Ivan Cockrum

Hoosier Pass, 11,539 Feet - fuck yeah!

2008-09-02T15:36:00.000-07:00

Day 45-46: Hot Sulphur Springs, Colorado

2008-08-31T21:56:00.001-07:00

When I planned for my early flight home from Pueblo, I had overestimated the time it would take to reach Pueblo. From Hot Sulphur Springs, I was at most three days away. I still had the trip's highest pass to climb - Hoosier Pass, at 11,542 feet - but from there it would be almost all downhill to Pueblo. I decided to spend the weekend soaking. My Friday night hotel room was unavailable on Saturday night, but available on Sunday night; I would spend the intervening night camping in the town's free park, set against the Colorado River.

According to town history, the Ute Indians used to enjoy the hot springs here before the inevitable white settlers took over, and now a private resort rests on the porous hill where the springs bubble up. The resort features an amusing hodgepodge of pools nestled into the hill's cracks and crevices, two dozen of them in different sizes, styles and materials, all connected by twisting catwalks. There were perhaps a hundred other guests while I was there, including families with children. Apparently the springs are a regional favorite. I also counted numerous international visitors, including quite a number of Russians, as well as a few asians.

My plan was to soak and read. I'd finished A Confederacy of Dunces. Apart from the library, closed, the only source of books in town was a small shelf of used books at the local gas station. I came away with a beaten copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, which I'd never read, and I'm now in love with Harper Lee. My mental image of her is a picture of Catherine Keener, who played her in Capote. I was already in love with Catherine Keener; now I'm doubly in love with Harper Lee.

After a day of soaking, I was not even disturbed by the hourly freight trains that run along the gully between the resort and the city park, thirty yards from where I was camping. The same gully is used by recreational ATV drivers, so the trains slow down and frequently blast their horns in warning.

I crawled out of my tent on Saturday morning and went hunting for breakfast. Along the way, I met another pair of cyclists, following the TransAm from east to west, who had also camped in the park.

I was poking around town after breakfast when my chain broke again. This time, I was relaxed and ready for it. I pulled my bike into the shady parking lot of the hotel I was coming back to. I felt I had absorbed enough from the previous incidents to handle it at least semi-competently. Each time my bike breaks, I learned something about how to repair it. Last year, spokes, this year, chain. At this rate, I'll be a competent mechanic in just a few years.

By this time, my hotel room was ready. I checked in, cleaned up, bought a new used book (a Tony Hillerman potboiler), and went for another day's soak. In the afternoon, it rained. The clouds were breaking up when I left the resort. The olfactory effect of the new moisture was dramatic: the water hungry prairie grasses and wild flowers all released their scents, filling the town with an odor like sweet bees wax. I walked through the back streets of town, inhaling deeply. The other effect of the rain was a full, luscious rainbow. Most rainbows that I have seen fade away before they reach the ground. But, because of the stony mountains behind the rainbow, this one appeared to be firmly anchored to the ground.

Day 44: Walden to Hot Sulphur Springs, Colorado

2008-08-29T20:54:00.000-07:00

Wind again, leaving Walden, but the roads were the flattest I had seen in some time. Twenty miles passed, then thirty, and in the space of a few miles, I was back in the mountains. My spirits rose dramatically. At last I was free of the unchanging windy plains. New surprises lay around every bend, rewarding exploration.

Mountains!

The mountain road took me up and over Willow Creek Pass, elevation 9,683 feet, where I crossed the Continental Divide. For the eighth time? The ninth? It was a surprisingly easy climb.

What, again?

I had ahead of me thirty miles of downhill, less a mile here and there. The road followed Willow Creek. Most of the creeks I'd passed on the plains were questionably brown. I stopped to swim for the first time in weeks.

Willow Creek

The road skirted the town of Granby, built on the grassy hills above a wildlife refuge / hydroelectric dam.

Wildlife viewing area / hydroelectric dam

Almost before I knew it, I was in the village of Hot Sulphur Springs. I assumed from the name that there were in fact bathable springs here, but hadn't confirmed it. If there were, I was going to take a day off to soak. I learned from the locals that yes, there was a resort here, it had multiple tubs, and day passes could be had. All I needed to know. It was a Friday night on a holiday weekend in a resort town; once again, I lucked into a hotel room.

