Fortunately, Rich knew some people with property on the Fraser river and we camped on a sandbar in the middle of the river underneath an unclouded and picturesque Mt. Robson - the highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies. Rich proceeded in unpacking his car camping equipment which consisted of a gigantic tent, a full queen size blow up mattress, a camping stove powered by a tank of propane, and full kitchen equipment. After having a brief conversation with me on top of Yellowhead Pass, he had driven the 60 miles back from Jasper to find me because he felt like camping with "the crazy biking tourist he had just met." We had a fire and drank beer as we watched the stars and the trains pass by us until late in the evening. I couldn't understand why he made such a big drive back to find me but was happy for the unexpected good cheer and company
The next morning, the sunny forecast that I was expecting turned a complete 180 and clouded over. After a late start I made it about 20 miles before getting to a bakery I'd heard a lot about. "The Swiss Bakery" was young in age, but its reputation was already reaching far distances. After a coffee, a small callah loaf, a sausage pastry roll, and a little chocolate pastry (remember, it's easy to eat a lot when you're biking, ahem, 80+ miles, aheeeem, a day... cough cough cough), the sky was really darkening with clouds and I was reconsidering biking any further for the day.
Although I had stayed under a roof a mere two nights ago and had promised myself to cover some serious miles before taking advantage of other rainproof refuges, the feeling of humidity in the air and the dark, overcast skies made me think twice. I biked by the only house in Valemount, that was on warmshowers.org - a hospitality site similar to couchsurfing.org except exclusively for bicycle tourists. Fortunately for my body and unfortunately for my milage promise, the owner of the house was outside. After a brief conversation of bicycle touring stories, I quickly realized that it would be a better to stay under a warm roof with a warm meal than to forge onwards in the quickly dimming daylight and darkening skies.
It turned out into a wonderful evening conversing with my host, Thomas, a woodworker and ex-monk-turned-bike tourist/backcountry skier. We talked about life as a monk and the transition to starting a new life - a 50 year old ex-monk living the dream life of a 20 year old. We discussed the mountains and land ownership. Snowmobiles are taking over, he told me, and there is a continuous fight between the sledders and heli-ski companies in the area for usable terrain. Unfortunately, the self propelled folks-the alpine ski tourists who hike everywhere-don't get their say very much and they're left with difficult-to-access slopes. In many cases, it's a long trek into the mountains to access the heli-ski slopes where snowmobilers aren't allowed to play. I guess it would be pretty cool to wake up early though, tour up to the top of a mountain and get there before a heli-ski operation - giving the helicopter a wave as it passes by before you shred the coveted line of the day.
New pictures from Jasper to Vancouver are HERE!
Monday, October 10, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Canadian Impressions
Canada. That country to the north. It may seem like there's nothing further north in the United States save the endless barren steppe of North Dakota, or the mosquito filled lakes and wetlands of Minnesota; where areas that boast even a meager population density are rare. But cross this little line painted on maps - some places you may cross it without even knowing while in others large control buildings and gates have been constructed to control access - and you enter a completely different country, encounter huge population centers, and find some of the most vast and wild areas of North America.
When it comes to the outdoors, Canada has it all. The Canadian Rockies jut for miles and miles from the American Glacier National Park to the north. Just outside of Calgary, the Rockies are home to 5 Canadian National Parks, all but one of them sharing a border with eachother. Together, they make up one of the largest wilderness reserves on the planet. Within 2 days of crossing the border, we had seen 3 black bears - one that burst from its berry bushes between the bike trail we were on and the main road, almost taking Brint along with him. As I biked through Jasper National Park, a lone cayote meandered along a floodplain. I stopped to watch and in doing so, attracted cars passing by to stop and check out the scene, scaring the animal into the bushes. In Jasper, late in the evening as I biked back into town from a hike, I heard elk bugling from the trees on either side of the road. I rode to what I deemed to be a safe distance from the calls of the bull elk in rut before I began to look for him in the trees. Cars whizzed by me; people encased in a sound resistant metal shell oblivious of the things going on in the forest around them. All of a sudden, a cow popped out of the forest and crossed the road. She was closely followed by a huge bull with fully developed antlers. The magic of having first heard the elk, then seen them appear into view as they crossed the road made me very glad I was on a bicycle and not in a car.
It seems that when Canadians aren't enjoying the wealth of natural beauty, they are playing hockey. Upon leaving Calgary, we made it to Canmore - a small town located 30km south of Banff and just outside the park gate. The town, surrounded by a plethora of mountains, is a haven for outdoorsy folks who participate in activities like hiking, mountain biking, backcountry and resort skiing, cross-country skiing, hangliding and parasailing, and anything else imaginable in the mountains. Of course, the town would not be complete without a hockey rink. I stumbled upon the rink at the end of the day just as two teams in uniform were beginning a game of street hockey - no skates and no pads, just shoes, sticks and a ball. Apparently, the summer streetball season was coming to a close and this was the first game of the playoffs. Upon learning this, I gave up hope of joining in on the game, until one of the team captains burst out, "You wanna play? You shoot left? Here, you can use this stick." He got me a shirt and just like that, I was running around the seasonally flooded outdoor hockey rink after a ball in a playoff game. I ended up with one goal in my team's first playoff victory. "Come back again tomorrow night!" I was told. If I would have returned, however, I knew Canmore would have marked the end of my journey. Game after game I would have stayed for and probably ended up with a job in the small mountain town with "Help Wanted" signs posted on nearly every shop window.
As the NHL regular season comes to a start and hockey is becoming a topic of conversation, the weather has taken a drastic turn. As we biked through Banff and Jasper along the 200+km Icefields Parkway, we would constantly wake up to frigid mornings. My fingers would be numb every morning by the time my gear was packed and I was ready to leave. The temperature sunk to below freezing in the early morning hours, and it wouldn't be until 11 or noon when things finally warmed up. On some occasions, the day never warmed up; we found ourselves in the middle of a snow storm on the last mountain pass before Jasper.
By the time I hit Jasper, I was cold and ready for the comforts of a house. After an hour or so walking the streets of the small mountain town, I began a short conversation with a middle aged man, Roy, and was promptly invited to put my tent in his yard and eat dinner with him. I gladly agreed, and after a visit to one of the local coffee shop/bakeries, I was seated inside Roy's warm house drinking tea and talking about the mountains. In total, I spent 3 nights and four days with Roy and Jacinta and their son David. I would wake up early in the morning, go to the bakery for a coffee and cinnamon roll (The Bear's Paw if you're ever in Jasper), and read the paper for an hour or so, before taking off to climb one of the many peaks that surround the town. In the afternoon I drank tea and enjoyed the warmth and community that only roof and insulated building can provide.
