Vernal, UT, to Fruita, CO
October 27, 2009
Vernal. Once home to cuddly dinosaurs. Now home to mormons and singletrack.
Loaded up with a breakfast of sugary-coated cereal, then resting my backside gingerly on the newly-welded Brooks saddle, I bade farewell to my sunglass-toting hosts, Jim and Barbara in Manila. It was a long climb out of Flaming Gorge; hot and interminably rolling. A climb that forever seemed to lose as much altitude as it gained, it did finally breach the 8500 foot pass forty miles later. My original plans involved a dirt road detour beyond the top but in light of my damaged perch, I dove straight back down on pavement, finishing the day with a ten mile, ten switchback descent that unravelled almost into the backstreets of Vernal.
Ten blissful miles of descent.
The bike shop where I hoped to invest in a new seat was shut by the time I tracked it down on the fringes of town, so in a moment of wild abandon, I booked myself into a discounted room at the Sage Motel. Such indulgent luxury! As it happened, it was just the kind of independent motel I like. Cheap and quirky round the edges, it was run by a friendly Indonesian family, and when the back door opened, I caught a waft of Nasi Goreng.
Just a few miles from the main drag in Vernal, a web of trails criss-crossed the desert.
To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much from Vernal. But as it happened, it had just hit the big time in mountain biking circles, thanks to a magazine feature on its brand new network of trails within easy reach of town. I liked its desert heat and oddball feel; the enormous, surreal and almost cuddly dinosaurs poking their heads high into the clear blue sky, and the faded, classic Americana shop facades in the older part of town.
Blue skies in Utah. Thanks Troy at Altitude Cycles for donating me a saddle to keep me rolling.
Two other mountain bikers had booked into the same motel, brothers Jim and Tim from Salt Lake City; Jim a keen mountain bike racer and Tim an extreme distance runner, before fatherhood took over a chunk of their lives. Over at Altitude Cycles, owner Troy’s unremitting enthusiam for the trails he’d been working on inspired me to strip down the bike and spend a ‘day off’ riding lovely, dusty singletrack out in the desert with the two brothers.
Jim throwing some moves in the desert.
Brothers Jim and Tim. They invited me to join them for a day's mountain biking, then kindly treated me first to lunch, then to a gargantuan Mexican dinner. I slept on their motel room floor the second night - thanks guys!
So as often the case when travelling, a turn of bad luck was far outweighed by the experiences that came from it. Breaking my saddle rails resulted in a night at Jim and Barbara’s, and an impromptu stop in Vernal. Which in turn introduced me to Jim and Tim, whose company both on and off the trails I really enjoyed. ‘It’s a good earth’, said Jim. And I agreed.
In the morning, we rode McCoy Flats and in the afternoon, we squeezed in a ride around the Red Fleet Trails.
Then it was time to load up once more and head south, via the dirt roads of Baxter Pass, which would lead me me over the mountain range into Colorado.
As I rode south to the wonderfully named but sinfully ugly Bonanza, the desert took on a surreal, wind sculpted, biblical quality.
I would have had the valley to myself but for the profusion of hunters stalking the mountains for deer and elk, garbed in full camo gear, somewhat incongruous with their day-glo orange waistcoasts and baseball caps.
All the creeks had dried up, so I flagged down pickups and asked for water. Everyone quizzed me on where I’d ridden from, and what I was doing out in the middle of the mountains alone. When I told them, they forced out whistling sounds from their mouths and shook their heads. Just to temper their perception of my madness, I often added that there was a couple on a tandem homeschooling their kid, and two brothers on a similar journey, one of whom was towing his dog in a trailer. ‘Well, I sure as hell don’t blame him for that,’ said one of the hunters, to unanimous nodding from his camo-clad friends, as if leaving a dog behind would have been far more of a surprise than the journey itself.
One couple asked me simply, ‘So what are you going to do when you get there?’ It was a question no one had put to me before. ‘Er, fly home, I guess,’ I answered, seeing in a moment of clarity how so many people must view this journey.
Happy to be camping out in the mountains. Do I look a bit like a stickman? Maybe I need to eat more.
A biking trail! After a few ambiguous turns and some compass squinting, it was good to see this sign and know I was on the right track.
The border with Colorado was cattle ranching territory. I stopped in at a hunting outfitters, and was warmly welcomed in by Bruce - see cowboy hat below - where I was offered a giant platter of elk meat cooked up by his wife.
A group of hunters had gathered in the barn, where huge carcasses were hanging like pendulums from the rafters; one man was busy severing an elk's head from its 700lb body. For someone who's not been brought up in this kind of world, it was pretty gruesome watching him working away at the animal with his knife. But I figure that if I'm prepared to eat meat, perhaps this is a more natural way of experiencing how it gets onto my plate, rather than neatly embalmed in a styrofoam packet, purchased from the disconnected convenience of a supermarket.
Rick was one of the guides, and we talked about the ethics of hunting. He argued that that many people are happy to eat meat pumped with chemicals from McDonald's, but balk at the idea of the 'blood and guts' of hunting. To him, living off the land and understanding where your food is coming from form the essence of hunting - the size and majesty of the antlers comes second. To me though, I still find the 'trophy sport' aspect of it - hunting for the thrill of the kill - hard to deal with.
With a belly full of elk meat and a generous slab of carrot cake to top it off, I left the outfitters. From there, the track deteriorated as it began to switchback up the pass.
With the approach of winter, the aspens were turning, a blaze of colour burning across the hillside. When the wind blew, bright leaves fluttered to the ground like snowfall.
At last, the top of the pass, at 8650 feet. From here, I'd been promised a white-knuckled, pedal-free descent.
Which it was for the first 10 miles... Then a howling wind stirred into life, threatening to blow me back up the hill. And the rock-strewn and washed out trail swelled out into a body jarring, filling-loosening washboard road. Both of which I were taking their toll on my spirits and energy supply. You can't see the two evils of bike touring in this picture, but they were there, believe you me.