Hot Sulphur Springs

Day 43: Riverside to Walden, Colorado

2008-08-28T18:56:00.000-07:00

The day dawned, miraculously, without wind. I saw Peter and the kiwi couple again. I had just finished breakfast at the local cafe when they arrived. Peter and I compared notes for the day ahead. I was going a short 48 miles to Walden; Peter was aiming to make it 110 to miles to the town beyond that. I had begun to hate him.

I made an easy ten miles, expecting at any time to see Peter at my back. He had to pass me, and I only prayed that he wouldn't catch me walking up a hill. It was during a two mile climb that I first saw the black speck in my rear view mirror: my nemesis. All I wanted was to reach the top of this hill before he caught up with me. I was spurred to a 50% increase in my climbing speed, from 4mph to a whopping 6mph. I fought to maintain speed as the black speck grew.

Peter and I reached the top together, where a new valley spread out below us. "I don't know if you saw me stop back there," he said. "That was the A Bar A Ranch. A lot of celebrities go there. Jimmy Fallon was up yesterday. Those're some good granny gears you've got. Looks pretty comfortable. I met a couple of guys touring on recumbents. One of them fell asleep in his seat, went off the road. He banged himself up." I vaguely shared story about once almost falling asleep on a bike after overworking. He politely waited for me to finish, said "I'm going to ride ahead. See you on the trail."

I rode my brakes as I watched him slide away. I used to speed down hills for the fun of it, but now they were my best chance to rest.

I crossed into Colorado two hours later, and took a break in the only shade available: the shadow cast by the "Welcome to Colorful Colorado" sign.

From where I was sitting, it didn't look appreciably different from Wyoming, though mountains loomed in the distance. After a week of windy plateaus, I actually looked forward to returning to the mountains.

Still no end in sight

I reached Walden early, at around 4pm, and found that every hotel room in town was taken by members of a 70-man seismology crew that was part of an oil survey. Camping in the town's public park was legal - and apparently even encouraged, as the town had the notion that campers helped chase away hoodlums - but not my first choice. I availed myself of Walden's surprisingly good community pool to shower and swim laps for a half hour. At least I was clean and cool.

I found one more motel, asked if a room was available and got a maybe, pending word from the seismology coordinator about a group of four in the field who hadn't yet shown up, and wouldn't I check back in an hour? I cruised Walden for dinner, checked back, and lucked into Walden's last room. I celebrated with a pint of Ben & Jerry's and a load of laundry at the local laundromat.

Day 42: Rawlins to Riverside, Wyoming

2008-08-27T21:40:00.000-07:00

Sinclair

A few miles east of Rawlins lies the town of Sinclair, which leaves no mystery to its industry. "Sinclair" is Sinclair Oil's Wyoming refinery. This explained the numerous trucks loaded with metal pipe that had passed me previously.

Endless

Today, continuous 40mph winds. The first 20 miles in my favor (woo!), the remaining 40 miles a grind of sidewinds and headwinds. A day with heavy wind is like two without, sucking all my energy and leaving me wrung out at the end of the day, without even my usual 7pm endorphin rush.

At day's end I reached Riverside / Encampment, an historic copper mining area, and checked in to the EZ RV Park. Though I was too tired for company, I fell in with a group of assorted travelers that included: Peter, a bicyclist from Georgia on the TransAmerican route; a young couple from New Zealand on an extended world tour, traveling America by car; and an older couple from Australia, also on bicycles. The others had all been there at least a day and spent an evening drinking together, and it quickly became clear that Peter had commanded center stage, completely dominating the conversation.

Over dinner, Peter brought out a laptop to show his travel photos. I laughed when it appeared, and pointed out that it weighed twice as much as my tent, to which he defensively replied, "I travel light. I'm doing 80 to 100 miles a day." He pushed the laptop at each person in turn to make sure we saw his photos. Perhaps I saw something of myself in him, or perhaps I resented him for showing the energy and enthusiasm I felt I had lost, or perhaps he really was the self-aggrandizing jerk I imagined him to be, but regardless, there wasn't enough room in the conversation for both of us, which was a shame, because I was much more interested in the kiwi couple, who'd been traveling the world for six years(!).

