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!