I'm now largely beyond bear country. Here, critters take a different form. Being an arachnophobe, I wasn't impressed to hear there are small but lethally poisonous spiders the size of a penny scuttling across the desert floor. Further down the pass, I nearly ran over this camouflaged snake. I'm not sure if it was dangerous, but it certainly had the attitude to be. It did the iconic snake dance - raising itself up on the ground and bobbing its head from side to side...
As I closed in on the highway came the incongruous sight of gas and oil stations, sprouting out of the otherwise empty desert like sets from a post-apocalyptic movie.
Reaching sun-kissed Fruita has suddenly injected a little holiday-like spirit into the journey. There's two great shops in town, Single-Tracks and Over The Edge, where a steady stream of visiting riders check in before hitting the trails.
Pedalling into such a formidable headwind, I didn’t make it into town until dark, and luckily ended up sharing a campspot in the overpriced State Park ($20 for a tent!) with Craig, Bonnie and Dean from Canada, who’d been mountain biking in twin meccas of Fruita and Moab.
All in all, it had been a great segment of the journey. One that had been incredibly varied: from snow to mud to dust to desert to highway, with some wonderful encounters in between. Next up is the Kokopelli Trail to Moab…
Jackson WY, to Flaming Gorge, UT
October 17, 2009
I’ve now deviated off the Great Divide Route in search of a night’s camping that’s not on/under snow, on the way to Fruita, Colorado.
Dashing south out of Jackson, finally. It's not always easy to reset the mind to travel again. Photo David Gonzales.
Leaving Jackson was hard. It’s often that way when you slip in with a group of kind people, pamper yourself with some home comforts (a cooking hob and a shower) and begin to put down some roots (read: mess). So when I did finally return to the road on a somewhat bleak and overcast day, I put The Band on the ipod and tried some harmony singing to lift my pensive mood.
I sought advice for the road ahead here, with the Owner of the Boot. When I went in, a man was trying to swap a gun with him for a horse. Alpine was cowboy central and thick, silver caterpillar moustaches were the fashion.
Initially, a cyclepath cosseted me out of town, linking up with the suitably serpentine Snake River, working its way down along a broad valley. Once in Alpine, I stopped to glean conditions along the Grey’s River Road, the dirt track that would lead me via the Wyoming Mountains into the desert. By all accounts, it would be a hard ride, so I treated myself to an overpriced, $4 brownie infused with swirls of cheese, which I pecked at and savoured for 3 days.
Please, build it for the children...
Back on dirt track - the Grey's River Road. It started it off broad and relatively smooth, wending its way beside Grey's River.
With clear water and flat pastures, wild camping opportunities abounded.
Ode to Love.
Lots of mountain action too. I had a fine view of this range from my campspot on the first day, 20 miles into the trail.
But that night, it rained. And rained. Turning my fine dirt road to leg-sapping mush by the morning.
More gloopy mush. Then came the hail, and the snow... Oh dear.
Towards the top of the pass, I came across a trapper, wading in amongst the reeds to bury evil-looking, spring-activated traps for beavers. He'd retrieved this unfortunate Pine Marten earlier that day. The trapper offered me a can of soda, and when I shook his hand, I felt a stump of a finger against my palm.
As I closed in on the pass top, at some 8650ft, mud turned to snow, and slush to ice, taking turns to slow me down. Pushing a laden bike in these conditions is no easy task. The front wheel kept sliding across the road into a foot of powder snow to the side, infuriating me. Bad wheel, bad!
With elk hunting season about to open in Wyoming, others were having their own issues. I'd met Dan further down the valley, and he'd been stranded with his horses for the last few hours.
Nearly there. In all, I pushed and huffed and puffed for some 6 miles. Two hunters offered me rides - one even drove a couple of miles in my direction to bail me out,wondering what I was up to. He seemed a little incredulous when I thanked him for his offer, but turned him away.
The bike felt heavy enough, without great clumps of ice around the hubs and jamming the brakes.
Once I crested the pass, I could ride/surf my way down in the snow. This group of old timer hunters were camped on the other side, by La Barge Creek. With the season about to start, they recommended I wear orange. 'Or you'll get shot' they laughed, with just a little hint of menace, I thought. Mind you, the orange jackets they wore really did stand out - like AA roadside mechanics with guns.
That night it snowed anew...
Dappling the autumnal trees.
Luckily, conditions rapidly improved as I dropped down in altitude. Relatively speaking. I was still completely splattered in mud, as were all the bags and panniers.
Luckily, the Rohloff is built for this kind of terrain. And I'm very pleased with the setup at the moment. I'm using one of Epic Designs' handlebar bags to stash my lightweight sleeping bag and mat up front, freeing up space for food in the panniers. I now keep my heavy camera in a front pannier, using an Old Man Mountain Rack on the suspension fork. With this new setup, the bike handles great - very stable on fast, potholed descents.
Down on the valley floor, passed the cattle ranches, it seems gas and oil are big business. Pipes protruded out of the earth like giant worms and steel cylinders glinted in the sun.
In fact, on the other side of the pass, it was a completely different topography. Dry, arid, with mineral-streaked rocks. And blue sky!
A different world indeed. Desert, as far as the eye could see. A band of white capped peaks dwindled down in size to the east.
After a brief stint on the highway, I was back on a dirt track shortcut to Fontanelle.
There, I stopped at the gas station/bare-bones-store to guzzle down a muffin and an isotonic drink.