In the moments when Peter was hunting for certain photos, I quietly asked the kiwis about their lives, and learned that after college, they'd lived in and traveled out of the UK for most of 6 years, taking menial jobs to support further travel. Peter would wait politely for other speakers to finish sentences, before resuming with his own narrative. As the others began ordering drinks, I regretfully begged off and turned in for the night.

Day 41: Rawlins, Wyoming

2008-08-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

In between meals and reading from a copy of A Confederacy of Dunces that I bought in Lander, I watched television, that gateway drug to heroin and religion. I fear for what I may become.

Day 40: Jeffrey City to Rawlins, Wyoming

2008-08-25T21:29:00.000-07:00

I stopped for breakfast at Jeffrey City's single cafe, where several tired looking older women seemed surprised to see me. I learned from my waitress / cook that Jeffrey City had once been a uranium mining community of 5,000 people. The mines tapped out, and the community blew away, leaving only a husk of a town. New surveys were being conducted, and with new mining techniques developed in the last half century, it was estimated that new mines might support a work force of perhaps 500 people.

Back on the road, I faced another day of heavy winds and endless plateaus. Rocky outcrops rose in the distance as the composition of the land began to change.

Watch for Graboids, it's Tremors country

By late morning, I reached Split Rock, a significant landmark along the Oregon Trail. A small "interpretive center" was nestled against the rocks, and from the plaques sprouting there I learned several interesting fifth grade facts, notably: the legendary Pony Express only operated for 18 months before it was replaced by telegraph lines, costing its investors a million dollars; many Mormons followed the Oregon Trail seeking to escape persecution, which was news to me because I'd thought Mormonism originated in Utah.

The rest of the day turned into another mind and body numbing slog. A few miles from Split Rock, I reached a turnoff onto another road at right angles, putting me solidly against the wind for 45 grueling miles.

The only service in those 45 miles was a cafe called Grandma's. I arrived there, heated and exhausted, ready for lunch and a nap, and found it locked up. Through one broken window I could see an wall on the other side that opened to daylight. I walked behind the building, where sprawled a junkyard full of vehicles and cast-off industrial equipment that I assumed must be left over from the defunct uranium mines. The open wall I had seen was the bay door of a filthy garage bay that adjoined the cafe. I found my way into the empty cafe, used the restroom, and filled my water bottles with ice. Afterwards, I wheeled my bike into the junk yard and had lunch and a nap in the shade of a half container. Between this and last night's empty motel, I was starting to wonder if I had left the land of the living.

The day dragged on, wearing me down, setting me back to swearing at the wind and hills, leaving me with only my angry perseverance to keep me moving forward. I climbed six miles from one plateau to another, crossing the Continental Divide yet again, and reached Rawlins at the end of a 12 hour day.

The road forked into Rawlins; one branch leading left to the interstate services; the other, right, into town. My route took me into town. I stopped at the first hotel I found, the Jade Lounge, run by an Indian family. Chatting with the mother, I learned quite a bit. They'd lived in California for 18 years and just moved bought the motel here a year ago. Winters were hard with lots of snow. The road just beyond the motel was under construction while they widened it, and they were losing money due to the construction.

I had decided to take the following day off to recover from fighting the winds. I parked my bike in my room, ate dinner at a Thai restaurant, and then went for a walk in the dark through the sealed off road construction. Walking down the dirt road construction zone in the dark, with neon signs in the distance, I was reminded of Burning Man, currently going on, and found myself missing it. I went back to my room and stayed up late watching cartoons and comedy shows.

Day 39: Lander to Jeffrey City, Wyoming

2008-08-24T21:05:00.000-07:00

Between Lander and Rawlins lay two days and 130 miles of vast, windswept prairie with few stops and minimal services. I stocked up on supplies before leaving Lander, but as per my usual MO, I drew out my break until noon; and suffered through the worst heat of the day to make up for the late start.

After several hours of fighting the wind, my legs gave out. I looked for a shady resting place, and found a dry creek bed lined with trees, but it was so full of red ants that I didn't dare stop moving. Instead I leaned my bike against a fence post and crouched in its meager shade. Normally I would've napped after eating, but the elements were inescapable, and I returned to the road with a heavy belly.

I walked for several miles. I was put in the mind of old westerns in which riders sometimes walked alongside their horses, and imagined Clint Eastwood and Eli Wallach chasing each other across these sere plains.