You could say I became a little soft during my stay in Jasper. I began to yearn for a roof of my own. A warm bed I could crawl into everynight. Cups of warm tea all day. A kitchen full of spices and veggies and meat and baking supplies. A comfy couch to read stories of adventure and travel, geology and nature. As David left for school every morning, I realized how happy I was to be done; the daily chore of waking up to go to class and study a completed phase in my life. I even thought of work and jobs and my warm house at the end of the day. The cold weather was driving me inside and I knew I had to leave and get south!
So to the south I embarked and currently am in Lillooet, BC, a couple days ride through rain and headwinds to Vancouver. Comments are well appreciated if you are reading, and you can see pictures from Banff and Jasper here. Thanks for reading!
When it comes to the outdoors, Canada has it all. The Canadian Rockies jut for miles and miles from the American Glacier National Park to the north. Just outside of Calgary, the Rockies are home to 5 Canadian National Parks, all but one of them sharing a border with eachother. Together, they make up one of the largest wilderness reserves on the planet. Within 2 days of crossing the border, we had seen 3 black bears - one that burst from its berry bushes between the bike trail we were on and the main road, almost taking Brint along with him. As I biked through Jasper National Park, a lone cayote meandered along a floodplain. I stopped to watch and in doing so, attracted cars passing by to stop and check out the scene, scaring the animal into the bushes. In Jasper, late in the evening as I biked back into town from a hike, I heard elk bugling from the trees on either side of the road. I rode to what I deemed to be a safe distance from the calls of the bull elk in rut before I began to look for him in the trees. Cars whizzed by me; people encased in a sound resistant metal shell oblivious of the things going on in the forest around them. All of a sudden, a cow popped out of the forest and crossed the road. She was closely followed by a huge bull with fully developed antlers. The magic of having first heard the elk, then seen them appear into view as they crossed the road made me very glad I was on a bicycle and not in a car.
It seems that when Canadians aren't enjoying the wealth of natural beauty, they are playing hockey. Upon leaving Calgary, we made it to Canmore - a small town located 30km south of Banff and just outside the park gate. The town, surrounded by a plethora of mountains, is a haven for outdoorsy folks who participate in activities like hiking, mountain biking, backcountry and resort skiing, cross-country skiing, hangliding and parasailing, and anything else imaginable in the mountains. Of course, the town would not be complete without a hockey rink. I stumbled upon the rink at the end of the day just as two teams in uniform were beginning a game of street hockey - no skates and no pads, just shoes, sticks and a ball. Apparently, the summer streetball season was coming to a close and this was the first game of the playoffs. Upon learning this, I gave up hope of joining in on the game, until one of the team captains burst out, "You wanna play? You shoot left? Here, you can use this stick." He got me a shirt and just like that, I was running around the seasonally flooded outdoor hockey rink after a ball in a playoff game. I ended up with one goal in my team's first playoff victory. "Come back again tomorrow night!" I was told. If I would have returned, however, I knew Canmore would have marked the end of my journey. Game after game I would have stayed for and probably ended up with a job in the small mountain town with "Help Wanted" signs posted on nearly every shop window.
As the NHL regular season comes to a start and hockey is becoming a topic of conversation, the weather has taken a drastic turn. As we biked through Banff and Jasper along the 200+km Icefields Parkway, we would constantly wake up to frigid mornings. My fingers would be numb every morning by the time my gear was packed and I was ready to leave. The temperature sunk to below freezing in the early morning hours, and it wouldn't be until 11 or noon when things finally warmed up. On some occasions, the day never warmed up; we found ourselves in the middle of a snow storm on the last mountain pass before Jasper.
By the time I hit Jasper, I was cold and ready for the comforts of a house. After an hour or so walking the streets of the small mountain town, I began a short conversation with a middle aged man, Roy, and was promptly invited to put my tent in his yard and eat dinner with him. I gladly agreed, and after a visit to one of the local coffee shop/bakeries, I was seated inside Roy's warm house drinking tea and talking about the mountains. In total, I spent 3 nights and four days with Roy and Jacinta and their son David. I would wake up early in the morning, go to the bakery for a coffee and cinnamon roll (The Bear's Paw if you're ever in Jasper), and read the paper for an hour or so, before taking off to climb one of the many peaks that surround the town. In the afternoon I drank tea and enjoyed the warmth and community that only roof and insulated building can provide.
You could say I became a little soft during my stay in Jasper. I began to yearn for a roof of my own. A warm bed I could crawl into everynight. Cups of warm tea all day. A kitchen full of spices and veggies and meat and baking supplies. A comfy couch to read stories of adventure and travel, geology and nature. As David left for school every morning, I realized how happy I was to be done; the daily chore of waking up to go to class and study a completed phase in my life. I even thought of work and jobs and my warm house at the end of the day. The cold weather was driving me inside and I knew I had to leave and get south!
So to the south I embarked and currently am in Lillooet, BC, a couple days ride through rain and headwinds to Vancouver. Comments are well appreciated if you are reading, and you can see pictures from Banff and Jasper here. Thanks for reading!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Trust Humanity
From time and time again on this trip, I'm constantly reminded of the vast amount of wonderful people that exist in this world. Whether this reminder comes from a brief conversation with someone in a gas station, or spending an evening and a morning with a group of people, I come to the same conclusion. People are inherently good, they mean good and want to do good deeds to others. The only thing holding people back from these good deeds is the fear that is spread by society via the media of bad experiences that select people have. Fear is spread through societies in the form of horror stories, pictures, and the news. People are lead to believe that there are very few other people that can actually be trusted.
After four magical days in the back-country with Christa I said goodbye to her on a Sunday morning at the train stop in West Glacier. The night prior, we were 3 miles away from our intended campsite. The site was the result of the thoughtfulness of a man who, not only had given me a ride with my bike and multiple bags of groceries into the park 5 days prior, but had also lent me his whitewater kayak and shuttled me up river for an 8 mile run down the middle fork of the Flathead River. I stuck out my thumb in the pitch black of the moon-less evening and immediately a truck pulling a boat with two scuffy looking men pulled over. After a brief conversation, Christa climbed inside, and I pedalled like mad after the car that carried my girlfriend to our intended meeting place 3 miles down the road. Upon arrival, I saw the truck in a parking lot and glimpsed Christa walking into the only bar in West Glacier. I walked in and was confronted with a jubilant Saturday night atmosphere in what turned out to be the local whitewater rafting and kayaking, trekking, backcountry skiing, adventurer bar. The guys who had helped us out had offered us free beer and we were soon laughing, joking, and having a grand time with the locals that had at first given me a fright. Later, Christa managed to convince me that she really did have a train to catch the next morning and that we shouldn't accept our new friends offers for a round of shots at around 11pm.