As I was leaving, the kooky lady serving me told me to watch out for coyotes, wolves, mountain lions and bears. 'Bears?' I questioned, surprised they were still to be found this far into the desert. 'Well, I've seen one in three years', she clarified. Then: 'Of course, what you really have to watch out for is Man,' said the guy buying a 6 pack, as his pickup idled in the scratch of land outside. 'Yes,' she agreed, warming to the topic, 'Man can do some very bad things'. There was a pause as we all dwelled on our own dark thoughts. And on that note, I set off alone on the highway, thinking about how, for a country that takes so much pride in its freedom, I'd never received so many warnings to Stay Safe. Although they're all uttered with the best intentions, the negative vibe they leave in their wake inevitably niggles at my confidence, which is a shame. Anything can happen to you, anywhere in the world. Which doesn't mean you should just stay indoors.
The road was all but empty. Which, with those unsettling words still lingering in my head, I couldn't decide to interpret as a good or a bad thing. I rode on, and with some more miles under my belt, found myself a nice campspot on a bluff above the highway.
As the sun set, coating the landscape in a pink glow, I watched the cars and trucks pass by. It wasn't even that cold! I settled in to catch a movie on the netbook. Ah, this is the life...
More dirt. The Lima Cutoff avoided a stretch on the Interstate. I had it to myself.
Cacti! A sign of things to come...
Profile shot of the beard. I can now feel it rustle in the wind - I think.
Not much out here but shrub and sky...
All the creeks were dry. So I filtered water from the Black Fork River. Tasted weird.
Edging back towards the mountains, I rode south on 191 towards Utah. As I often do, I was questioning this itinerant lifestyle when I caught myself riding pace with a herd of antelope in the sagebrush. A moment later, a gleaming chrome truck whistled past, blotting out my elongated, late afternoon shadow for an instant. Two brief moments that brought me back to the present. And it all made sense again.
I don't normally take pictures of roadkill, but was struck by the similarity of this skunk's white stripe and the road markings. It would be ironic if a paint truck was the one that had run it down.
It was strange to think that just the day before, I'd been struggling through the snow in the high mountains. Now, here I was in open desert. A good reminder that things do change; it's important to remember this when you're in the midst of hardship.
And then, snap! My saddle had broken, with the rails shearing clean off. I was gutted, as this was the comfiest perch I've owned. I had to ride standing up for the last 10 miles to the tiny settlement of Manila, across the state border, where I was able to get it welded. I should be able to get a new one under warranty.
One mile into Utah, I stopped to ask Jim and Barbara if they knew of any old bikes with a saddle I could salvage. Jim hobbled into action, and within a few minutes, we were driving down the road to see Ira, the local welder. Half an hour later, the saddle was back on the bike. Ira wasn't convinced the weld would hold; hopefully it would get me the 65 miles up and over a 8450ft pass to Vernal, where a bike shop was to be found. Jim and Barbara invited me to stay the night, and we dined on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. A Mormon family, they included my saddle and its repair in their prayers before eating, which I thought was rather touching.
The incredible colours and ridged landscape of Utah's Flaming Gorge Recreation Area, where dinosaurs did once roam...
A new plan
October 11, 2009
It’s something of a relief to have figured out a plan amist all the options, which have been clouding my mind of late. And a fine one it is too, I think.
Although I’ve actually (strangely enough) revelled in everything the recent snows have brought with them, I’ve decided, in light of the onset of an early winter, to veer off the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, and make my own way south. It was a tough decision, as I’ve loved almost every mile of this epic route so far; the quiet solitude, the complete remoteness, the oddball towns. In a way, this whole trip hinged around a desire to ride this route; it’s hard to accept change and let go of things sometimes.
I do enjoy getting my nose stuck into a good map; anticipation is the beginning of the journey. Thanks Evan, and Keith at Teton Mountaineering, for the route planning advice.
But at least riding these gravel roads the last month has opened up a whole new world of backwater America to me, and it’s one I want to keep exploring. A conversation with David’s neighbour Evan rekindled my ideas of heading to Moab, by reminding me of the Kokopelli Trail. Then, the kind folks at Teton Mountaineering poured over map after map with me, and together we wove together a network of gravel and backroads which will deposit me right down at Fruita, on the edge of Colorado – a renowned mountain biking locale. Places along the way include Alpine Junction, La Barge, the Flaming Gorge, Jensen, Dinosaur and Loma, via Baxter Pass, if it’s doable.
From there, I’ll pick up the Kokopelli Trail, a challenging off road route I’ve long hankered to ride, which will link me to another mtb mecca: Moab, in Utah. Then, (somehow) I’ll weave my way back down to New Mexico, again on backroads where I can, and pick up the Great Divide Route once more to the border.
I’m sure to miss the phenomenally detailed route maps I’ve become used to. Many of these forest tracks I’ll now be following south should be just as remote, so, taking a leaf from the Adventure Cycling Association, I’ve spent the morning at Staples compiling detailed topographical state maps from DeLorme, and highlighting where I’m going. I’d thought of laminating them for that final professional touch, but a zip lock bag will have to do.
An alternative to the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route? Cass' Gravelly Ride South.
Jackson seems mellower and less austentacious than I imagined, though I guess ski season – and the money that comes with it – has yet to kick in. The main square has a resort feel to it, and many of the stores are clad in the veneer of the log cabin or frontier town look. The fruit at the local supermarket seems perhaps a little more buffed and shiny than normal, and there’s a rather grand fireplace there too. But apart from that, Jackson seems to have kept to its roots as a beguiling, laid back mountain town, its roads populated by Subarus and pickup trucks loaded with the mountain person’s paraphernalia of skis/kayaks/bikes. The backstreets are quiet, with simple and elegant contemporary houses interspersed with old, wonky wooden buildings.
I like the vibe.
