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.
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Sturgis - an afterthought
In my time since visiting Sturgis, I've had a lot of time to think about the motorcyclists I met there and the experiences I had. The biggest and most immediate impression the rally had on me was the night I spent in the bars. But of course, if you go anywhere, you're not going to see life in its most real and true sense in the bars.
Not to say I didn't have fun and meet interesting people at the bars. One conversation I had went like this:
"So where are you from?"
"Wisconsin, how bout you?"
"Mississippi. Did you ride out here then?"
"Yeah, I did, it was a long way..."
"Oh wow, congratulations, that's quite the achievement. I would have liked to do it, but it's such a long way, we just trailered our bikes and we ride them around the Hills here. What kind of bike do you ride?"
"Well, you may not have heard of it before... It's called a Trek. Trek 620 to be exact."
"Huh. Trek. Like T-R-E-K, huh? Nope, I've never heard of that. What kind of ride is it?"
"Well, it's like a cruiser, touring bike, ya know..."
"No, but is it a low rider, or a cruiser bike... that sort of thing?"
"Yeah, I guess its a like a cruiser. Use it for touring, you know?"
....... and this went on for a little bit until I didn't know what I was talking about anymore.....
"Ok, I gotta admit, my bike is unusual in that it doesn't have a motor... it's a bicycle."
"No way. And you rode it all the way out here??? I don't believe you. There's no way..."
... And this went on for a little while until I maybe had him convinced and he bought me a beer. In any case, the entire conversation was great to have - from discussing my life on the road to his life in Mississippi and the roads of the Black Hills and South Dakota.
The bikers I met on the way to the rally and ever since have been the most kind hearted and understanding people - even if they drive by me with noisy motors. They all have stories to share of long rides they have done, of living on the road and getting around on two wheels. Some are even old cyclists that went on bicycle journeys before bicycle touring was even a thing-cyclists who got tired of pedaling and resorted to the motor. All I can say is to keep pedaling on friends, let your legs do the work while your mind does the wandering, your heart does the loving, and your mouth does the drinking.
Link to Wyoming photos
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/WindsOfWyoming?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCI7spt6-iICn8QE&feat=directlink
Link to my route so far:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203617401863148848612.0004aaa4f2b58845af1e4&msa=0&ll=44.087585%2C-100.151367&spn=25.384847%2C39.506836
Not to say I didn't have fun and meet interesting people at the bars. One conversation I had went like this:
"So where are you from?"
"Wisconsin, how bout you?"
"Mississippi. Did you ride out here then?"
"Yeah, I did, it was a long way..."
"Oh wow, congratulations, that's quite the achievement. I would have liked to do it, but it's such a long way, we just trailered our bikes and we ride them around the Hills here. What kind of bike do you ride?"
"Well, you may not have heard of it before... It's called a Trek. Trek 620 to be exact."
"Huh. Trek. Like T-R-E-K, huh? Nope, I've never heard of that. What kind of ride is it?"
"Well, it's like a cruiser, touring bike, ya know..."
"No, but is it a low rider, or a cruiser bike... that sort of thing?"
"Yeah, I guess its a like a cruiser. Use it for touring, you know?"
....... and this went on for a little bit until I didn't know what I was talking about anymore.....
"Ok, I gotta admit, my bike is unusual in that it doesn't have a motor... it's a bicycle."
"No way. And you rode it all the way out here??? I don't believe you. There's no way..."
... And this went on for a little while until I maybe had him convinced and he bought me a beer. In any case, the entire conversation was great to have - from discussing my life on the road to his life in Mississippi and the roads of the Black Hills and South Dakota.
The bikers I met on the way to the rally and ever since have been the most kind hearted and understanding people - even if they drive by me with noisy motors. They all have stories to share of long rides they have done, of living on the road and getting around on two wheels. Some are even old cyclists that went on bicycle journeys before bicycle touring was even a thing-cyclists who got tired of pedaling and resorted to the motor. All I can say is to keep pedaling on friends, let your legs do the work while your mind does the wandering, your heart does the loving, and your mouth does the drinking.
