Ride For The Wild : Bearing Witness

Our camp down in the valley provides us protection from all but the keenest of eyes. Alex’s friend Kurt has no problem finding us and wishes us luck on our final push into Yellowstone. The rejuvenation of our hot spring soak was fresh in our minds, but we are still feeling the wear from weeks of pedaling. We strike out with cries of, “Hydrate, everyone!” ringing in our ears. 

The more immediate threat turns out to be the headwind though, as we continue through wind-whipped fields and cloud-darkened skies. The last leg of our journey has taken us through some of Montana’s most scenic places, and I am wide-eyed every day. The land has grown on me slowly, so that by now I am seeing beauty everywhere I look. Even for the native Montanans this land is thrilling, and it’s wonderful to see their continued appreciation and love for it.

Turn onto Hwy 89: the wind gathers strength, the mountains close in around the Yellowstone River, and we begin to contemplate “Yukon to Yankee Jim Canyon.” We make it through the wind tunnel, again in draft line formation, bunched up and looking like the true team we have become. A fellow cyclist flies past in the opposite direction—wind-propelled—and waves. “Y2Y, right?” he asks.

We wave back and agree, obviously hardened by our time on the road and oozing solidarity. We are thrilled by the recognition.

Soon Gardiner lies before us. Team is filled with sudden energy and our last few miles to the park archway are abruptly, almost magically, behind us. I look back, almost expecting to see the road bending and winding north for the entirety of the 2300 miles we’ve come.

Laughter and leaps of joy under the arch. Scott Brant shows up right on time and shares in our excitement. We reach the gates and greet the ranger there working her first day at the park. What to do with this group of six cyclists?

After a few moments of phone calls and protocol reviewing, we explain our mission. “That sounds royal and noble to me,” she says sincerely, and with a huge smile, throws out her arms in warm reception and says, “Welcome to Yellowstone!”

That’s what we’ve been waiting for.

Officially in the park, we wind up and up on the narrow road and are engrossed in the land around us. The Gardner River tumbles noisily over rock and branch, hills swell around us, and trees stand like sentinels watching over this precious place. We rush to the hot springs and our group expands with the arrival of more friends and family. Meal of hot lasagna; games and chatter by the campfire; encircled by friends and family; surrounded, all of us, by Yellowstone; happy, healthy Team.

Wow,  Is it really the second to last day of our ride?  Here now for almost two months riding, eating, sleeping this adventure.  The subtle changes in the environment  and communities, melding into each other so fluidly that it is not until the retrospective that we notice the monumental diversity we have covered.  

And now some seventy miles from Yellow Stone we mount our bikes like we have done for the last fifty some odd days.  It is an early start as we have decided to stop for breakfast in Willsal, MT.  The main street is maybe a quarter mile long,  The Bar Cafe is not open till lunch but we talk to two friendly chaps who are up early working on a mural which will cover the whole side of the building that houses the mercantile and the breakfast joint.  Neither are open yet at 8 am but both we are told will be shortly.  We swap some stories from our adventure and inquire about the mural.  We learn the elderly couple that run the mercantile have been in Wilsall their whole lives.  And about five minutes later Nordi, the wife of the pair pulls her boat of a car out of her driveway around three hundred yards away docks it in front of the Mercantile to open up shop.  We are fascinated by the scene and eagerly rush into the shop.  After learning about Nordi, her Norwegian descent, and the dry land farming she grew up with when the railroads used to service these small Montana towns we head over to the restaurant which has just opened up.  Cedar and I walk in first and head for the large table in the center of the joint.  The waitress looks at us warningly saying, ” I wouldn’t sit there if I were you, that is where the old men sit.”  moving to the a table closest to the entrance receives another shake of the head, ” That is where the old ladies sit” she informs us.  We move next to a small booth that will cramp us but we figure may be acceptable.  ”How many she asks?”.  ”Six”.  ”Sit here” motioning to a table set for six between the two, “reserved” tables.  Sure enough as we sit down four or five of the, “Old Men” come in and take up there post.  As they sit there mugs are filled and filing behind them are the, “Old Ladies” who receive the same treatment.  As their Breakfasts are coming out without a single utterance of orders the waitress comes over to us.  The menu is great.  50 cent coffee.  Two eggs one dollar, two pancakes one dollar, potatoes 1 dollar, toast 1 dollar, French toast 2 dollars.  We all order everything on the menu and absorb the scene.  Both tables are now filled.  The men are taking part in a dice game that seems to determine who will pick up the bill this go around.  Like rolling for Yhatzee they get three chances to get the best score of five dye. Their score seems to be dictated by the rules of Poker.  Talk is of farming and other small town nuances.  The ladies seem absorbed in the younger generation,  now situated around the table between their moms and grammas.  The portions are generous and we talk about the photos on the walls that feature a musical group of brothers calling themselves, The Ringling Five.  Barb asks the waitress about the, “Ringling Brothers”.  This illicits an immediate look of disapproval as she informs us the Wringling Brothers is a circus where as the Ringling Five are a band of five brothers from the area that specializes in traditional Norwegian music.  The owner of the restaurant is the wife of one of the brothers.  We take this in stride and as we begin to feel our welcome is wearing we finish up and head back over to Nordi’s for some welcoming hospitality that sometimes can only be found in the older generation.