Lima, MT to Jackson, WY
October 10, 2009
With all this snow billowing in across the region, I’m now having to patch together a modified plan, borrowing bits that are still rideable from the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, with (boring) stretches of roads that are more likely to be open. As an overview, the route heads from Montana briefly into Idaho, before crossing into Wyoming, and then Colorado. Which means more and more mountains, and higher and higher elevations. At this point, the question is: should I head south towards the warmer climes of Utah and hit the mountain bike meccas of Fruita and Moab. Or should I persevere into Colorado and risk more snow…
Here’s some pictures I took while crossing Idaho to Jackson, Wyoming, where I’m based at the moment.
Outside Lima's one motel was this immaculate 1958 Plymouth Fury 3 for sale.
It didn't look that furious...
I'd paid to camp in the backyard, but ended up sleeping in the laundromat instead. Much warmer! I did have a moment when I thought: is this really me, age 35, sleeping on the floor of a laundromat, alone, counting my every last dollar? But then I decided I'm okay with that. I like living this way for now. It feels invigorating; being outside of my comfort zone reawakens my senses and makes me feel truly alive.
Cooking up a feast of a dinner. I sure know how to treat myself in these cold times.
Three plank-thick blueberry pancakes in the local diner set me up nicely in the morning. Most of the conversations I've been overhearing have been about hunting, often for wolfs, which has just been introduced this year. Like: 'I saw a pretty white one in the hills behind– should make someone a real special prize.'
Diners, like the outside of cheap supermarkets as I’ve come to discover, are good places for weird conversations with unusual people. One of the waitresses in Lima looked a little like a white version of Tina Turner – very cool. Tucking into my pancakes, I was soon approached by a man with claw hand, who’d lost his fingers in an industrial accident. Retired since he was 32, he proceded explain the ins and outs of different mining equipment, and what each truck could haul, pincering his remaining fingers as he spoke. My eyes glazed over – I fear it’s the same reaction when I talk about bikes to people…
When I took to the road at 9am, it was 10F . That's -12C!
I was togged up in all my layers, even my trusty jeans, for the long climb up and over the pass, and didn’t even break into a sweat. My water bottles froze as I rode, as did my beard. Beards sure keep you warm, but can be socially embarrasing when you start to defrost mid conversation.
Unfortunately I've had to detour off the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route for now, as the forest track to Lake View is currently impassable. Luckily the Interstate was almost empty, with a massive shoulder to ride on, a safe cushion from the goliath trucks that thundered past. Sometimes they tooted their horns, low and resonant, in greeting.
Hello Idaho.
Views from Interstate 15.
First impressions? Not a lot of people, but lots of dilapidated, abandoned houses by the roadside.
Luckily I didn’t have to ride the interstate too long, as I tracked down a snow-free gravel road that cut round the mountains out of Spencer, a one strip hamlet famous for its locally mined opals.
I popped into the local gas station/opal store to check directions, and was somewhat embarrassed to find my beard defrosting as I spoke, dripping onto a prestine counter. ‘It’s okay,’ said the lady, ‘happens all the time when my husband has a beard,’ before hurrying off to fetch me a paper towel.
Later, as I was standing outside, cold and uncertain as to where I was heading, I managed to resist two temptations. First I met BK, who offered me a lift in his 4WD to Jackson, where I was headed. Then Connie pulled up, travelling south from Alberta to San Francisco in her VW van, with a Husky that adopted her, as she put it. As we sat and chatted, a biting coldness overwhelmed me. It was the kind of coldness that burrows deep, even deeper than all my layers. When she offered to give me a ride south to warmer climes, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d turn it down. But part of me wished I could have taken her up on it, and that I didn’t need to feel so constrained by my plans.
Instead, I set off once more, my body and my mood warming up on the first hill, music playing in my ears, uplifting my spirits. A little while later, the sheriff passed by and pulled over to see what I was up to, a lone cyclist making his way slowly across an empty backroad, under a porcelain sky.
Indeed, the lanscape was all but bereft of features. Lumps of obsidian, once used by native Indians for arrowheads, protruded out of the earth. Voles scuttled by, their tales pointing straight up into the air like radio antennas.
Blaine Grover, 85. Although he now lives in Dubois, just down the road, he moved into the house behind in 1942. It didn't look like much had changed since then.
Roadside encounters uplifted my mood too. I love how approachable cycling makes me to people I pass by. Like Blaine Grover, a local farmer, who shook his head in wonder at the notion of riding down from Alaska. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. When I told him I was 35, he laughed merrily and said: ‘Aren’t you old enough to know better?!’ Then he asked me how old I thought he was, tottering slightly as he stepped back for me to make a proper appraisal. I was suitably complimentary.
I like the way this place was almost identical to the doghouse. Or maybe it's the other way round...
Rexburg, just down the road, is considered one of America's 'reddest' towns.
Soon, farming land was replaced by an expanse of sage scrub and tall, spindly wooden ranch gateways, cordorning off what seemed like vast tracts of empty land. Abandoned houses, their peeling paint muted over time, dotted the landscape.
Another dilapidated Idahoan farmhouse.
Camping amongst the sagebrush.
I’d heard there were ice caves along the way but didn’t want to end up sharing one with a local mountain lion, so opted for a clearing amongst the sage brush; a peaceful spot is was too.
That night, the temperature plummetted. Nowadays when I go to sleep, I’m pretty much in everything I wear during the day – long johns, jeans, base layer, jersey, fleece, jacket and wooley hat. At least it makes getting going the next day pretty quick…
21st century camping. I while away the cold night watching episodes of Flight of the Conchords...
In St Anthony, a backwater farming town festooned with 50s, neon-signed shops, I asked a lady for directions at a four way junction; she immediately invited me in to stay at her farm down the road. But it was early, and I needed to push on to keep ahead of the storm. To check up on the weather, I stopped in at the visitor centre, which shared its offices with the police station, the medical centre, the town treasury and the library. It smelled of a hospital and there, a lady breathing through an oxygen tank marvelled at my accent, and suggested I check in at the forestry office, 12 miles down the road in Ashton.