Link to Wyoming photos
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/WindsOfWyoming?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCI7spt6-iICn8QE&feat=directlink
Link to my route so far:
http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=203617401863148848612.0004aaa4f2b58845af1e4&msa=0&ll=44.087585%2C-100.151367&spn=25.384847%2C39.506836
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Motorcycles and Mountains
"Are ya goin to Sturgis then?" we were asked.
"What's Sturgis?"
"You haven't heard of Sturgis? Wow, everyone's heard of Sturgis. Biggest motorcycle rally in the world!"
"But we're the non-motorized type..."
"It doesn't matter, it'd be worth it to check it out, you'll be so close..."
Still, being in close quarters with half a million motorcyclists wasn't so appealing to me. They're not the same sort of people as me-they share different views. When they pass me on the highway they give me a fright with their noisy motors and higher speeds. While I like to hear the insects buzzing and the birds chirping while I ride, they seem to enjoy the sound of petroleum burning in their engines.
"I think the louder the better. It sounds rough, like an animal does - pretty manly," said Gerald Roberts as reported by the Rapid City Journal's article "Decibel debate: Do loud pipes save lives?" He continued to say "We're a free country. Being a motorcyclist is all about freedom and doing what we're allowed to do."
Yet somehow, I found my idea of motorcycles start to change as I got closer to the Black Hills. I would meet them in places I'd stop and they all seemed like nice people. I'd get all sorts of comments, ranging from "You just need to put a motor on that," to "That's one way to beat the gas price," to "Now look at that, that's a real bike." One rider I talked to from Wisconsin told me "One day you'll make a list of things you want to see in your life. Sturgis will be on there."
By the time I got to Rapid City, I had pretty much made up my mind, I would ride 30 miles north in the evening and see what the big deal was about. The ride north was exhilerating. I could feel the energy in the air as I rode along the service road north. The sound of Harleys filled the air. A never-ending stream of motorbikes passed me on the freeway as I headed north. There was an 8 mile stretch I had to take along the interstate. As I hit 30mph on the downhill stretches - half the speed of the motorbikes - I really felt like I was sharing the road with them. I was going fast so I was a vehicle on their radar, rather than the silly guy hugging the pavement next to the ditch without a motor to power my two wheels.
When I got to Sturgis, the uniqueness of my form of transportation once again proved a huge benefit to me. While bikers were being charged $30/night to set up their tent on people's lawns downtown, I found a spot on a couple's driveway for free. As I got my gear sorted out I heard "Forrest, are you hungry?" Before I could muster up an answer, there was a plate with grapes, a ginger ale, and a huge piece of grilled chicken before me.
I headed down to the bars to see what all the crazy fuss was about. I had been warned "You're going to the bars? Watch out, the girls there are wild, you won't come back a virgin." What I found, however, was far different than what I had expected. Middle aged to older men that, in any other bar would be labeled as 'creepers,' stood around bars where girls in their early 20s dressed in bikinis flaunted themselves for dollar bills. I was disgusted. At least I knew that I'd never have to put Sturgis on my list of places to see - in fact, I could double cross it off with a permanent marker.
After falling asleep to the sound of motors, I awoke to a similar noise and got ready to leave. A brief encounter at the grocery store on my way out of town boosted my experience. A tall man, skinny with long shoulder length hair rode up to me on his low-rider bike. "Nice ride," he told me. After taking a closer look at his, I realized he was on a 'bicycle' as well. His, however, was a front wheel drive, battery powered, solar charged cycle. He claimed to be able to race Harleys from light to light in town. "20 years ago they were all talking about going green, man. I went green and nobody followed," the old hippie said in a grooved out voice. At least, it was nice to meet someone with a similar mindset.
As I biked further out of town, I saw a sign "Learn to Weld." Being slightly worried about the integrity of my front rack, I stopped and had the experts at Lincoln Electric take a look at the problem. About an hour later, I had two weld jobs done on the rack that was about to fall apart. Perhaps Sturgis had been a good idea in the end.