Sometimes the bike and I need some time apart

Though the immense vistas were inspirational, the grinding wind and heat blunted me of all my smart-aleck comments, whimsical notions, and fond reminiscence, left me with nothing but the drudgery of pedaling. And so, please enjoy this series of images without comment...

The midway point between Lander and Rawlins is tiny Jeffrey City, population 106. I was determined to reach it by sundown, and I arrived there just as the last pinpoint of sun dipped below the horizon in my rear view mirror.

There is a motel in Jeffrey City. I'd been warned, by my map, and by a woman in Lander, that it might be unattended. Sure enough, I found the office door locked, with a plastic bag pinned to it that contained a faded old note instructing would-be guests to call the local bar to check in.

The bar phone was answered by a guy named Tony. I told him I was outside the hotel office and wanted a room. Tony said, "Isn't he there? He should be there," never indicating who "he" was, but giving me "his" phone number.

I tried the new number, and let it ring. While it rang, I tried motel room doors. All of them were unlocked, and every room empty. The first four rooms I tried were trashed, filled with mattresses and water heaters and lengths of pipe, and I wondered if the motel was out of business after all. The phone continued to ring. I hung up and continued my examination. The remaining rooms were all vaguely acceptable.

I hung around in the lot, kicked the dirt, watched the sunset clouds. After waiting for a half hour, I took the room furthest from the road and office. If anyone arrived, I wanted to see before being seen. I showered off all the road grime, ate dinner out of my supply bag, and settled in for the night, trying to ignore the fairy tale quality of my circumstances. In the morning I made my room up as if no one had been there and slipped out like a wraith.

Sunday is the new Monday

2008-08-24T11:34:00.000-07:00

I holed up for a couple of days in Lander, Wyoming, while I put my bike in the shop for repairs to the chain, front derailleur, and seat. Next stop, Rawlins, Wyoming.

While killing time in Lander, I came to decisions: I'm going to stop in Pueblo, Colorado. It's the half way point in miles, but its two thirds of the work. Perhaps next year I'll resume from there to finish the trip.

I made a flight reservation for September 10th, so I will be home in time for Mary's birthday. I expect to reach Pueblo by the weekend of the 6th, giving me ample time to pack up and ship my gear.

Meanwhile, here's the last week of back posts.

Day 31-33: Colter Bay Village
Day 34: Colter Bay to Togwotee, Wyoming
Day 35: Togwotee to Dubois, Wyoming
Day 36: Dubois to Lander, Wyoming
Day 37-38: Lander, Wyoming

Day 37-38: Lander, Wyoming

2008-08-24T10:24:00.000-07:00

I enjoy figuring out what makes towns tick, asking what's the keystone business here? Most times it's easy. Apple processing. Feed and grain. Cattle. Tourism.

I arrived in Lander in the early evening and was almost immediately struck by certain qualities that I have found to be uncommon in small rural towns. Bookstores, retail health care including optometry and hearing, a family care center, a job retraining center, a children's museum, an arts center, children riding bicycles to the supermarket with canvas shopping bags, boutique art shops, artistic tiles by each sewer drain informing people to be mindful because this sewers drain to the Popo Agie river... In short, Lander is a progressive liberal town in the heart of rural Wyoming. I couldn't see an immediate explanation for it.

In size, Lander is equivalent to Dillon, Montana; but Dillon is little more than a stop on the I5 interstate, offering services to partway travelers. Lander appears to be far more prosperous than Dillon. In quality, Lander more closely resembles Tonasket, Washington; a town where the primary industry appears to be processing apples from the orchards of eastern Washington. Lander and Tonasket have in common a low frequency of franchise businesses. Both towns seems still to own their souls.

In the morning, I stopped for breakfast at the Cooking Crow. It was a weekday, and the place was empty but for a dour waitress who served me with a grim sort of humor. I remarked to her that Lander seemed like a very progressive, liberal town, hoping to spark a bit of conversation. Her response: "Unfortunately." And, "It's those damned NOLS people." I was discouraged from digging deeper.

I dropped my bike off at Freewheel Sports, and explained my situation to Don, the kid behind the counter. Mary had called ahead, and they hadn't received my package of parts, but they were expecting me. I left my bike and Don agreed to call when the parts arrived.