The 'burbs of St Anthony.
And downtown.
Novel letterbox.
Roadside scene in Idaho: trucks and horses.
In Ashton, I was told that snow was 40 per cent likely for that night, which might mean several miles of pushing over the pass. But I was keen to get back on the route, and to experience the remoteness of those forest tracks again, so figured that with the odds in my favour, I’d give it a go.
Into Wyoming and the Targhee National Forest. I was only in Idaho for two days and a night. The folks sure were friendly though.
Loon Lake in the late evening.
I camped close to South Boon creek and in amongst some trees, to protect me from the snowfall. That night, I listened to flakes crinkling on the tent, like candy wrappers in a cinema.
I was hoping all the bears would have slunk off to hibernate by now, but apparently there are still plenty around. In fact, they hang around until the end of hunting season, feasting on the entrails that hunters leave behind from the kills they’ve gutted and chopped up. I also heard that this forest is where the ‘bad grizzlies’ are transferred to, if they misbehave in nearby Yellowstone National Park.
It didn't feel so cold that night, but it still managed to freeze the water in my cooking pot.
In the morning, the sun was beaming in all its glory, and the night’s snowfall had compacted down, filling in the body-jarring corrugated track that had rattled loose my fillings the day before.
This marker had increments for 11 feet of snow...
As I rode, two National Park Rangers, Chris and Jason, pulled over in their truck for a chat, surprised to see a cyclist out alone in the forest. Chris insisted I grab myself a coffee and a beer in the resort down the road, and put it on his tab. Then, a jeep with two distinctly glamorous couples from Idaho pulled over to find out what I was up to. The driver was clearly a cyclist, noting my Brooks saddle and Rohloff hub, so I enthused about this wonderful route, and how fortunate he was in having it in his backyard.
Uh oh. Roadworks. Unlike India, where cyclists can weave there way between road crews and steamrollers with little concern for 'health and safety', in the US, the rules are the rules, and you have to be driven through. Gutted. Great views of the Teton Range though.
For the first time on this trip, I had to take a ride in a pilot truck through 8 miles of roadworks, despite pleading over the radio with the head honcho. I’ve no doubt he gets the same pleas from every other cyclist on their ‘special’ journey. The only way round it was to stay until work ended at 7.30pm, when it’s dark. It was a deflating moment, but I tried to see it in a positive light too. Riding every single last mile really just panders to your ego. Having to swallow your pride once in a while is no bad thing.
The skies cleared, and as I rode round Jackson Lake, the Teton range sharpened into view. The highest peak in the range is Grand Teton, at 13 770ft. The peak in the centre of this shot is Mount Moran, at 12 605ft. Inevitably given its beauty, the roads are noticeably more busy now, even this late in the season.
I’d planned to try and reach Jackson, but there was a strong headwind to contend with. When I stopped in at the grocers along the way, I bumped into Sean, Ingrid and Kate, the family from Skye travelling to South America on their tandem. The campsite there was just $5 for hikers and bikers, so that helped seal the deal for an impromptu stop. I was pleased to note that RVs pay $45, the way it should be, to rebalance the coffers. It’s a shame that in in a lot of official campsites in the US and Canada, a cyclist looking for a small patch of land to pitch a tent pays the same as a family-filled RV on their massive pad of gravel.
What a contrast. I'd camped in the sunshine but by the next morning, there was half a foot of snow on the tent.
Sean and Ingrid, heading south to Argentina, home schooling Kate along the way. When I first met them in a campsite near Jasper, Canada, Ingrid was calling desperately out to Kate to 'get back and do your homework.' Family life. Different setting, same scenario...
After last night's storm, the views were perhaps even more imposing. As a blizzard swept in, it felt like I was viewing the world in black and white on the last 30 mile stretch to Jackson.
Thawing out after the storm. Snow had gathered in the folds of my jacket and crystalised along my eyebrows.
More cool addresses. A bit like living in a place called Dog.
The venerable Ford F150. Preferred truck it seems of residents of Wyoming. And Montana. And Alaska.
Apparently Jackson was never a true cowboy town - it's always been shaped and contrived for tourism. Nowadays it's the weekend escape of the billionaire crowd, and I noticed private jets to-ing and fro-ing from the airport. Still, as I rode into town, I could really picture riders galloping across the plains in a scene from the old Wild West.
At first glance, Jackson seems a curious blend of ultra wealthy residents rubbing shoulders with hippyish ski bums – apparently it has some of the best, and easily accessed backcountry skiing and snowboarding in the country. Everyone glows with the healthy sheen of the outdoors. It’s the kind of place where you can leave the keys in your car, and your house unlocked. In fact, as I rode into town, Nick, who’d cycled to Jackson from New Hamphire to work and ski, offered me a place to stay, having seen me way on his way back from work.
Right now, I’m staying with David Gonzales, a film maker/photographer/climber/skier, who kindly offered to put me up at the last moment. David keeps a great photo story blog and makes some very cool films, often revolving around the area and its issues. Today, I drove a neighbour’s truck so he could get a tyre fixed – the first time I’ve driven in a long while. The engine was low pitched and burbly. Despite myself, I did feel strangely powerful… Soon I was feeling confident enough to have my elbow sticking out of the window, and with my scraggly beard, I felt like a proper Mountain Man.
I’d love to spend a winter in a mountain town one day, though of course I’d invest in a Surly Pugsley…
I'm taking a day out to plot my next move. Which means I get to housesit David's lovely dog Peppy, as he's headed out of town for the night. Today, I mooched around town and checked out Teton Mountaineering. Pepy was amazing - following me around without a leash, drawing a crowd of admirers at every store. I want a Pepy!