When I finally hit the road, I headed west to the historic town of Deadwood. The sound of motors filled the air of the Black Hills. An extremely sacred spot to the Lakota Sioux, the hills are literally a green bubble in the middle of brown arid plains. The hills finally came alive to me when I got on the Michelson bike trail in Deadwood - 108 miles along an old railway track. Immediately, I was carried away from the noise of the road and transported to the beauty of the hills. The trail followed a mountain stream up up up. I could hear the noise of the stream, saw fauns and bucks, birds and wild mountain flowers. I followed a kingfisher as he soared along the stream, searching for a morsel. The trail lead me over old railway bridges and through old tunnels, past mountain wetlands and meadows where cattle grazed and under rocky outcroppings that jutted hundreds of feet above me. I was in a state of euphoric bliss, on the verge of tears, realizing how much I missed the sound of silence and the sound of the forest.
That night I camped above Hill City, just off the bike trail in the Black Hills National Forest. It was a perfect night. No bugs bothered me as I made a quick dinner in the forest. I was in bed by 9pm. At 2am I woke up and stuck my head outside my tent. The Milky Way appeared above me like a great rift in the sky. Shooting stars shot above my head every 20-30 seconds. I could feel it, I was in a different world, lost in time and space with no thought about the constant drone of motors that filled the air miles away in the same sacred hills.
Should motorcycles be allowed to make noise? It's a controversy, one that is valid for debate and reflection. In the city, the sounds of motors, people's stereos and cars are noises that should be expected. When the noises of the city fill the air of the countryside, noise is a public issue. It's the econ 101 issue regarding the use of public resources. Motorcyclists should be respectful of the fact that, while they may enjoy the sound of their motors, many people searching for peace and solitude in the hills do not. It's not about "freedom and doing what we're allowed to do," but about sharing the beautiful resources of this country with eachother and being respectful of other people's methods of enjoyment - by motorcyclists and nature enthusiasts alike.
Regarding the Sturgis rally, for one week a year they bring thousands of dollars to the people of the Black Hills which allows many of the small towns to continue to exist. One week a year of noise in the Black Hills seems a decent price to pay in exchange for the money that is brought in.
"What's Sturgis?"
"You haven't heard of Sturgis? Wow, everyone's heard of Sturgis. Biggest motorcycle rally in the world!"
"But we're the non-motorized type..."
"It doesn't matter, it'd be worth it to check it out, you'll be so close..."
Still, being in close quarters with half a million motorcyclists wasn't so appealing to me. They're not the same sort of people as me-they share different views. When they pass me on the highway they give me a fright with their noisy motors and higher speeds. While I like to hear the insects buzzing and the birds chirping while I ride, they seem to enjoy the sound of petroleum burning in their engines.
"I think the louder the better. It sounds rough, like an animal does - pretty manly," said Gerald Roberts as reported by the Rapid City Journal's article "Decibel debate: Do loud pipes save lives?" He continued to say "We're a free country. Being a motorcyclist is all about freedom and doing what we're allowed to do."
Yet somehow, I found my idea of motorcycles start to change as I got closer to the Black Hills. I would meet them in places I'd stop and they all seemed like nice people. I'd get all sorts of comments, ranging from "You just need to put a motor on that," to "That's one way to beat the gas price," to "Now look at that, that's a real bike." One rider I talked to from Wisconsin told me "One day you'll make a list of things you want to see in your life. Sturgis will be on there."
By the time I got to Rapid City, I had pretty much made up my mind, I would ride 30 miles north in the evening and see what the big deal was about. The ride north was exhilerating. I could feel the energy in the air as I rode along the service road north. The sound of Harleys filled the air. A never-ending stream of motorbikes passed me on the freeway as I headed north. There was an 8 mile stretch I had to take along the interstate. As I hit 30mph on the downhill stretches - half the speed of the motorbikes - I really felt like I was sharing the road with them. I was going fast so I was a vehicle on their radar, rather than the silly guy hugging the pavement next to the ditch without a motor to power my two wheels.
