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...
Saturday, September 10, 2011
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.
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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)