Back on our bikes we encounter the famous headwinds that can often blow hard through here and Paradise valley.  The day is gorgeous however and filled to the brim we make quick work of the twenty five or so miles to Livingston.  Our sites are set on Chico for the evening so after a quick lunch on our allready  rextended bellies  we continue on taking the east side road down Paradise valley to avoid as much traffic as possible.  The head wind is there but the thought of a night soaking in the waters of Chico keep us moving and we turn into the hot springs with around an hour and a half of day light left.  We set up camp and walk down to the springs with a full check list of what we want to accomplish 

1) soak in the waters while enjoyng dollar O’lys.   2) order some delicious eats from the bar and play shuffle board while waiting.  3) Dance to some live music.

Around four hours later we have accomplished all of our objectives and head back to the camp for some good shut eye.  The sounds of the band carry on well into the night as we nestle in to the dry grasses outside our tents and enjoy the beautiful, warm, dry night.

I arrived in camp late, at dusk I knew this camp was tucked under a canopy of fabulous fall, delirious deciduous, but not until dawn did my senses dip into it. Clear, bubbling rocky creek dunk carrying the discarded color scraps to finish a quilt downstream. After breakfast I get a jump start and head out before the rest. Deep Creek runs along the windy road through the canyon.  Willow and dogwood create a colorfully crowded bank.
Teagen has caught up cheered by this enormous display of all is right with the world we ride in the full company of few words.”What is THAT?” teagens excited loud whisper asks.  Intently looking (without my glasses) at the wiggling shrubbery, a full sized full fur black bear emerges. He? she? Stands up on his hind legs to grasp a red leaves of a dogwood and eat the white berries. He is unaware of us or doesn’t care. Just over the hill morning light is sparkling off her fur. Stand still a moment before the sound of an approaching truck sends the bear undulating up the scree slope. He stops, turns toward us giving one last cameo shot before cresting the hill and disappearing.
The tone set for the day, we ride on. The canyon widens. The road climbs. We are again in the wide open of Eastern Montana Plains White sulfur Springs in the distance. Reaching the top of a long uphill we see a fellow biker reaching the top from the east side. The comradely and curiosity of mutual adventurers has us crossing the road to inquire about each other’s journey.  Half way across the road recognition sets in. An old friend with whom I have had many Montana adventures. We swap stories ad food bars, promise to stay in better touch and move on in our opposite directions.
Riding on, down a long gentle hill with White Sulpher springs on the horizon I am aware of the spirit of this land that has infected me. That has brought me to live here that has kept me here. That continues to lure me into bigger and longer adventures.
Lunch stop on a cow creek, long warm open plain ride into that late afternoon perfect light, We know there is a reservoir here somewhere it is on the Map Cottonwood Resevoir.Yep here just past a large oil rig operation. We check with a local who is sighting his pistol as to the ok-ness of camping here. “SURE”.
A great camp of Coots covering the water surface quietly moves on. Sandhill cranes whooping it up and enough daylight to journal without headlamps. A warm satisfying hot dinner, hot chocolate and a card game all to the chorus of sand hill cranes.

Very Long Day. Bike through the Burbs of Helena, seems for hours. Passed the strange and hilly country of Canyon Ferry, lunched on the huge reservoir that dams a portion of the Missouri River. Biked 80 long miles, ran out of water, got flipped off by a kid in a blue truck, passed a sod farm, passed a cornfield full of singing blackbirds, and we very happy to turn east at the Townsend junction and head into the Little Big Belt Mountains.  These last two hours of riding into the dusky mountains was like having cool air poured back into our lungs, the Deep Creek canyon was twittering, shimmering, quiet and wild. Ripe chokecherries hung in black shiny masses on the roadside and we rode fast along the creek, looking for camp.  Night came and we tucked into a lovely little site under large pine trees, stoked up the fire listened to the dark hum around us.