When I got to Sturgis, the uniqueness of my form of transportation once again proved a huge benefit to me. While bikers were being charged $30/night to set up their tent on people's lawns downtown, I found a spot on a couple's driveway for free. As I got my gear sorted out I heard "Forrest, are you hungry?" Before I could muster up an answer, there was a plate with grapes, a ginger ale, and a huge piece of grilled chicken before me.
I headed down to the bars to see what all the crazy fuss was about. I had been warned "You're going to the bars? Watch out, the girls there are wild, you won't come back a virgin." What I found, however, was far different than what I had expected. Middle aged to older men that, in any other bar would be labeled as 'creepers,' stood around bars where girls in their early 20s dressed in bikinis flaunted themselves for dollar bills. I was disgusted. At least I knew that I'd never have to put Sturgis on my list of places to see - in fact, I could double cross it off with a permanent marker.
After falling asleep to the sound of motors, I awoke to a similar noise and got ready to leave. A brief encounter at the grocery store on my way out of town boosted my experience. A tall man, skinny with long shoulder length hair rode up to me on his low-rider bike. "Nice ride," he told me. After taking a closer look at his, I realized he was on a 'bicycle' as well. His, however, was a front wheel drive, battery powered, solar charged cycle. He claimed to be able to race Harleys from light to light in town. "20 years ago they were all talking about going green, man. I went green and nobody followed," the old hippie said in a grooved out voice. At least, it was nice to meet someone with a similar mindset.
As I biked further out of town, I saw a sign "Learn to Weld." Being slightly worried about the integrity of my front rack, I stopped and had the experts at Lincoln Electric take a look at the problem. About an hour later, I had two weld jobs done on the rack that was about to fall apart. Perhaps Sturgis had been a good idea in the end.
When I finally hit the road, I headed west to the historic town of Deadwood. The sound of motors filled the air of the Black Hills. An extremely sacred spot to the Lakota Sioux, the hills are literally a green bubble in the middle of brown arid plains. The hills finally came alive to me when I got on the Michelson bike trail in Deadwood - 108 miles along an old railway track. Immediately, I was carried away from the noise of the road and transported to the beauty of the hills. The trail followed a mountain stream up up up. I could hear the noise of the stream, saw fauns and bucks, birds and wild mountain flowers. I followed a kingfisher as he soared along the stream, searching for a morsel. The trail lead me over old railway bridges and through old tunnels, past mountain wetlands and meadows where cattle grazed and under rocky outcroppings that jutted hundreds of feet above me. I was in a state of euphoric bliss, on the verge of tears, realizing how much I missed the sound of silence and the sound of the forest.
That night I camped above Hill City, just off the bike trail in the Black Hills National Forest. It was a perfect night. No bugs bothered me as I made a quick dinner in the forest. I was in bed by 9pm. At 2am I woke up and stuck my head outside my tent. The Milky Way appeared above me like a great rift in the sky. Shooting stars shot above my head every 20-30 seconds. I could feel it, I was in a different world, lost in time and space with no thought about the constant drone of motors that filled the air miles away in the same sacred hills.
Should motorcycles be allowed to make noise? It's a controversy, one that is valid for debate and reflection. In the city, the sounds of motors, people's stereos and cars are noises that should be expected. When the noises of the city fill the air of the countryside, noise is a public issue. It's the econ 101 issue regarding the use of public resources. Motorcyclists should be respectful of the fact that, while they may enjoy the sound of their motors, many people searching for peace and solitude in the hills do not. It's not about "freedom and doing what we're allowed to do," but about sharing the beautiful resources of this country with eachother and being respectful of other people's methods of enjoyment - by motorcyclists and nature enthusiasts alike.
Regarding the Sturgis rally, for one week a year they bring thousands of dollars to the people of the Black Hills which allows many of the small towns to continue to exist. One week a year of noise in the Black Hills seems a decent price to pay in exchange for the money that is brought in.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Badlands by Bicycle
The National Park system, it truly was the United State’s best idea. Where else can you find foreign visitors, license plates from all 50 states, large families with kids, senior citizens, bikers, and kids in their 20s all enjoying and learning about the same place? The environmental education that the parks offer to people is outstanding, and I really hope that people take the messages home with them. Yet it is slightly upsetting to see RVs pulling an SUV through the park-I guess you can’t convince everyone.