Storm 2: Polaris to Lima, MT
October 10, 2009
Here’s a picture story from our second storm. It might seem a little tame compared to Lava Mountain, but it felt pretty full on at the time. Suffice to say that it was enough for Robert and Chris, who have only a couple of weeks of their trip left, to cut their losses and head for the southerly sun in Moab, lured by the notion of mountain biking in T shirts. Very sensible…
The day began with brooding skies, but none of the driving winds or snow we'd been promised.
After a long drag on the pavement, battling cattle trucks that whooshed past a razor width away, or so it seemed, we turned off onto quieter dirt roads once more.
Cue snow, which turned the clay-based surface to a tacky mush that sucked on our wheels - gumball, the locals call it.
Robert wobbles on as the ice forms...
And the winds start to blow...
I was ready for battle though. Shimano boots, wool leg warmers and odd laces. A killer combo: performance and style.
Chris kept toasty in his new wardrobe of ski boots/trousers/mitts. Those derailleur gremlins were still conspiring to do their best to slow him down though.
With horizontal snow stinging our faces, we took refuge in Cross Ranch, whose owner kindly availed us of his heated workshop for a session of bike cleaning and food chomping.
The Travel Master's Rohloff revels in these conditions. Very impressive. I really like my Epic Designs front bag too.
A little warmer, drier, and with full bellies, Robert and I persevered on the gumball trails. Chris opted for tarmac to salvage his gear system, chancing his luck with a ferocious headwind instead.
A good choice, as the track got worse and worse. The mud slowed us down to a 5mph crawl.
Fancy a drink?
Here's Robert and his nearly new Thorn Sterling. Sticky mud comes extra.
Not very motel friendly, me thinks.
Eventually we emerged back onto tarmac, following a frontage road parallel to the highway for the final push to Dell.
It was dark by the time we got to the welcoming warmth of its one and only mercantile, relieved to be out of the cold.
Which brings me up to date with our night in the characterful Amish log cabin. Robert and Chris are now in Moab, so from here on, I’ll be back on my own again. I’m writing this from Jackson WY, trying to plot my next move – one eye on the map, the other on the weather…
Tough days deserve a treat.
Butte to Polaris: the calm before…
October 9, 2009
I’m now a stone’s through from Jackson, Wyoming. First though, here’s a couple of catch-up blogs from the lux lounge of the Signal Resort while I camp down the road!
So, to recap. After a night in the opulent Super 8 motel (and prolonged all-you-eat breakfast), Robert and I took for the trails once more. Chris still had errands to run in Butte, fettling with his bike and trailer setup, before investing in a whole new wardrobe of toasty clothes to fend off this unexpected onset of chilly weather…
A long but easy going climb took us back to 7000ft, crossing Continental Divide no 5.
Still snowing up here...
A great address.
Then a wonderful dirt road led us down a massive descent where I hit just shy of 40mph. Getting air off the waterbars on a 50kg bike is good fun...
Poor hand, looking a little puffy.
By the way, I think I’ve fractured my hand in a mountain biking incident in Missoula. While riding a lovely ti Co Motion hardtail, I endoed down a concrete flight of stairs. My excuse? The brakes were set up the American, ‘wrong’ way. Several days later, my hand swelled up like a puffer fish, so much so that I had to coax it into my winter gloves. ‘Vitamin I’ helped bring the swelling down, though there’s now a sizeable, hard lump in its place.. My theory? The fractured bone is reforming; bigger, better and stronger! It doesn’t hurt too much when I ride, bar the odd stabbing pain when I touch it or put on my gloves. If anyone with medical knowledge could concur with my theory, that would be great!
After a shimmy under Interstate 15, we were back on quiet roads again. Unfortunately we had to miss out on the infamous singletrack of Fleecer Ridge, which is currently knee deep in snow. Gutted!
Nothing beats a night of camping after a great day's riding. Unless it's below freezing...
All work and no play is no fun at all. I've had this topcap for ten years, and it's moved with me from bike to bike.
Tech Talk. A word of warning to fully loaded Dividers running Rohloff Speedhubs. Quash your ego and fit a 38T sprocket. The climbs are steep...
In the morning, we rode through Divide. As far as I could see, it had one bar and, well, that's about it.
I like the way this old truck was parked up somewhat randomly in a field to a beautiful backdrop, as if it was on a shoot for a 70s brochure.
If you're passing by, the Wise River Club motel rustles up a behemoth plate of pancakes and maple syrup for 4 dollars. One half of the couple who runs it is from Scotland, and speaks with a curious Scotch/Montanan lilt, he used to be a keen cyclist too.
The gentle 30 mile climb up towards the pass was lush, passing one beautiful potential campsite after another, each enticing us to stop with these kinds of views...
These riparian meadows teem with willows, beavers, moose and mallards.
Almost up and over. Ten to eleven thousand feet peaks were all around.
Needing to catch up for lost time, we pushed on over the pass, and after a fast, chilly descent, holed up in Grasshopper Creek. Seems another storm is brewing…
(more on that soon…)
Storm 1: Lava Mountain
October 6, 2009
Montana + Autumn = good chance of snow
Here’s a little picture story on the first of our snowy adventures…
After kicking back and relaxing over at Dan’s in Bozeman - and squeezing in a couple of short but sweet singletrack rides – we set off once more from Helena. Bt the way, thanks enormously to those who sent parcels or answered my music SOS and compiled new tunes – I’m loving them!
It had to happen some time. With weeks and weeks of sunshine in the bag, the forecast finally spelled doom and gloom. Sure enough, when we awoke from a night camping in a (closed) campsite, early morning drizzle was pooling in the potholes and giving the trail a lovely, tyre-sucking, tacky feel.
As we climbed in elevation, rain turned to snow, dusting the tops of the trees.
What should have been a lovely, fast forest track turned into mush and slime.
The scenery was beautiful; the forest looked frozen in time.
A fairytale feel.