Woke up with a thick frost. Pack up our panniers with cold fingers and set off into the icy shadowed morning knowing in a few short hours we will be stripping off layers and looking for swimming holes. Classic prairie Montana scenes unfold on this nearly deserted highway: a two story victorian-white farmhouse that was fully inhabited by a herd of cattle walking up onto the porch and through the busted windows, mammoth cottonwoods skeletons flopped over into the curved roof of a sagging barn. The Avon café comes into sight at just the right time, our stomachs grumbling for a one of the greasy breakfasts that will fuel us up and over our last ascent of the Rocky Mountains at Macdonald pass and into Helena. Savoring our way through hash browns and pancakes the Team catches up on current issues by reading the scattered newspapers on the tables and Barb chats with the our waitress and the truckers a few tables over, all of whom are connected to the Flathead Valley.
Our road into Helena is on a much busier highway 12 and we are soon climbing the long switchbacks of Macdonald pass with the noon heat on our face. Halfway up the pass a large concrete mound signified an outlet for a natural spring. A good cold head soak and water bottle infused Team members with a sense of the living again. We were hoping to see Alex at the top of the pass, the truckers at breakfast told us they had seen a biker on the Helena-side of the pass…..alas it was not our long lost team member Alberto.
The descent into Helena was steep and long and then gradually down all the way to the townsite. We reunite with Alex in the green and freshly sprinkled and mown lawn of Carrol College, where the Team stands out from the orderly college crowd. We lunch on bear barrel leftovers while Alex recounts his adventures (soon to be posted!) of the last two days and night .
We are put up in a cozy house by some very kind friends Shannon and Justin.

We woke on the brilliant shores of Harpers Lake in the frost. Sun glancing hard off the water. Team transitions: Barb has rejoined us, bearing fresh supplies of tea, tahini, and green magma; Mark is casting off to the civilized world again, much to our organizational loss; and both Alex and Ryan have a pleading discussion/fight with the airlines over the phone in hopes of changing Alex’s ticket to not fly out of Chicago the day we finish our trip in Yellowstone. He ends up catching a ride to Missoula with Mark in order to shuttle his car to Bozeman (loss to the airlines), and ride/hitchhike his way back to the team. Oh, yes, logistics in the southern anchor of Y2Y…not something we have yet thought through. Without much further thought, our team of five sets off nice and late snaking down the gray highway along the Blackfoot River. The valley opens and rolls out tawny and soft. Not many cars. Piglets running around a roadside farm. The place I came upon a grizzly, recently hit by a semi several years ago. I can see the wooded drainage this grizzly used to pass quiet and unseen over this open pothole landscape. We stop for sandwiches and coffee at the Stray Bullet in Ovando, and meet with the director of the local organization Blackfoot Challenge, a group of landowners working to preserve their rural ways of living through community land planning. As we pedal off through the open sun browned hills with seeps of yellow aspen and gray stony peaks of the Scapegoat Wilderness collecting the last fall warmth, I can feel the work the Blackfoot Valley community has done to preserve the big chunks of ranching land along the valley floor. Much of the forested uplands of the valley were recently purchased through a community plan from Plum Creek Timber Co. With the help of the Nature Conservancy and other local land trusts, these lands are being managed according to a cooperative community plan, and sold as “conservation properties” to adjacent ranches or other parties.
Enough management mind. We swim in the cold clear currents of the upper Blackfoot River before heading south towards Helmsville. The sun is high and warm. Cows and an occasional truck break the quiet of afternoon pedaling. Snow in the high country. We weave along cow gutted creeks thick with rosehips as evening sets in. At one end of a Reservoir we stop to discuss the alarming brown stretch of ranch country ahead. No creeks, no public land. Just as we are trying to decide whether to strike on another hour or so into the setting sun, an extremely old tractor creeps very slowly down the road our direction. Atop, a farmer. His wife soon catches up in the support jeep, and we watch them coming for a long time. As he passes we shout “anywhere to camp around here?”
He eases the tractor to a stand still and points out our two options along the reservoir. In a stony pullout full of weeds and an early frost we set up camp. This farmer comes back a while later in his white truck full of a couple cow dogs to check on us, see if the site will suit our needs. Sure does. We cook dinner on the strange long rocky slope by the edge of the end of summer reservoir and an orange melt of sunset spreads over the water just before night. As we get ready for bed, frost already on our tents, Teaglette is suffering for two reasons: no tent partner (as he is somewhere between Bozeman and Helena), and finishing off a whole half a baggy of punjab eggplant Tasty Bite that no one else could stomach. “Oh Punjab, you done me wrong.”
We all pull our pads out of our tents to watch the stars a while, shooting and shining, until the cold drives us in and sleep takes us.