After a short nights sleep, a quick breakfast, and an even faster goodbye as Christa was hurried onto the east-bound train, I finally got underway on my bike again the next morning at 9:30am. I was headed east on the Going to the Sun Road towards the divide through Glacier National Park. The road possessed certain restrictions to bicycles, I would have to summit the pass before 11am, an estimated 3 hour ride from the location I began. I got underway, and by 11am I had made significant progress, but was still about 1.5 hours from the top. It was clear to me why the restrictions were in place - the non-existence of a shoulder and the twisted winding road with a constant 6% grade uphill made it a difficult road for inexperienced tourist drivers and especially dangerous for bicycles. The traffic jams on the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend caused by a careless biker going 7mph would create many unhappy vacationers as they tried to drive the extraordinarily scenic road to the top of Logan Pass.
Before 11am and the beginning of the bicycle restrictions, I was completely aware of these problems I could cause, so was fully conscious of my need to get off my bike and stand aside when large streams of cars would pass me. I took care not to upset the hundreds of cars that passed me while protecting myself from careless drivers at the same time. The comments I received from drivers as they passed me, or as I passed them stopped on the side of the road were nothing but positive. "You can do it," "We're with you, glad it's you and not me biking," "We believe in you!"
When 11am came and went, I decided I wasn't causing traffic jams and people enjoyed seeing me biking, so I continued up the pass. My presence, however, was not appreciated by the law enforcement personnel in the park and a mere 2 miles from the top of the pass, I was stopped by an officer. There was no way to avoid the $125 ticket. "That's 2 weeks of food for me, I wasn't causing any problems it was the tourists driving slowly, parked in the middle of the lanes that caused the traffic jams, I constantly stopped to let cars around me as they came up! Isn't there anything I can do? Could I work for a couple days for the park? Anything???" "I'm saving your life," was the reply from the %&#$ officer.
The day was quickly going downhill. The descent of the pass was not at all gratifying like pass descents should be. The usual overwhelming flood of endorphins and accomplishment that I usually felt after summiting a pass was replaced by remorse, sadness, homesickness, and anger. It was my first time in about 2 weeks on my own again and I missed the companionship of my friends and especially my girlfriend. A quick phone call with Brint however gave me hope. He had just crossed the Canadian border and would wait for me at a campsite a mile or two away from the line. I pedalled with a renewed pace of ambition out of the park and across the Blackfoot reservation north toward the border.
14 miles shy of the border, however, I had the idea to get my passport and everything in order for the officials. It quickly dawned on me that my passport was not in the place it had been everyday of my trip. I had moved it into my backpacking backpack which Christa had brought out to me for our trip together; my passport was with her on the Amtrack, by this time somewhere in North Dakota, headed away from me and back to Wisconsin at 60 miles an hour.
I was devastated. The weight of the day took over my entire being. I was completely alone, missing Christa and my friends terribly, feeling even worse because of the ticket, and my only glimmer of hope at crossing the border and being reunited with Brint had been dashed out by my own forgetfulness. I sat in the ditch in the middle of the grassy ranch land on the reservation with my head between my legs. A car stopped next to me and an asian tourist with limited english got out and asked me if this was the way to the border. In desperate need of a person to talk to to share my pains with, I hoped he would see the distraught look in my face, but after answering his question, he was back on the road, speeding toward the border I could not cross.
My phone was my only connection with my friends and family that could comfort me, but it was soon out of battery and I was completely done; out of energy and an emotional wreck. As I biked back toward Glacier, the tears flowed freely down my face and I cried out in anguish at the flood of negative emotions I was feeling. I needed a bed, I needed some dinner, I needed a friend to talk to.
A campground that advertised warm showers and laundry among other things sparked my attention and I pulled off the road to test my luck. "$20 is the cost," I was told by the native that sat at the entrance in a lawn chair. "Glacier would charge me only $5 for a site..." I told him, and he agreed with my price. I pedalled over to the site I was directed to and started up a conversation with my neighbors, the only people in my proximate vicinity.
My neighbors were a elderly native couple, Mary and Tiny, recent grandparents. Mary was taking care of three younger children that ran back and forth between the lake and their camper and offered me dinner. As I sat around their fire eating hot dogs and talking with Tiny, my sadness slowly flowed away. I told them about my day and about my trip, about Christa and about the ticket and my passport. They told me about their recent trip to Jasper, about life on the reservation and the problems that the Native American community faces in today's world. I was invited back the next morning for breakfast. By the morning I was feeling significantly better, and after a bacon, sausage, pancake, egg breakfast I was treated to, all my problems had washed away. Listening to a phone message from Brint about the probability of me being able to cross the border without a passport added to my increasing mood, and I set out for the Canadian border, refreshed, with a new light inside of me of love for Mary and Tiny, love for the Blackfeet people, and love for humanity in general.
While there are bad people that will rob you, steal from you, and perhaps hurt you, the majority of people are good; willing to give what they can for the assistance to another human and the betterment of society in general.
I crossed the border at noon, and reunited with Brint headed for Waterton National Park in Canada. By Friday, we had made it to Calgary and the hospitality and shelter of Anthony's old room mates and friends. The goodness of people has been the saving and most beneficial grace of my entire trip, and my faith is in humanity.
New pictures
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/MontanaAndIntoCanada?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCO34h-uigpXqJQ&feat=directlink
After four magical days in the back-country with Christa I said goodbye to her on a Sunday morning at the train stop in West Glacier. The night prior, we were 3 miles away from our intended campsite. The site was the result of the thoughtfulness of a man who, not only had given me a ride with my bike and multiple bags of groceries into the park 5 days prior, but had also lent me his whitewater kayak and shuttled me up river for an 8 mile run down the middle fork of the Flathead River. I stuck out my thumb in the pitch black of the moon-less evening and immediately a truck pulling a boat with two scuffy looking men pulled over. After a brief conversation, Christa climbed inside, and I pedalled like mad after the car that carried my girlfriend to our intended meeting place 3 miles down the road. Upon arrival, I saw the truck in a parking lot and glimpsed Christa walking into the only bar in West Glacier. I walked in and was confronted with a jubilant Saturday night atmosphere in what turned out to be the local whitewater rafting and kayaking, trekking, backcountry skiing, adventurer bar. The guys who had helped us out had offered us free beer and we were soon laughing, joking, and having a grand time with the locals that had at first given me a fright. Later, Christa managed to convince me that she really did have a train to catch the next morning and that we shouldn't accept our new friends offers for a round of shots at around 11pm.