Onwards and upwards we climbed, blissfully unaware of what lay ahead...
Then the snow started to fall, and a filter of flat, blue light fell across the land.
Here's Chris, still smiling.
The occasional truck stopped the snow from settling on the ground.
Elsewhere, it started to cling to everything - even the sides of the trees.
But it wasn't until we turned off the main forest road, onto a far narrower, steeper and rockier trail that the encountered our first snow drifts. As this trail was closed to all motor vehicles, the snow is left to gather.
Chris snakes his way through the trees, their branches dropping with snow.
Soon, it really began to fall...
... in fact, our path was rapidly becoming far from distinct.
Time to check the map, me thinks.
Robert, well wrapped up in his ski mitts.
At this point, we could have turned back, but made the call to push on. I mean, how much further could it be?
Then the snow got thicker, and the trail thinner.
... and the hill steeper and rockier.
Negotiating fallen trees added to the challenge.
There were still moments we could ride. But they were just that: moments.
The Santos Travelmaster. Shrugging off the snow with aplomb.
It was starting to get late. We knew we were on the right track, but there didn't seem an end in sight to the trail.
Finally, after a lot of pushing and shoving, we reached the meadow at the top of the pass.
Then the trail started to descend. In our semi-exhausted state, the challenge was simple: stay on the bike.
It was tempting to try and push on to the forest road where our path would be clearer. But it was getting dark. With just a handful of miles on the clock, we decided to pull over and snow camp. The temperature plummeted. We didn't socialize much than evening...
A cold night ensued. Here's my boots in the morning, which, like everything else, had turned into ice blocks.
And here's Robert, emerging from his cocoon.
We almost needed a shovel to dig out the bikes, encased as they were in snow. All this time, the Rohloff hubs never skipped a beat. However, my V brakes froze, clogging up the wheels with snow, and Robert's mudguards did their best to wedge the bike to a standstill too. Chris's derailleurs had long lost any sense of purpose...
I'd left my riding gloves in a bag outside, and they'd frozen in a kind of embrace.
Still, the next morning brought with it sunshine; fingers could at last defrost.
Not quite axle deep, but not far from it. Did I mention that pushing a fully loaded bike is hard? Very hard.
A chance to get back on the bikes.
Yey, back on the forest road again!
Soon, the snow seemed a distant memory. We hurtled down a winding dirt track, past the remnants of old mines and remote cabins, startling elk as we dropped down in altitude.
The tiny hamlet of Basin.
Not too much going on here...
Ride loaded: the way I like it. Sticker courtesy of the Adventure Cyling Org, who dreamt up this amazing route.
Basin: Proud to be American.
More rusty, junked cars than people, I think.
Just like it says. Montana, Big Sky.
From here, Chris hitched a lift to try and bring his mauled gear system back to life, while Robert and I rode the final 30 miles to Butte.
A quiet forest road ran parallel to the highway for much of the way.
Beautiful light up at Great Divide Crossing no 4, before one final, fast descent into Butte. And luxury! We treated ourselves to a motel for the night, my first in three months!
This morning in Dell, MT.
October 5, 2009
The last few days have been pretty full on, to say the least. Here’s a quick post on how things are looking today, until I get a chance to write up a full account of our snowy adventures.
A few hours ago. About to set off for Lima, just down the road, and still smiling.
Here's where we slept last night. I was all set to camp, but the others 'strong-armed' me into joining them in this gorgeous log hut. It was probably a good idea, judging by the amount it snowed last night...
The cabin was built by an Amish community last year. It felt like it could withstand the fiercest Montanan storm, and was beautifully finished.
The upstairs quarters Chris and I shared. Best night sleep in a while.
Chilly outside though...
The bikes didn't have the luxury of a warm room. We had to pour hot water over them to free up gears and brakes which had congealed overnight.
Contemplating what to do. The forecast for the next week isn't good at all. As Robert and Chris only have a limited amount of time left, they're thinking of calling it quits for Montana, and hopping in a car to go mountain biking in sunny Arizona...
The Dell Mercantile, which sold particularly delicious and generously proportioned cinnamon rolls for $3.
The metropolis of Dell...
... which is dwarfed by Lima, population 214, 9 miles down the road.
Before setting off, we breakfasted on a feast of hash browns, scrambled eggs, bacon, French toast, donuts and coffee in the atmospheric Calf-A diner, housed in a former school built in 1903.
My morning view. This quiet road parallel to the interstate was all but empty, so I layared up, switched on the ipod, pedalled, and smiled.
No one seems to be up and about, yet...
I’ll be staying in Lima (pronounced Lie-ma) tonight where there’s wifi, so I can re-evaluate plans of what is feasible to ride along the Great Divide Route. The next section of trails are currently deep under snow, with a 7000ft pass to consider…
Maybe I’ll need to hit blacktop and pedal south…
Seeley Lake to Helena, Montana
October 4, 2009
There’s a lot to catch up on of late, including some serious hike and biking in the midst of an equally formidable snow storm. Winter seems to be here…
Did I mention we had some snow recently?
First though, here’s a quick catch up from the ride to Helena, at the opposite end of the weather spectrum with its body-baking, 90F heat. Compare and contrast the above and below pictures, taken just a few days and a handful of miles apart…
After weeks of unremitting sun, who'd have thought winter was round the corner.
For this stretch I was back on my own, as Chris and Robert had ridden on ahead to Helena while I hitched over to Missoula. There, we’d planned to reconvene and get a ride with Dan over to Bozeman for a couple of days, to catch up with him after Alaska, collect some post, and explore some singletrack, of course.