The amount of people that the parks attract is wonderful, but being one in a crowd like that-not so fun. Where is a person to go? To the backcountry... In countless national parks I’ve had the same experience. The touristy places that attract throngs of people are way overrated, far better to get out on the trail and make your own discoveries, which is exactly what I did. I locked my bike up at a trailhead, changed my shorts, and took the path less traveled. Somehow I was transported from crowds of people to being back, completely on my own in the middle of the badlands. I saw birds again, watched hesitantly/hopefully for rattlesnakes, prairie dogs chirped, vultures soared the heights and the grassland was alive. The path lead me up river paths where, just the night before, water had gushed down small waterfalls, became stagnant in small pools, and eroded away at the small canyon’s sides in its rush to shed its potential energy and get to the White River. At the end of the 6 mile, one-way hike, I got a ride from some fellow hikers from South Dakota back to my bike.
Biking through the badlands proved to be a harder ordeal than I had anticipated. My destination was the Sage Creek “primitive camping” site, 34 miles from the visitor center. (Primitive, I thought!?!! That’s how I’ve been living! It’s not primitive…). Going through the passes as the scenic road wound itself up and down the ancient, eroded lake-bed brought my bike down to its lowest “granny” gear. Cheers and thumbs up from
passing car windows gave me the energy I needed to complete the climbs. One “bikers r sexy” sign from a passing Subaru (with two young women in the front seats) completely made my day and powered me to the campsite. The loaded touring bike completely stuck out and it seemed like every other person wanted to know my story and where I was going.
As for now, I met up with Brint in Rapid City and we’re deciding our next move. Sturgis seems like a good idea, but we’ll be in Wyoming and headed west through the least densely populated state in the US soon enough.
Photos of the plains at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/TheGreatPlains?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPeprIDd1fGUiQE&feat=directlink
sorry for the disorder, they got disorganized during the upload...
The amount of people that the parks attract is wonderful, but being one in a crowd like that-not so fun. Where is a person to go? To the backcountry... In countless national parks I’ve had the same experience. The touristy places that attract throngs of people are way overrated, far better to get out on the trail and make your own discoveries, which is exactly what I did. I locked my bike up at a trailhead, changed my shorts, and took the path less traveled. Somehow I was transported from crowds of people to being back, completely on my own in the middle of the badlands. I saw birds again, watched hesitantly/hopefully for rattlesnakes, prairie dogs chirped, vultures soared the heights and the grassland was alive. The path lead me up river paths where, just the night before, water had gushed down small waterfalls, became stagnant in small pools, and eroded away at the small canyon’s sides in its rush to shed its potential energy and get to the White River. At the end of the 6 mile, one-way hike, I got a ride from some fellow hikers from South Dakota back to my bike.
Biking through the badlands proved to be a harder ordeal than I had anticipated. My destination was the Sage Creek “primitive camping” site, 34 miles from the visitor center. (Primitive, I thought!?!! That’s how I’ve been living! It’s not primitive…). Going through the passes as the scenic road wound itself up and down the ancient, eroded lake-bed brought my bike down to its lowest “granny” gear. Cheers and thumbs up from
passing car windows gave me the energy I needed to complete the climbs. One “bikers r sexy” sign from a passing Subaru (with two young women in the front seats) completely made my day and powered me to the campsite. The loaded touring bike completely stuck out and it seemed like every other person wanted to know my story and where I was going.
As for now, I met up with Brint in Rapid City and we’re deciding our next move. Sturgis seems like a good idea, but we’ll be in Wyoming and headed west through the least densely populated state in the US soon enough.
Photos of the plains at:
https://picasaweb.google.com/forrest9/TheGreatPlains?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCPeprIDd1fGUiQE&feat=directlink
sorry for the disorder, they got disorganized during the upload...