After a short nights sleep, a quick breakfast, and an even faster goodbye as Christa was hurried onto the east-bound train, I finally got underway on my bike again the next morning at 9:30am. I was headed east on the Going to the Sun Road towards the divide through Glacier National Park. The road possessed certain restrictions to bicycles, I would have to summit the pass before 11am, an estimated 3 hour ride from the location I began. I got underway, and by 11am I had made significant progress, but was still about 1.5 hours from the top. It was clear to me why the restrictions were in place - the non-existence of a shoulder and the twisted winding road with a constant 6% grade uphill made it a difficult road for inexperienced tourist drivers and especially dangerous for bicycles. The traffic jams on the Sunday of Labor Day Weekend caused by a careless biker going 7mph would create many unhappy vacationers as they tried to drive the extraordinarily scenic road to the top of Logan Pass.
Before 11am and the beginning of the bicycle restrictions, I was completely aware of these problems I could cause, so was fully conscious of my need to get off my bike and stand aside when large streams of cars would pass me. I took care not to upset the hundreds of cars that passed me while protecting myself from careless drivers at the same time. The comments I received from drivers as they passed me, or as I passed them stopped on the side of the road were nothing but positive. "You can do it," "We're with you, glad it's you and not me biking," "We believe in you!"
When 11am came and went, I decided I wasn't causing traffic jams and people enjoyed seeing me biking, so I continued up the pass. My presence, however, was not appreciated by the law enforcement personnel in the park and a mere 2 miles from the top of the pass, I was stopped by an officer. There was no way to avoid the $125 ticket. "That's 2 weeks of food for me, I wasn't causing any problems it was the tourists driving slowly, parked in the middle of the lanes that caused the traffic jams, I constantly stopped to let cars around me as they came up! Isn't there anything I can do? Could I work for a couple days for the park? Anything???" "I'm saving your life," was the reply from the %&#$ officer.
The day was quickly going downhill. The descent of the pass was not at all gratifying like pass descents should be. The usual overwhelming flood of endorphins and accomplishment that I usually felt after summiting a pass was replaced by remorse, sadness, homesickness, and anger. It was my first time in about 2 weeks on my own again and I missed the companionship of my friends and especially my girlfriend. A quick phone call with Brint however gave me hope. He had just crossed the Canadian border and would wait for me at a campsite a mile or two away from the line. I pedalled with a renewed pace of ambition out of the park and across the Blackfoot reservation north toward the border.
14 miles shy of the border, however, I had the idea to get my passport and everything in order for the officials. It quickly dawned on me that my passport was not in the place it had been everyday of my trip. I had moved it into my backpacking backpack which Christa had brought out to me for our trip together; my passport was with her on the Amtrack, by this time somewhere in North Dakota, headed away from me and back to Wisconsin at 60 miles an hour.
I was devastated. The weight of the day took over my entire being. I was completely alone, missing Christa and my friends terribly, feeling even worse because of the ticket, and my only glimmer of hope at crossing the border and being reunited with Brint had been dashed out by my own forgetfulness. I sat in the ditch in the middle of the grassy ranch land on the reservation with my head between my legs. A car stopped next to me and an asian tourist with limited english got out and asked me if this was the way to the border. In desperate need of a person to talk to to share my pains with, I hoped he would see the distraught look in my face, but after answering his question, he was back on the road, speeding toward the border I could not cross.
My phone was my only connection with my friends and family that could comfort me, but it was soon out of battery and I was completely done; out of energy and an emotional wreck. As I biked back toward Glacier, the tears flowed freely down my face and I cried out in anguish at the flood of negative emotions I was feeling. I needed a bed, I needed some dinner, I needed a friend to talk to.
A campground that advertised warm showers and laundry among other things sparked my attention and I pulled off the road to test my luck. "$20 is the cost," I was told by the native that sat at the entrance in a lawn chair. "Glacier would charge me only $5 for a site..." I told him, and he agreed with my price. I pedalled over to the site I was directed to and started up a conversation with my neighbors, the only people in my proximate vicinity.
My neighbors were a elderly native couple, Mary and Tiny, recent grandparents. Mary was taking care of three younger children that ran back and forth between the lake and their camper and offered me dinner. As I sat around their fire eating hot dogs and talking with Tiny, my sadness slowly flowed away. I told them about my day and about my trip, about Christa and about the ticket and my passport. They told me about their recent trip to Jasper, about life on the reservation and the problems that the Native American community faces in today's world. I was invited back the next morning for breakfast. By the morning I was feeling significantly better, and after a bacon, sausage, pancake, egg breakfast I was treated to, all my problems had washed away. Listening to a phone message from Brint about the probability of me being able to cross the border without a passport added to my increasing mood, and I set out for the Canadian border, refreshed, with a new light inside of me of love for Mary and Tiny, love for the Blackfeet people, and love for humanity in general.
While there are bad people that will rob you, steal from you, and perhaps hurt you, the majority of people are good; willing to give what they can for the assistance to another human and the betterment of society in general.
I crossed the border at noon, and reunited with Brint headed for Waterton National Park in Canada. By Friday, we had made it to Calgary and the hospitality and shelter of Anthony's old room mates and friends. The goodness of people has been the saving and most beneficial grace of my entire trip, and my faith is in humanity.
New pictures
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/MontanaAndIntoCanada?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCO34h-uigpXqJQ&feat=directlink
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Mighty Gallatin River
In the most southern reaches of Montana, on the border of Yellowstone National Park, high up in the smoldering volcanic cinders of the fuming mountains, there exists a small wetland with a little stream running through it. The wetland consists of rodents and waterfowl, raptors circling overhead, and black bears and grizzly bears meandering in search of trout that fill the waters of the river and berries that line its shores. The wetland's green, grassy expanses are strikingly different than the mountainous sides that erupt on either side. The stream, that begins as a mere trickle, soon turns into a gurgling flow as it leaves Yellowstone and becomes the Gallatin River. Grassy fields line its shore and the river supports vibrant ecosystems and ranches for more than 100 miles as it gains more volume until it reaches Three Forks and joins forces with the East Gallatin and the Madison River to become the Missouri River.
The Gallatin is like any mountain stream; during the spring melt its banks become flooded as the icy snowpack turns to its liquid form and rushes to the ocean. During this flood phase when the water is high, it carries debris as far downstream as possible before becoming en-snagged and stopped due to lowering water levels. Fully grown, downed trees are transported for miles; sticks and branches get thrown high up on shore, and the rocky, meandering river bed gets completely changed as boulders get pushed downstream by the force of the high flow. Boating the Gallatin during high flow must be an entertaining experience; one that many whitewater kayakers took full advantage of this past spring and into the summer as the enormous snowpack of the previous winter melted away.