Later, I followed my tingling indie coffeeshop sense to a place called Folklore, where I settled in with coffee and wifi. Toward the end of the day I was approached by the barista, who was curious about my Asus Eee PC. He turned out to be one of the owners, along with his wife. Shane and Jess had been here less than a year, having moved here from Fargo, North Dakota. They seemed like a hippy dippy couple, so I asked him the same question: what's up with this place? It was NOLS, he explained.

NOLS is the National Outdoor Leadership School, with, at its core, a 27-day wilderness training program. Shane described NOLS in intelligent, glowing terms, definitely not to be confused with Outward Bound, as an organization that taught people a broader sense of humanity. NOLS' mission sounded thematically similar to the Brian Utting Massage School that I attended: to bring out the inner adult by teaching a deeper sense of humanity.

It seems that NOLS is well entrenched in the local community, and bicycling around the neighborhood later, I passed a number of their buildings. In terms of real estate, they seem to be on a par with local government. Shane explained that NOLS has long butted heads with the more conservative cattle ranchers who otherwise influence this area. Perhaps the conflict is a good thing, creating checks and balances, though I would point out to the cattlemen, if I could, that Lander is certainly more prosperous than many other towns of its size and consistency that I have seen.

Speaking of bicycles, I got a call from Grant, the owner at Freewheel, letting me know that my package had arrived. I went to meet him and reiterate my situation if necessary; but he seemed to have a clear idea of what he was doing. He was startlingly young. Later, I would learn that he was only 19, had worked at the shop for six years, and taken it over from the prior only in the last year. A lot of young area guys, he said, bought $50,000 trucks and $10,000 welding tools, and then foud themselves in debt with no work. The bike shop was his $50,000 truck, and his dream was paying for itself. After a day of working on my bike he charged me a preposterously low $27. I gave him $50 and still felt like I was cheating him.

Day 36: Dubois to Lander, Wyoming

2008-08-21T10:08:00.000-07:00

In case I hadn't mentioned, the cities of Dubois and Lander reside in the aptly named Wind River Valley, where the steady Wyoming wind scores clean the desert underbrush.

I set out from Dubois with a strong tailwind that only varied as the road curved left or right, carrying me easily through miles of desert. It was forty miles in that the road diverged from the valley, climbing up out of the bowl of it to the grassy plains above, and that's when I learned to sail.

My path turned perpendicular to the wind for fifteen miles, and I was intermittently buffeted by strong sidewinds that grabbed my fairing and yanked me across the road. At first I held the wheel rigidly, struggling to tack into the wind and keep to the shoulder. I had often imagined mounting a sail on a bicycle at Burning Man; I quickly learned that my fairing was more than enough sail. Eventually I learned to relax, loosen my grip on the steering, and lean into the wind, with one foot hung down like an outrigger for stability.

What a crosswind looks like

Contemplating the wind, I wished for an organ that would let me see it, as I imagined that its currents must be beautiful and terrible. As a city boy with no experience in activities that are influenced by wind, I've never had to think much about it; never considered it as a constant, or as part of a lifestyle. But the longer I cycle, the more it impresses upon me its utter influence. It always makes its presence known, even in its absence. I understand why cultures that were dependent on it ascribed it faces of godhood, because it is so powerful, yet so capriciously arbitrary.

As the road led up out of one bowl and into the valley above, so it eventually crossed over to another bowl, there to sink below sunset colored cliffs and rejoin the wind's path.

I rode through the Shoshone reservation and was dismayed by the amount of obesity there: 3 or 4 out of 5, more among the women than the men. Bad diet and diabetes are among the enduring legacies that our nation has left the Indians, and while some tribes, such as the Kalispel, are dealing with it smartly, with PSAs and community health centers, others are not, and clearly the Shoshone are among the nots.

While I was stopped at the Shoshone reservation, a man in the passenger seat of a mini-van gestured me over to ask about my bike. After a couple of slurry questions, he asked, "Can I have it?" This is a question that's been asked of me by homeless drunken Indians in Seattle, as well as a few pubescent street punks. I frowned for a moment, wondering if this was some cultural expression that I didn't understand, something more than the simple minded question that it sounds like, before answering "No, you can't have it." He seemed unfazed, and I moved on.