First encounter with the West
As we headed west of Pierre, the landscape changed drastically. The large expanses of corn and soybeans disappeared, and we instead found hills covered in prairie grasses, with far fewer grazing cattle to entertain us. If I didn’t find the middle of no-where before, certainly I found it west of Pierre. Not to say that it didn’t have its own beauty, by all means it did. The hills, while they created an additional challenge for us as we began to use our climbing muscles again, stretched as far as the eye could see. As I climbed, I lost all knowledge and sight of the expanse of land that lay around me. But when I summited the small hill, immense grasslands and large, rolling hills swept the landscape before me. The road went down, up, down, up, down, until finally up a bigger hill and out of sight.
We thought that on the road west of Pierre we would be relatively secluded and on our own. A sign saying “next services 66 miles” confirmed our belief that we would really be on our own. But the day we left Pierre -Friday- happened to be the day before a little biker rally in the small town of Sturgis, SD, about 30 miles north of Rapid City. For those of you not familiar with this event (I wasn’t until we got to South Dakota…), from what I’ve since gathered it’s the biggest motorcycle rally in the nation. The small town of Sturgis (roughly 2000 people) increases by at least 10,000 bikers, but I’ve heard numbers far higher than that... So instead of being relatively on our own for the 66 miles, we instead hugged the shoulder the whole way, being passed by countless numbers of loaded motorcycles headed to Sturgis. I guess I don’t have such a sophisticated appreciation or understanding of motors, but it seems like the louder the bike, the better it is. The sounds of cicadas and prairie birds was constantly drowned out by the buzz of engines.
We rolled into Midland at about 3pm, a town that consists of a couple of bars and a convenience mart. The tap beers were only $1.50 which turned out to be very hard to turn down after my second beer with the knowledge that we still had 30 miles to pedal to get to our intended destination for the day, Philip. Fortunately we had a tailwind all the way to Philip (pop. ~800) and got there by 5pm, just in time for happy hour in the largest town for 100 miles in all directions. If you’re ever near Philip, SD on a Friday night, the
Saloon 78 is the place to be. There was a steak roast-$15 for a GIGANTIC cut of local ribeye with all you can eat garlic bread and potato wedges. The grills got set up and you grill the meat yourself. We ate until we were thoroughly stuffed and retired to play pool the rest of the night.
After Philip, Brint decided to go to Sturgis to pick up his bike shoes which his neighbor had brought out for him. I headed south into the Badlands National Park.
We thought that on the road west of Pierre we would be relatively secluded and on our own. A sign saying “next services 66 miles” confirmed our belief that we would really be on our own. But the day we left Pierre -Friday- happened to be the day before a little biker rally in the small town of Sturgis, SD, about 30 miles north of Rapid City. For those of you not familiar with this event (I wasn’t until we got to South Dakota…), from what I’ve since gathered it’s the biggest motorcycle rally in the nation. The small town of Sturgis (roughly 2000 people) increases by at least 10,000 bikers, but I’ve heard numbers far higher than that... So instead of being relatively on our own for the 66 miles, we instead hugged the shoulder the whole way, being passed by countless numbers of loaded motorcycles headed to Sturgis. I guess I don’t have such a sophisticated appreciation or understanding of motors, but it seems like the louder the bike, the better it is. The sounds of cicadas and prairie birds was constantly drowned out by the buzz of engines.
We rolled into Midland at about 3pm, a town that consists of a couple of bars and a convenience mart. The tap beers were only $1.50 which turned out to be very hard to turn down after my second beer with the knowledge that we still had 30 miles to pedal to get to our intended destination for the day, Philip. Fortunately we had a tailwind all the way to Philip (pop. ~800) and got there by 5pm, just in time for happy hour in the largest town for 100 miles in all directions. If you’re ever near Philip, SD on a Friday night, the
Saloon 78 is the place to be. There was a steak roast-$15 for a GIGANTIC cut of local ribeye with all you can eat garlic bread and potato wedges. The grills got set up and you grill the meat yourself. We ate until we were thoroughly stuffed and retired to play pool the rest of the night.