My second or third day in Bozeman, Ben's idea was to float this river in his canoe. Of course it would be an easy float, he explained to me. We would bring a cooler with beer, our fishing rods, and have a grand old time lazily floating down the 6 mile stretch of river in the late afternoon. We put on the river around 5 or 6, with about 3 hours of daylight left ahead of us. We were dressed in shorts and t-shirts - typical summer wear for the season and just barely sufficient for the evenings and nights that were beginning to be cooler as the fall season approached.
By this time in the season, the water was about five vertical feet below the spring levels Ben had last seen it, and we followed the river slowly, lackadaisically looking for fishing spots and finding the route downstream. We were in Ben's old, heavy, aluminum canoe - a canoe he had found discarded in Hyalite Reservoir close to Bozeman. An excellent find and a vessel that had served him well, in spite of the lesser handling ability and heavy, plow-through-the-rapids type build. We had a cooler with beer, three fishing rods, a jar of peanuts, Ben in front, his room mate Brett in the middle, and me steering the boat in the stern. We seemed to be set up for success and a great afternoon.
Yet the streams tight curves, vast quantity of dead wood, and completely different path than expected yielded challenges we weren't expecting. "Huh, this is waaay different than I remember it," exclaimed Ben as we narrowly avoided scraping up on rocks and beaching the old canoe. I had just steered the canoe down a route through a rapid putting us in precariously close vicinity to some dead trees, but remaining in the swift current and avoiding the shallow rocks a couple of inches from the draft of the boat.
"You sure you got this," questioned Ben?
"This isn't really what I was expecting, we might have to put the fishing aside for a while and really paddle," I replied.
A couple of rapids later, we were confronted with a bend to the right in the river. The setting sun cast a glare into our eyes, blinding us from the river left bank that the stream carried us towards before cutting right. A shallow rocky shore blocked our path from cutting straight down the river; in order to follow the channel we would have to stay high then cut hard downstream to avoid hitting the river left bank. But, if we happened to crash into the left bank, whatever trees and strainers that existed there would surely push us downstream and we would be okay. It may get a little hairy, I thought, but in the end we would be sent straight downstream and avoid danger.
As our speed picked up and we entered the shade of the trees, the far bank revealed itself to us. As we speed towards it sideways trying to shoot ourselves downstream, razor sharp tree trunks jutted out perpendicularly to the water flow - the work of friendly beavers. These dead trees weren't harmless wood that would merely push us downstream, they would impale us if we came too close and stop our progress down the river with a painful and bloody shove.
As the boat came around, Ben in the front cleared the danger. Brett saw it and swerved around it. But as the spike came at my torso, I couldn't do anything about it. The only choice was to lean away from it - leaning upstream at the current - and in a second we were swimming in the water, beer cans and fishing poles floating away from the boat in the chilly melt water.
After the debris had been collected and we were drying off on the shore of the river assessing the damage we were at a loss for words. Was it my fault, I asked myself? Maybe Ben could have paddled a little bit harder and we could have hit the route as I had intended. But if Ben would have been in the stern, he argued, he would have taken the easy way around, beaching the canoe in the shallows, walking the boat and avoiding danger all together.
What would have been done, given differing circumstances will never be known. As for the rest of the trip, Ben took over in the stern, and with my guidance from the bow we commandeered the canoe down the rest of the river avoiding danger the entire way.
Beware, the spring flood waters change rivers. Easy float trips become challenging, technical rapids full of dead wood and unexpected death traps - in our case, razor sharp, beaver shaved, tree trunks of death...
The Gallatin is like any mountain stream; during the spring melt its banks become flooded as the icy snowpack turns to its liquid form and rushes to the ocean. During this flood phase when the water is high, it carries debris as far downstream as possible before becoming en-snagged and stopped due to lowering water levels. Fully grown, downed trees are transported for miles; sticks and branches get thrown high up on shore, and the rocky, meandering river bed gets completely changed as boulders get pushed downstream by the force of the high flow. Boating the Gallatin during high flow must be an entertaining experience; one that many whitewater kayakers took full advantage of this past spring and into the summer as the enormous snowpack of the previous winter melted away.
My second or third day in Bozeman, Ben's idea was to float this river in his canoe. Of course it would be an easy float, he explained to me. We would bring a cooler with beer, our fishing rods, and have a grand old time lazily floating down the 6 mile stretch of river in the late afternoon. We put on the river around 5 or 6, with about 3 hours of daylight left ahead of us. We were dressed in shorts and t-shirts - typical summer wear for the season and just barely sufficient for the evenings and nights that were beginning to be cooler as the fall season approached.
By this time in the season, the water was about five vertical feet below the spring levels Ben had last seen it, and we followed the river slowly, lackadaisically looking for fishing spots and finding the route downstream. We were in Ben's old, heavy, aluminum canoe - a canoe he had found discarded in Hyalite Reservoir close to Bozeman. An excellent find and a vessel that had served him well, in spite of the lesser handling ability and heavy, plow-through-the-rapids type build. We had a cooler with beer, three fishing rods, a jar of peanuts, Ben in front, his room mate Brett in the middle, and me steering the boat in the stern. We seemed to be set up for success and a great afternoon.
Yet the streams tight curves, vast quantity of dead wood, and completely different path than expected yielded challenges we weren't expecting. "Huh, this is waaay different than I remember it," exclaimed Ben as we narrowly avoided scraping up on rocks and beaching the old canoe. I had just steered the canoe down a route through a rapid putting us in precariously close vicinity to some dead trees, but remaining in the swift current and avoiding the shallow rocks a couple of inches from the draft of the boat.
"You sure you got this," questioned Ben?
"This isn't really what I was expecting, we might have to put the fishing aside for a while and really paddle," I replied.
A couple of rapids later, we were confronted with a bend to the right in the river. The setting sun cast a glare into our eyes, blinding us from the river left bank that the stream carried us towards before cutting right. A shallow rocky shore blocked our path from cutting straight down the river; in order to follow the channel we would have to stay high then cut hard downstream to avoid hitting the river left bank. But, if we happened to crash into the left bank, whatever trees and strainers that existed there would surely push us downstream and we would be okay. It may get a little hairy, I thought, but in the end we would be sent straight downstream and avoid danger.