It had been a long day, and I counted each of the remaining 20 miles from the reservation to Lander. I arrived in the early evening, with 75 miles behind me, and looked for the bike shop where Mary had agreed to ship my parts. I found it - closed, of course. I checked in to the Downtown Motel, which had caught my eye because its lot was bursting with flowering potted plants, which gave it a cozy look, a look that said someone cared, even if it was in all other ways unremarkable.

Alive in: Dubois, Wyoming

2008-08-20T17:11:00.000-07:00

Laundromat in Dubois

This seems to be the week for bike parts wearing out. First my chain snapped and my front derailleur was bent. Today, my seat broke. The seat is attached by two bolts to a cuff that circles the post. One of the bolts sheared off, leaving the head of the bolt inside the collar, where I can't remove it. I think I heard / felt a snap when it happened, and thought I'd lost something, but couldn't see anything wrong. It wasn't until I stopped for a break, and the whole rear end of the bike pivoted backwards, that I saw what was wrong. The second bolt was still attached, but the seat had come loose from it. I was at least able to reattach that, and I will hobble along on one screw tomorrow while Mary has a replacement part delivered to the next town ahead.

Meanwhile, I made it over Togwotee Pass, and rarely have I seen such a dramatic change of landscape in such a short distance. From the west side of the pass to the east, I've watched the world change from dense forest to mountain lakes and meadows to rocky peaks to dry valley to painted desert.

Day 35: Togwotee to Dubois, Wyoming

2008-08-20T09:53:00.000-07:00

In the morning, I caught another pilot car up through the next mile of road construction. I found that construction continued on and off further up the pass. I rode past tall cranes drilling blast holes and stockpiles of corrugated steel drainage pipes. Several miles up, I reached another pilot car zone.

Installing more internet

I'd just missed a column of cars. I walked to the head of the line, where a woman in reflective gear and hardhat waved me over. With time to kill, we struck up a conversation.

I learned that she'd owned a construction and cleaning businesses and rental properties, and was only doing road work three days a week so she could spend time with her kids, aged 22, 13, and 9. I was impressed by her industry and also her age, as I wouldn't have put her at much over 30, and I said as much. In reply, she extolled the virtues of a quarter cup of formaldehyde every day.

My next ride took me straight to the top of the pass, depositing me in a pretty mountain valley. In all, I'd only had to ride about half of Togwotee. Just the other side of the pass was Windy River Lake, where I stopped for an early break.

The eastern side of Togwotee is a long, gentle thirty mile slope, tearing through outfits faster than any quick change artist, from high mountain valleys and lakes, to craggy peaks, to scrub brush, to painted desert, and on down to the town of Dubois, which rests along the Wind River on the edge of desert.

Thirty miles...

I encountered more road work on the outskirts of Dubois, as I rode through almost a mile of freshly laid tar, which coated my wheels, first with tar, and then with a fine layer of micro-gravel, which became embedded in my treads. It was along this patch that two things happened simultaneously: 1) I felt a springy metallic crack, and 2) I heard a hardhat that I'd just passed yell, "Hey!" I stopped to look back, first wondering if I'd lost something, and then wondering if the hardhat wanted me off the road. Perhaps I should've waited for a pilot car? But no, he yelled again, "You're ok! Go on!", and I couldn't see any parts missing, so I continued into Dubois.

I stopped for a late lunch at a park in Dubois. While walking my bike through the park, my seat folded up and back, opening like the hungry mouth of PacMan. I caught it and wrestled it forward again, and quickly discovered the problem. Of the two bolts that hold the seat to the mount which wraps the post, one was unscrewed, and the other had been sheared off, leaving its broken head in the channel. So now, in addition to missing chain links and a bent derailleur, I had a broken seat. Chains and derailleurs can be found, but the recumbent's seat mount is a specialized item. It was time to call for help.

I called Mary and asked her to make a trip to Angle Lake Cyclery for parts. It was too late in the day for overnight delivery, so she would have to ship them the next day. There were no bike shops in Dubois, but there was one in Lander, 75 miles down the road. I believed that all my broken parts would last for one more day. Meanwhile, I hunkered down for the night in Dubois. With virtually no services between Dubois and Lander, I would have to make the 75 miles in one big gulp. I found a KOA with reasonably priced cabins, showers, and a monkey hut covered swimming pool, and swam a few laps before dinner and bed.