After Philip, Brint decided to go to Sturgis to pick up his bike shoes which his neighbor had brought out for him. I headed south into the Badlands National Park.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Middle of no-where?
When I set out from Wisconsin, I didn't know what to expect from the plains states of the mid-west. I'd been through them too many times to count behind the wheel of a car, or jammed into the backseat staring at endless fields out of the window that never seemed to end. No trees, no turns in the highway and with barely a hill in sight, I was worried that biking across the plains would be a similar experience to driving. But I tried to keep my hopes up, I tried to avoid having expectations which, without failure, taint an experience to a point where an enjoyable time can be viewed as a failure. I tried to keep an open attitude toward the state and the experience. What will the people be like? Will the backroads really be as bad as the interstate? So we ventured across the South Dakota border from Minnesota, leaving behind flat acres and acres of corn and soybeans, and finding thousands more acres of corn and soybeans. Now however, the ancient eroded landscape rolled before us so we had hills to climb, and the wind, which lacked impeding structures in the surface of the earth like trees and mountains, blew with regularity into our faces. The hot sun rained down on us, bringing the temperature of the earth to the upper 90's, with a humidity of 70+%. Brint's thermometer on a keychain read 113 degrees at one point and, though we knew this was incorrect, the number still frightened us. While biking, it's hard to know exactly how hot it is. The constant wind on your face keeps sweat evaporating quickly, so you can't get an accurate feeling for the temperature outside until you take a break, sit in the shade, and walk back out into the sun. Then the heat hits you with its full force and tells you "watch out, don't even try it, go inside and drink a margarita. Or two...
South Dakota, however, did not remain the unlivable, desolate, middle-of-nowhere place that I was afraid of. Instead, the landscape came alive with geological formations, prairie, and wildlife. Along state highway 14, we discovered many small towns with life of their own. People that are raised out here seem to come to enjoy life in the small towns where everyone knows everyone and you can do as you please. We came across the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder in De Soto, and spent a long time trying to figure out what drew pioneers to such a landscape. It wasn't until I read a quote of Laura's that I really understood. It said that the prairie looks the same everywhere you look, but if you take a little time, it holds many wonders and secrets that can only be found with patience.
From Huron, we took the smallest country roads west through the prairie. We didn't see a single town for about 70 miles and about 20 cars over the course of the day. When we finally rolled into what we thought would be a small town - Mac's Corner - we found it was nothing more than a small convenience store and gas station. After going through 5 liters of water over the course of the day though, we filled up, bought some food and rolled another 30 miles to camp on the banks of the Missouri river.
The country roads along the way turned out to be the best decision we'd made for directions. Although it could have been because of the cooler temperatures and lower humidity (85degrees and 50%), I was pretty sure it was because of the landscape. The hills rolled onward so much so that we experienced our first climbs since leaving the hills of Wisconsin. A small "mountain" range loomed ahead of us all morning and, while it couldn't have been more than 200ft high, at least it was something to look at as we rolled up and down the small hills of the state. At the bottom of every hill was a wetland, or an eroded river valley. The hills around the river having been eroded for thousands of years before becoming what we have today. Meandering rivers wind themselves through tiny river valleys, disappearing from view in what appears to be a sure uphill rise. The ground water dynamics of the area seem visable even from the surface, as one stream's groundwater surely flows into the stream on the other side of the small hill.
Wetlands bring an abundance of life, and the feeling of it was palpable in the air when we stopped next to a watery area. Birds wouldn't cease chirping, waterfowl would half fly, half swim away from the roadside through their algae filled home. The grasses of the prairie sang with life as crickets, grasshoppers, and prairie birds would jump, chirp, and sing the blades of grass to life. At one point, I followed a red-tailed hawk as he soared across the prairie, about 10ft off the ground, in search of a morsel to eat. Killdear flew on either side of the road, and entire flocks of red-winged blackbirds soared by. Am I really about to admit this online? I wished I knew more bird species...