As our speed picked up and we entered the shade of the trees, the far bank revealed itself to us. As we speed towards it sideways trying to shoot ourselves downstream, razor sharp tree trunks jutted out perpendicularly to the water flow - the work of friendly beavers. These dead trees weren't harmless wood that would merely push us downstream, they would impale us if we came too close and stop our progress down the river with a painful and bloody shove.
As the boat came around, Ben in the front cleared the danger. Brett saw it and swerved around it. But as the spike came at my torso, I couldn't do anything about it. The only choice was to lean away from it - leaning upstream at the current - and in a second we were swimming in the water, beer cans and fishing poles floating away from the boat in the chilly melt water.
After the debris had been collected and we were drying off on the shore of the river assessing the damage we were at a loss for words. Was it my fault, I asked myself? Maybe Ben could have paddled a little bit harder and we could have hit the route as I had intended. But if Ben would have been in the stern, he argued, he would have taken the easy way around, beaching the canoe in the shallows, walking the boat and avoiding danger all together.
What would have been done, given differing circumstances will never be known. As for the rest of the trip, Ben took over in the stern, and with my guidance from the bow we commandeered the canoe down the rest of the river avoiding danger the entire way.
Beware, the spring flood waters change rivers. Easy float trips become challenging, technical rapids full of dead wood and unexpected death traps - in our case, razor sharp, beaver shaved, tree trunks of death...
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
To Glacier National Park
After a long spell in Bozeman with Ben (1.5 weeks) Ben and I set out together for Glacier National Park. I have to admit, I cheated a little bit during this segment - Ben and I drove until we were just northwest of Helena. We could have driven to the top of the continental divide pass to start our trip, but some masochistic tendency within us told us to bike all the way up and over. We skipped Missoula and headed straight north through the Swan Valley, a valley with the Swan mountains to the east and the Mission mountains separating us from Flathead lake, the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi. Through the valley we biked, passing snow capped peaks and crystal clear rivers with trout rising from their stream homes.
We arrived at the Flathead brewery in the early afternoon, a little distraught after missing all the Montana microbreweries in Helena and Missoula, but looking forward to some good pints and the Flathead Brewery's new claim to fame, the "tackle box" - beer in a bag - the perfect product for the touring cyclist. After three alcoholic pints and a little tour of the brewery's operations, we were on our way to find a camping spot where we could fish and consume the gallon of beer - 8 pints - that our new "tackle box" held. The campsite ended up being a little sketchy. It was on the way to a National Forest campground where water levels in the lake had flooded the causeway that crossed it. With the road being closed, we camped in the dead end and awaited our friend Grace who was coming from Havre in a car to meet us. Alas, there were no fish to be caught in the lake, but the pints of fermented malty soda slid down our throats like cold water on a hot day and the evening was a success.
Once finally inside Glacier - and here I cheated again as Grace drove both Ben and myself the remaining 40 or so miles to the park - we were amazed at what we saw. Initially called "The Crown of the Continent," Glacier National Park and Waterton National Park on the Canadian side rise abruptly from the prairie plains on the east. Once within the green mountain valleys, the mountains reveal huge glaciated troughs where gigantic rivers of ice snaked their way to the plains. Waterfalls spewed over the cliffs of hanging valleys where one glacier's path was cut off high in the peaks by another. Alpine meadows of wildflowers covered the hills, fueled by the consistent streams of melt water from the glaciers. As the glaciers disappear, this place will indeed be different without the streams and meadows of flowers. By 2030 the glaciers are projected to be completely gone, melting and receding since 1850.
I had two days to spend alone while I waited for Christa to arrive on the train with backpacking gear. On the first day, I found myself out of the park buying supplies for the camping trip. Sitting on the curb outside the grocery store with piles of food scattered around my bike, I sipped a beer wondering how I would fit everything on my bike and bike the 15 miles uphill back to the park. Fortunately, luck was on my side and after a few more sips of beer I was sitting in the front seat of a pick up truck with my bike and groceries in the back. Turned out Gerard and his wife Lynette who picked me up from the store were bike tourists themselves and were happy to help me out. The conversation went from politics and the little care that people in the area seem to have for the environment to whitewater kayaking. Gerard ran one of "the most scenic school bus routes in the United States." He couldn't believe that all the kids he gave rides to played video games on their cell phones for the entire length of the 45 minute journey to school. Kids who he swore would shoot the entire Montanan wolf population dead in a heartbeat if they had the chance (Montana wolf permits this year only $19, it'll be the first year of permissible wolf hunting). I tried to offer optimism in that the video games were a phase that kids go through and there was hope for the future. But it must be hard to see this hope surrounded by people that don't see similarly to you. By the time I was dropped off in the park, Gerard had arranged for me to meet him the next day for me to use his old Prijon creeker boat for a run down the middle fork of the Flathead River.
Everything was set for Christa's arrival. Although the weather forecast held a winter storm warning and a 100% chance of rain on the first 2 days of our 4 day hiking trip, I had the permit to hike 40 miles from the east, over the divide, to end up in West Glacier. The run down the Flathead River was magical, wonderful to be in a boat again, but this time floating down pristine glacial runoff looking up at the towering peaks of Glacier above me. Logs and dead trees were scattered about the shore, 10 feet above me, a reminder that just a month ago the river was still in high flood stage from the huge snowfall of the past winter. The rapids were great with a couple little surfing waves to play about on and no rafts to worry about pushing me off. After the run, I awaited the arrival of my girlfriend by Lake McDonald in the park, reading a book on the shore of the lake.
We arrived at the Flathead brewery in the early afternoon, a little distraught after missing all the Montana microbreweries in Helena and Missoula, but looking forward to some good pints and the Flathead Brewery's new claim to fame, the "tackle box" - beer in a bag - the perfect product for the touring cyclist. After three alcoholic pints and a little tour of the brewery's operations, we were on our way to find a camping spot where we could fish and consume the gallon of beer - 8 pints - that our new "tackle box" held. The campsite ended up being a little sketchy. It was on the way to a National Forest campground where water levels in the lake had flooded the causeway that crossed it. With the road being closed, we camped in the dead end and awaited our friend Grace who was coming from Havre in a car to meet us. Alas, there were no fish to be caught in the lake, but the pints of fermented malty soda slid down our throats like cold water on a hot day and the evening was a success.
Once finally inside Glacier - and here I cheated again as Grace drove both Ben and myself the remaining 40 or so miles to the park - we were amazed at what we saw. Initially called "The Crown of the Continent," Glacier National Park and Waterton National Park on the Canadian side rise abruptly from the prairie plains on the east. Once within the green mountain valleys, the mountains reveal huge glaciated troughs where gigantic rivers of ice snaked their way to the plains. Waterfalls spewed over the cliffs of hanging valleys where one glacier's path was cut off high in the peaks by another. Alpine meadows of wildflowers covered the hills, fueled by the consistent streams of melt water from the glaciers. As the glaciers disappear, this place will indeed be different without the streams and meadows of flowers. By 2030 the glaciers are projected to be completely gone, melting and receding since 1850.