A little known fact about RFTW is that for almost the entire route, the riders had no road maps. This wasn’t some purist statement. It was just lack of planning ahead, and also thinking a map cost, like, four bucks and then you never used it again. So up in the Yukon we would get free tourist pamphlets and tear out the pages that had a little hand-drawn map of where we were for the next couple days. Accuracy was dubious. But big deal, right? There are road signs that told us where to go. But that’s one thing about bike-touring: it’s hard to make a wrong turn, because you don’t really go that fast. It’s not like you blast past the turnoff and don’t realize it until fifteen miles later.

I pedaled the first three weeks of the trip, then had to go home, so I met up with Cedar, Isan, Ryan, Teagan and Alex in Whitefish. We rode right our of the Brants’ driveway and headed across the farmland of the Flathead Valley. It was a warm September day and the rolling hills and country roads were gorgeous, and Cedar and Isan told some stories about cruising these parts in high school. Everyone was pretty tired, and the two-day rest in Whitefish hadn’t really alleviated that, so after about an hour, we reached Columbia
Falls and sat down for a big lunch at Coffee Traders. Then we headed south toward Bigfork, but the highway was windy and a full of traffic with a small shoulder. Barb Brant had told us about a backroad route to get across the valley, so we veered off onto a farm road. Of course we didn’t have a map, so we winged it. The road we found went in the right direction, but soon turned to gravel. He hunted and
pecked our way across the farms until we reached another road, which led to a gas station, where Cedar and I waited outside while the others went in for directions. The came out, happy that we were going
the right way. I asked to see the map. They hadn’t bought one. Just looked at it and committed it to memory. While we waited there (in the driveway of a bar/casino) the owner came out and told us to move. She said we were blocking the entrance and customers were complaining. I was a bit stunned that cars
couldn’t find their way past two bikes to get into a gigantic lot, but this, it turned out, was one of the depressing parts of being back in America. In Canada, there were plenty of times where it was
scary to get passed by a truck on a highway. But back in our homestate of Montana, drivers were seriously, aggressively, proudly dickheads. We got honked at, yelled at, even flipped off, just for riding along the road. People hardly ever slowed down or pulled into the other lane to pass—they just blew by. It was lame. But the good news was that there weren’t all that many cars.

The other good news was that this ride through the Flathead and Swan valleys was some of the most beautiful terrain we’d seen. Big mountains in the background, yellow cottonwoods on the creeks, bales
of hay stacked on the golden fields. There was a great bar just north of Swan Lake (don’t know where exactly—didn’t have a map), where we stopped in the afternoon and drank a few cans of beer. Most of the
guys in there were motorcycle dudes with big beers and bellies. When Isan marched in her lycra shorts and tank top, they asked how far she’d been riding. When she said the Yukon, I think they were pretty
impressed.

We camped that night on the banks of Swan Creek, while a high school keg party pumped late into the night from the woods on the other bank.

The next day we had to make it 70 miles for a meeting with Missoula friends at Clearwater Junction. So we rode. The road through the valley is smooth and fairly flat, so the miles ticked past, sun
streaming into our corridor of pine and fir. We dropped our bikes by the side of the highway near Condon and had lunch by the creek, swimming beneath a driftwood snag. It was the warmest weather I’d had
on the trip. In Seeley Lake we met a solitary bike tourist from somewhere out east who was riding all the way across Montana. We felt sort of silly when he showed us this really cool map published by the
state of Montana, laying out all the best cycling roads, indicating shoulder width and amount of traffic. Oh well, next time.

After picking up some groceries we rode another ten or so miles in the last of the sunlight. Cedar knew of the great place to camp on Clearwater Creek, and we could save four miles by carrying our bikes
across the creek. It was getting dark. Headlights were flicking on. So we decided to try it. River might have been a better word than
creek. It was about knee high and a hundred feet wide and icy cold . . . and it was now officially night time. We removed panniers and wheeled the bikes into the water. It took two trips and two
people for each bike, but we made it. Our friends Hillary and Megan were waiting for us with a huge pile of firewood, and a cooler of beer and homemade tomatillo enchiladas. We set a big campfire by the
banks, and ate and drank. A great day.