First though, I needed to leave Seeley. Kindly Trace, a teacher at the local high school, and his wife had offered me a sofa for the night. There was a caveat. In the morning, I swung by his Spanish class to give a talk about the journey so far. I tried to exude to them both the wonders of travel, and how particularly delightful it was to experience the world by bike. Judging by the lack of raptuous applause, I’m not sure if I convinced them…
After I regaled his class with Bike Talk, Trace pointed me towards a short cut to get me from his school back to the Great Divide Trail. However, it seems I can navigate my way down from Alaska, but not out of Seeley - here's the view as I rode down the airstrip before clambering under a barbwire fence into the gun range.
Amongst the three passes to Helena, this portion of the route crosses the Great Divide twice, and in doing so, morphs dramatically in scenery. Emerging onto a ridgetop after a gruelling, rock-infested climb, gone are much of the tight, thickly forrested corridors of pines, making way for a more open, softer, gold-tinted landscape.
A rewarding descent into Helena after toiling up and over a medley of passes. Or so it should have been. After pinch flatting innumerable times, I limped into the outskirts of town, camping behind a cat and dog grooming business, and between a tattoo parlour and a bar. I desperately need to change over to the new set of Marathon Extreme tyres waiting for me in Bozeman...
Talking of camping, I love the Black Diamond MegaLite tarp. It's quick to pitch and super roomy, easily enough for 3, and weighs less than a kilo. Sleeping out on the grass feels feral. And I like being feral. Soon though, I'll have to give it back to Dan, and swap it for my Terra Nova Solar, which I sent on to his place while we were in Alaska. Also seen here is my Alpkit 400, an amazingly well priced down bag from the UK. I love Alpkit's humour. The label suggests surfing over to alpkit.com for care instructions, but adds: "If you're in a rush and can't be bothered to log on, at least read the following..." rounding off its abreviated advice with the usual care symbols, "for those who speak pictogram".
This is cowboy country, and wide brimmed hats and pointy boots are the dress code. Perhaps it's a sign of the times though that it looked like this group of slightly overweight riders herding some cattle were being trained up in the ways of the ranch, City Slickers style.
The genuine article. This places lives and breathes horses. Like a sports store in the UK with its wall of trainers, the outdoor store in Helena sold a vast range cowboy hats and boots, right down to diddy kids sizes.
I'm no expert, but these horses looked like they'd make fine extras in a Clint Eastwood movie.
They liked the bike too, heading over en masse for a nuzzle.
A helping tailwind propelled me along the gravel road, into the late afternoon haze of the ridgetop.
I liked this scenery, sparse and mellow that it was. Most of the panorama was hogged by Montana's trademark Big Sky.
South, always south...
Missoula, Montana: a bicycling nirvana
October 4, 2009
Missoula. Hot but not spicy.
Missoula: not a spicy Indian curry but a town I’ve long hankered to visit, famed as it is for its bike-friendly layout, liberal tendencies and hippyish vibe. It’s also home to the Adventure Cycling Organisation, pioneers of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route I’ve been following. And, best of all, it boasts mile upon mile of fine singletrack spiderwebbing right out from its backyard. What more of an excuse could I need for a detour?
Ride Loaded. The Adventure Cycling Association, who've mapped in intricate detail a wealth of rides across the US, including the Great Divide.
Everyone who visits their office gets their photo taken. At the end of the year, all the pictures are archived, should you pass through again in years to come. Knowing the real way to a cyclist's heart, extra enticement to swing by is offered in the form of a free ice cream...
Various touring bikes have found their retirement hanging on their office walls, including the trusty steed of legendary Kiwi traveller Ian Hibell, whose exploits included crossing the swampy, inhospitable Darien Gap by bike.
I’ve always admired co founder Greg Siple’s black and white portraits of touring cyclists, so was delighted to be photographed by him. Unfortunately the gravitas of my pose was somewhat undermined by the fact that I only had my bike helmet and rear wheel with me, as proof of my cycling credentials. I’d had to leave the Santos in Seeley when I hitched over (thanks Raine!), bringing my rear wheel with me in the hope of getting the Rohloff cog flipped over, to help prolong its life.
The office is full of old black and white photographs of tourers in sneakers, cut off jeans and 70s hairdos, gathered for the ground-breaking Bicentennial Ride in '76. Here's Greg looking very dapper in Peru back in '73, when he and a group of friends were amongst the first to ride from Prudoe Bay, Alaska, to Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. The journey took two years and was covered by National Geographic. Inspirational.
There’s a great bike scene going on in Missoula. Dave and Kevin, who I’d met in Columbia Falls at a house party, lent me a cruiser for the day so I could blend in seamlessly with all the cool cats. Experienced mechanics, they’d recently set up their own bike shop, breathing life back into quality old bikes before selling them on. And a great setup they have too. Their website has some absolutely gorgeous photos taken by Tom, a Missoula based photographer who put me up for the night.
Hellgate Cyclery: Kevin and Dave, purveyors of old bikes made good.
A classic Schwinn cruiser. My chariot for the day.
Visiting Missoula was also a welcome chance to meet up with Aaron Teasdale, the art editor of Adventure Cycling magazine, which I’ve been contributing to. It was great to hang out, talk bikes, swap ideas and get the lowdown on Missoula. We only had time to slip out for a late evening spin in the local hills before he headed out of town, but it was enough to convince me to stay another day…
Luckily Tom didn't need much convincing to show me the singletrack sights. Missoula is endowed with miles of trails, all accessible by bike from downtown. Heading out to Rattlesnake Trailhead, we began a long, sinewy singletrack climb high into the mountains. The trails were bone dry and on the descent, even on the titanium hardtail I'd been lent, I struggled to keep up with the will-o-the-wisp plume of dust kicked up by his 29er wheels.
Sweet Missoulan singletrack. Photo by Tom Robertson.
Like a sunny version of Portland, Missoula has a rich and progressive bike culture. With its almost instant access to miles and miles of primo singletrack, its city bike lanes and laid back, liberal lifestyle, it's one of my favourite towns on the journey so far.