I had two days to spend alone while I waited for Christa to arrive on the train with backpacking gear. On the first day, I found myself out of the park buying supplies for the camping trip. Sitting on the curb outside the grocery store with piles of food scattered around my bike, I sipped a beer wondering how I would fit everything on my bike and bike the 15 miles uphill back to the park. Fortunately, luck was on my side and after a few more sips of beer I was sitting in the front seat of a pick up truck with my bike and groceries in the back. Turned out Gerard and his wife Lynette who picked me up from the store were bike tourists themselves and were happy to help me out. The conversation went from politics and the little care that people in the area seem to have for the environment to whitewater kayaking. Gerard ran one of "the most scenic school bus routes in the United States." He couldn't believe that all the kids he gave rides to played video games on their cell phones for the entire length of the 45 minute journey to school. Kids who he swore would shoot the entire Montanan wolf population dead in a heartbeat if they had the chance (Montana wolf permits this year only $19, it'll be the first year of permissible wolf hunting). I tried to offer optimism in that the video games were a phase that kids go through and there was hope for the future. But it must be hard to see this hope surrounded by people that don't see similarly to you. By the time I was dropped off in the park, Gerard had arranged for me to meet him the next day for me to use his old Prijon creeker boat for a run down the middle fork of the Flathead River.
Everything was set for Christa's arrival. Although the weather forecast held a winter storm warning and a 100% chance of rain on the first 2 days of our 4 day hiking trip, I had the permit to hike 40 miles from the east, over the divide, to end up in West Glacier. The run down the Flathead River was magical, wonderful to be in a boat again, but this time floating down pristine glacial runoff looking up at the towering peaks of Glacier above me. Logs and dead trees were scattered about the shore, 10 feet above me, a reminder that just a month ago the river was still in high flood stage from the huge snowfall of the past winter. The rapids were great with a couple little surfing waves to play about on and no rafts to worry about pushing me off. After the run, I awaited the arrival of my girlfriend by Lake McDonald in the park, reading a book on the shore of the lake.
Monday, August 22, 2011
The Mountains are beckoning
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.
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.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Winding into Wyoming
The day I made it out of South Dakota and the Black Hills I had been skirting my way around large, ominous looking thunder clouds all day. I had awoken above Hill City on the Michelson trail to a bright but chilly morning at 6am. But by the time I had my bags packed away around 7 it had started to drizzle. Fortunately it was a downhill ride into Hill City, and I ducked into a store for a coffee just in time for the clouds to release the condensed vapor they had been holding. It rained hard for a full hour and I was happy to be inside, nursing my warm coffee as I watched the rain come down with a cold fury through the windows.
An hour later, the storm had finished, the sun came out, and I started my way on the trail again. It was another uphill battle along the crushed limestone trail to get to the unfinished sculpture that will hopefully one day depict Crazy Horse pointing into the distance with his hair flowing in the wind - what will be the largest sculpture in the world. Unfortunately, the sculpture looked very similar to what I saw about 8 years ago on a trip with my family. I biked downhill once again to get to Custer where, upon a recommendation from some fellow Wisconsinites I had met, I ducked into The Bakery just as the clouds released their moisture once again. I wasn't disappointed with my recommendation, the food was incredible. After my meal I was even able to recommend some motorcyclists that were trying to decide where to eat.
"Eat here," I said, "you won't regret it, the food's incredible."
"Oh really? Yeah, you probably work here or something..."
I pointed to my bicycle outside the shop window, "That's my ride."
There was a pause while I paid my bill, then,
"Right on man, you're doing it the right way! You got it figured out," I was told as I walked out of the store...
Unfortunately, my dream reality of following a little bike trail through the hills with green trees, wildflowers, meandering, gushing streams and lush meadows on both sides of me was over. I resigned myself to the motors and the highway and said goodbye to the Black Hills as I entered Wyoming. Wyoming looked dark and threatening. Black clouds stretched out before me; the towering heights of the cumulus clouds visible from miles away. The road lead me straight into the blackness and it wasn't long before it began to rain. I was trying to make it to Newcastle to shelter the storm, but the gusts of wind from the easterly directed storms slowed my pace quite substantially. I found shelter under a tree at a historic marker where another cyclist was munching away at cheeto's awaiting the blue sky that was visible just a couple miles to the west. As it turned out, we had skirted our way through the middle of two storms with lightening striking about 15 miles to the north and south of us.
"Where are you going to stay tonight?" Eileen asked me after we had cycled into Newcastle. It was 5:30 so I hadn't really thought about where I was going to camp that night. Usually if I'm trying to cover ground, around 6 or 7pm I make sure I have enough water and food on me for the night (I carry one pannier full of food with my stove and fuel and 5 liters of water capacity). Then I'll find a spot to pitch my tent in a city park, National Forest, or someone's front yard around 8pm, or whenever the sun is starting to go down. This way, I can make some food, read or write and watch the sunset for a little bit as the daylight disappears, and be in bed around 9 or whenever the darkness engulfs the pages of my book.
"I don't know," I replied. I looked at the map; the next town was about 20 miles away and didn't look like there was much to it. In my experience with South Dakota, towns that were on the map but didn't look very big had the possibility of being but a meager cluster of dilapidated looking houses, lacking even the most practical of small businesses such as a bar or a convenience store to fill up on water.
"I guess maybe I could call it a day, I've come 65 miles, that's not that bad, do you know of any places where I could pitch a tent in town?"
"Well, if you want, you could stay in the bed in my guest room, I bet you haven't slept in a bed in a long time."
An offer like that was difficult to pass up, even though I've noticed that I've been starting to sleep better in my tent on my pad. When I have the opportunity to sleep in a bed, they seem overly cushy and warm, situated in the stale environment of a bedroom with a thick wall separating me from the noises and fresh air of the outside world. Still, I accepted her offer with enthusiasm since the possibility of sleeping indoors in a real bed doesn't present itself on a regular basis.
As we biked up the road I noticed a large house on the top of a hill overlooking the plains of eastern Wyoming. 'What a view it must be from the porch on that house,' I thought, 'sure would be nice to stay in a place like that some day.' A moment later Eileen was pointing at that very house, explaining that she and her husband had built it years ago - it was their dream house.