The cornfields and soybeans gave way to prairie fields where cattle grazed away. Small ponds and wetlands appear in the middle of the driest fields giving cattle a perfect place to cool themselves off in the heat of the day. The cattle out here have a different sense about them than the cows in Wisconsin. When we stop to take a picture, they sense something is not right, and it doesn't take long for one of them to trigger the herd to go galloping away from us in fear of the weird creatures that for some reason stopped on the road instead of passing straight by.
Indeed, in the grasslands of South Dakota, we didn't find the middle-of-nowhere. We found life. Life in the fields, in the wetlands, and even in the rocks in the geology of the area. What a beautiful place and a privilage to be able to enjoy. Next time you drive through the plains, take a moment, slow down, and think about life slightly differently, the way the prairies of the plains are meant to be appreciated, before you cruise on to the next state border.
South Dakota, however, did not remain the unlivable, desolate, middle-of-nowhere place that I was afraid of. Instead, the landscape came alive with geological formations, prairie, and wildlife. Along state highway 14, we discovered many small towns with life of their own. People that are raised out here seem to come to enjoy life in the small towns where everyone knows everyone and you can do as you please. We came across the town of Laura Ingalls Wilder in De Soto, and spent a long time trying to figure out what drew pioneers to such a landscape. It wasn't until I read a quote of Laura's that I really understood. It said that the prairie looks the same everywhere you look, but if you take a little time, it holds many wonders and secrets that can only be found with patience.
From Huron, we took the smallest country roads west through the prairie. We didn't see a single town for about 70 miles and about 20 cars over the course of the day. When we finally rolled into what we thought would be a small town - Mac's Corner - we found it was nothing more than a small convenience store and gas station. After going through 5 liters of water over the course of the day though, we filled up, bought some food and rolled another 30 miles to camp on the banks of the Missouri river.
The country roads along the way turned out to be the best decision we'd made for directions. Although it could have been because of the cooler temperatures and lower humidity (85degrees and 50%), I was pretty sure it was because of the landscape. The hills rolled onward so much so that we experienced our first climbs since leaving the hills of Wisconsin. A small "mountain" range loomed ahead of us all morning and, while it couldn't have been more than 200ft high, at least it was something to look at as we rolled up and down the small hills of the state. At the bottom of every hill was a wetland, or an eroded river valley. The hills around the river having been eroded for thousands of years before becoming what we have today. Meandering rivers wind themselves through tiny river valleys, disappearing from view in what appears to be a sure uphill rise. The ground water dynamics of the area seem visable even from the surface, as one stream's groundwater surely flows into the stream on the other side of the small hill.
Wetlands bring an abundance of life, and the feeling of it was palpable in the air when we stopped next to a watery area. Birds wouldn't cease chirping, waterfowl would half fly, half swim away from the roadside through their algae filled home. The grasses of the prairie sang with life as crickets, grasshoppers, and prairie birds would jump, chirp, and sing the blades of grass to life. At one point, I followed a red-tailed hawk as he soared across the prairie, about 10ft off the ground, in search of a morsel to eat. Killdear flew on either side of the road, and entire flocks of red-winged blackbirds soared by. Am I really about to admit this online? I wished I knew more bird species...
The cornfields and soybeans gave way to prairie fields where cattle grazed away. Small ponds and wetlands appear in the middle of the driest fields giving cattle a perfect place to cool themselves off in the heat of the day. The cattle out here have a different sense about them than the cows in Wisconsin. When we stop to take a picture, they sense something is not right, and it doesn't take long for one of them to trigger the herd to go galloping away from us in fear of the weird creatures that for some reason stopped on the road instead of passing straight by.
Indeed, in the grasslands of South Dakota, we didn't find the middle-of-nowhere. We found life. Life in the fields, in the wetlands, and even in the rocks in the geology of the area. What a beautiful place and a privilage to be able to enjoy. Next time you drive through the plains, take a moment, slow down, and think about life slightly differently, the way the prairies of the plains are meant to be appreciated, before you cruise on to the next state border.
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