Coming up the hills into Whitefish, MT, our legs are worn, our bodies tired, and our head colds are flaring.  For the past 30 miles or so we have not really noticed the beauty of the passing landscape, instead our focus is on the road.   We see every little rise and fall, feel every little shift in the wind.  Each pedal brings us that much closer.  We trade off breaking through the wind in the lead and blowing our noses as we relax and draft right behind.   Passing semi trucks are welcomed as they provide a break from the consistent headwind. We are over 110 miles into our longest day yet, and vow to never repeat this distance unless it again seems necessary.

            We set off this morning with over 115 miles and an international border between us and Whitefish, MT, where hot showers, warm beds, and a delicious dinner was awaiting.  While all great incentives, it was our scheduled presentation the next day that really made all the miles a necessity.

            As we crossed the border into Montana, we were greeted by higher speed limits, smaller shoulders, and white crosses to mark where people have died along the road.   Only 59 more miles from here.  We were still taking in our surroundings as we saw golf course developments, ranchettes, and a dryer landscape.  50 miles to go and we lunched at a cozy little diner in downtown Eureeka. 

            We pressed on and were cheered by Osprey as they roosted in treetops and manmade nests along the road.  As we passed inviting lakes and streams we were glad that the whole of our trip wasn’t at this pace.  We longed for the time to stop and enjoy our surroundings.  To really experience the landscape rather than merely ride through it.

With about an hour of daylight left, we arrived.  We were warmly greeted by friendly faces, delicious food, and a fire in the woodstove.  We had made it, and let our weary bodies rest.   

Another early morning. sun cutting sideways onto our faces and onto fields of cow and round haybales. We ride with almost no traffic, Redtail hawks lifting off the fences, blackbirds eating in the mowed fields. When we turn west onto Highway 3 the ease of the morning shifts. We are bombarded with a wicked headwind and incessant traffic. Five out of six team members are fighting a head cold. Head cold. Headwind. I despair a bit when glancing back I see a windmill we had passed an hour ago just a few paces back.  Crowsnest Pass area is a necklace of old mining towns strung at the base of very dramatic jabbing peaks.  The 5 townships shared libraries, cultural centers, and grocery stores but were separated by 3 or 4 miles of highway and railroads.  After an extremely hard fought 20 miles we go to a recommended café in Coleman by the name of Chris’s. The café is in the historic downtown and is jam-packed with locals. Sitting at the counter we are a ragged –looking bunch, red-chapped faces, sneezy-puffy eyes, hair plastered to our heads or caught in private winds.

The Crowsnest Pass area is one of the high priority areas in the Y2Y region. Contributing factors are: the railroad, traffic (Highway 3 is the shortest route to the coast), and sprawl (the 5 communities that comprise Crowsnest are separated along the length of the pass).  Finishing the climb to the pass, we cross over into BC coast downhill with less wind. Cruising down in a yellow forest of cottonwoods, I feel my soul return after being sucked empty by the wind.

Passing by an immense working coalmine outside of Sparwood, we bike on to a beautiful camp along the Elk River.

Wake up in the dark to the otherworldly whistle of elk bugling in the riverbed below our camp, bugling all through our breaking of camp and breakfast and as we bike out of the wet and yellow cottonwood camp. Following the Highwood River from its alpine source yesterday and now its route through prairie bluffs, the color of sawdust. It is cold and wet as we bike out onto the Albertan Rocky Mountain Front. Aspens in gold patches string out across the foothills. Cedar and I pass an old ranch that induced such a painful longing for ownership, (you know the type: old dark barn high on the ridge against a grove of huge fir, a few black cows on an umber sloping hill, a small cabin in salmon-colored aspen along a modest twisting river gorge) that I implored her to knock on the door and ask if the owner was a liberal vegetarian cowboy looking for a wife… alas we decided against it and pressed onto the ranch town of Longview where we met the rest of the team for breakfast. This is the first time we’ve gone this far east on our ride, into ranching country, into the big sky country. We have major miles to make today and the prairie is deceiving in its terrain up and down the foothills. The clouds are a charcoal fringe on an even gray sky, weather systems roll in strips east to west, soaking portions of the road and leaving others dry. Cedar biking a few miles ahead is soaked with rain and hail when we catch up to her for lunch, while the rest of us remained dry. Alex hitches a ride back to Longview where a camera charger had been left at the diner; he was picked up by a local rancher. The rancher was highly educated on the Y2Y concept and talked at length about the issues pertaining to his livelihood and that of his neighbors. Once again we learned how widespread the ideas of connectivity has spread and how valuable local voices are in each place we pedal.

Biking until the clouds go pink and the thin irrigation canals are slices of white in the darkening hills. The 78 mile day concludes with a cold wind, a star-pocked sky, and a hot fire.