What ensued was relaxation and luxury. I was treated by the most hospitable of hosts, sipping a beer as I sat in a swing chair on the very porch I had admired on the way up, watching storms blow their way across the brown expanse of the Wyoming plains. Lightening struck down vertically every few moments, yet there was no rain where I was sitting, miles and miles away. I enjoyed the rest of the evening eating hamburgers and sweet corn and talking with Eileen about life as a middle school guidance counselor in Newcastle - a town of about 3000 people and an oil refinery situated on the busy western railway that brings coal from the mines of the west to the power plants of the east. Eileen's aunt-in-law was also over for the night; a spunky, quick, well-opinionated elderly lady originally from Wisconsin but now from Colorado for about 30 years. She liked to travel and had strong opinions about politics. Fortunately, we shared similar political views and disagreements didn't erupt as we watched the democrats fail to obtain 3 republican seats in the Wisconsin senate recall elections.
One of the best things about life on the road, I realized that night. Every day when I wake up, I have no idea what I'm going to see during the day; no idea what's going to happen to me, and above all, no idea where I'm going to sleep that night. When I awoke that morning above Hill City in my own secluded piece of National Forest, surrounded by swarms of motorcyclists, I had no idea the road would take me to Eileen's house where I would lounge in the luxury of her hillside home. I figure it's this connection to society - the close yet distant proximity to city conveniences - as well as wonderful people like Eileen and her husband Wayne, that keep me going on my bicycle. Without them, I would be tired of this life by now, yearning for a familiar couch to sit on and a beer to drink instead of the open road and the unknown.
An hour later, the storm had finished, the sun came out, and I started my way on the trail again. It was another uphill battle along the crushed limestone trail to get to the unfinished sculpture that will hopefully one day depict Crazy Horse pointing into the distance with his hair flowing in the wind - what will be the largest sculpture in the world. Unfortunately, the sculpture looked very similar to what I saw about 8 years ago on a trip with my family. I biked downhill once again to get to Custer where, upon a recommendation from some fellow Wisconsinites I had met, I ducked into The Bakery just as the clouds released their moisture once again. I wasn't disappointed with my recommendation, the food was incredible. After my meal I was even able to recommend some motorcyclists that were trying to decide where to eat.
"Eat here," I said, "you won't regret it, the food's incredible."
"Oh really? Yeah, you probably work here or something..."
I pointed to my bicycle outside the shop window, "That's my ride."
There was a pause while I paid my bill, then,
"Right on man, you're doing it the right way! You got it figured out," I was told as I walked out of the store...
Unfortunately, my dream reality of following a little bike trail through the hills with green trees, wildflowers, meandering, gushing streams and lush meadows on both sides of me was over. I resigned myself to the motors and the highway and said goodbye to the Black Hills as I entered Wyoming. Wyoming looked dark and threatening. Black clouds stretched out before me; the towering heights of the cumulus clouds visible from miles away. The road lead me straight into the blackness and it wasn't long before it began to rain. I was trying to make it to Newcastle to shelter the storm, but the gusts of wind from the easterly directed storms slowed my pace quite substantially. I found shelter under a tree at a historic marker where another cyclist was munching away at cheeto's awaiting the blue sky that was visible just a couple miles to the west. As it turned out, we had skirted our way through the middle of two storms with lightening striking about 15 miles to the north and south of us.
"Where are you going to stay tonight?" Eileen asked me after we had cycled into Newcastle. It was 5:30 so I hadn't really thought about where I was going to camp that night. Usually if I'm trying to cover ground, around 6 or 7pm I make sure I have enough water and food on me for the night (I carry one pannier full of food with my stove and fuel and 5 liters of water capacity). Then I'll find a spot to pitch my tent in a city park, National Forest, or someone's front yard around 8pm, or whenever the sun is starting to go down. This way, I can make some food, read or write and watch the sunset for a little bit as the daylight disappears, and be in bed around 9 or whenever the darkness engulfs the pages of my book.
"I don't know," I replied. I looked at the map; the next town was about 20 miles away and didn't look like there was much to it. In my experience with South Dakota, towns that were on the map but didn't look very big had the possibility of being but a meager cluster of dilapidated looking houses, lacking even the most practical of small businesses such as a bar or a convenience store to fill up on water.
"I guess maybe I could call it a day, I've come 65 miles, that's not that bad, do you know of any places where I could pitch a tent in town?"
"Well, if you want, you could stay in the bed in my guest room, I bet you haven't slept in a bed in a long time."
An offer like that was difficult to pass up, even though I've noticed that I've been starting to sleep better in my tent on my pad. When I have the opportunity to sleep in a bed, they seem overly cushy and warm, situated in the stale environment of a bedroom with a thick wall separating me from the noises and fresh air of the outside world. Still, I accepted her offer with enthusiasm since the possibility of sleeping indoors in a real bed doesn't present itself on a regular basis.
As we biked up the road I noticed a large house on the top of a hill overlooking the plains of eastern Wyoming. 'What a view it must be from the porch on that house,' I thought, 'sure would be nice to stay in a place like that some day.' A moment later Eileen was pointing at that very house, explaining that she and her husband had built it years ago - it was their dream house.
What ensued was relaxation and luxury. I was treated by the most hospitable of hosts, sipping a beer as I sat in a swing chair on the very porch I had admired on the way up, watching storms blow their way across the brown expanse of the Wyoming plains. Lightening struck down vertically every few moments, yet there was no rain where I was sitting, miles and miles away. I enjoyed the rest of the evening eating hamburgers and sweet corn and talking with Eileen about life as a middle school guidance counselor in Newcastle - a town of about 3000 people and an oil refinery situated on the busy western railway that brings coal from the mines of the west to the power plants of the east. Eileen's aunt-in-law was also over for the night; a spunky, quick, well-opinionated elderly lady originally from Wisconsin but now from Colorado for about 30 years. She liked to travel and had strong opinions about politics. Fortunately, we shared similar political views and disagreements didn't erupt as we watched the democrats fail to obtain 3 republican seats in the Wisconsin senate recall elections.
One of the best things about life on the road, I realized that night. Every day when I wake up, I have no idea what I'm going to see during the day; no idea what's going to happen to me, and above all, no idea where I'm going to sleep that night. When I awoke that morning above Hill City in my own secluded piece of National Forest, surrounded by swarms of motorcyclists, I had no idea the road would take me to Eileen's house where I would lounge in the luxury of her hillside home. I figure it's this connection to society - the close yet distant proximity to city conveniences - as well as wonderful people like Eileen and her husband Wayne, that keep me going on my bicycle. Without them, I would be tired of this life by now, yearning for a familiar couch to sit on and a beer to drink instead of the open road and the unknown.
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