Day 34: Colter Bay to Togwotee, Wyoming

2008-08-19T21:41:00.000-07:00

The Grand Tetons

After a large breakfast, I left Colter Bay Village feeling full, but relaxed. Looming ahead of me was Togwotee Pass, a 9,600 foot pass, the biggest bastard I had yet faced, and the second highest on the entire route.

The first miles passed quickly as I retraced part of the route that I'd ridden with Vernon and Andrew, before veering east away from Jackson Hole. The Tetons shrank behind me, paradoxically offering a better sense of scale as they receded into distance. It was 17 miles before I began climbing, though the climb wasn't as steep as I'd feared. The weather was hot, but bearable. I took it a mile or two at a time as the Teton National Forest spread wide and dense below me like a pine carpet.

During one break I took a seat on an old pine root that raised like a bent knee, and soon found myself covered with ants and termites. When I leapt up to brush myself down, I found that I was also covered, butt and feet, with sticky pine sap. I turned back to the safety of the road, but my left cleat was so gummed with sap that I couldn't clip in to the pedal. While I was picking sap out of my shoe, the golden late afternoon sunlight revealed clouds of termites blowing with the breeze. I fled up the mountainside as the termites were joined by vicious black flies, and rode through two miles of dense insect fields before they began to thin in the cooler evening altitude.

It was just a few miles up that I encountered heavy road construction. I'd been warned about this by the four cyclists who helped patch my broken chain. The road up Togwotee was being entirely replaced, and bicycles were being shuttled through construction zones in the pickup beds of pilot cars. A car was leaving just as I arrived. I gratefully heaved my bike up into the truck bed and climbed in alongside it, then rode at the head of a long column of vehicles being led through seven miles of earthworks and heavy equipment.

It was 6pm when we reached the far end. We'd passed, a mile back, the lodge where I'd figured on overnighting. I asked the driver what to expect up ahead: 12 miles more to the top of the pass, and "they're going to be blasting tonight". It sounded like a recipe for a bad ride, and I wasn't in the mood to punish myself. The driver agreed to drop me off a mile back.

The view from the truck

At the Togwotee Mountain Lodge, I hissed air through my teeth when I was quoted $179 for a room. While I knew exactly what I was getting into at Old Faithful, I was caught by surprise here. I should have known that any hotel with the word "lodge" in its name will automatically charge twice the price. But once again, I was stuck. I asked the two young guys behind the counter if they had anything cheaper, and I was about to ask if they had any campsites, when one of them, perhaps prompted by my obvious discomfort, offered me a room for $99. It was that or 12 miles uphill with blasting. I was happy to take it. And, if hissing got me an $80 discount, I wondered if crying might have brought the rate still lower. I resolved to try it in the future.

Alive in: Togwotee, Wyoming

2008-08-19T18:12:00.000-07:00

I finally returned to the road after a humanizing three day weekend at Colter Bay. Besides just being worn down, I'm fairly convinced that the altitude has been affecting me. I've been between 7,000 and 8,000 feet since I entered Yellowstone, and I can feel the impact on my breath and heartrate. In any case, the time off really helped recharge my batteries. In between reading, eating, sleeping and blogging, I spent some time contemplating my schedule. I've been behind for some time, and up until recently figured I'd expand the trip as needed, but the gap keeps widening, and I've got Mary to get home to. At this point, I feel like I want to stop killing myself, and get as far as I get by the original deadline. I think I'll be happy if I make it to Pueblo, Colorado, and catch a train from there. Anyhoo, I'll keep my eyes on the calendar and see where I am in a couple of weeks.

Incidentally, the views of the Tetons behind me are much more impressive than the ones I had coming in. I came in parallel from the north, and I'm leaving perpendicular to the east; the sense of scale is clearer from twenty miles east than it was standing across Jackson Lake from them. Huge!

Today's character building challenges: insects, pine sap, and road construction. Criminy, the bugs in Grand Teton Forest are big, aggressive, and numerous! And I finally accepted a ride from someone - mandatory, really, but I was happy to have it: I reached a seven mile stretch of road construction, nothing but open earth. I'd heard about this from Keith the mechanic and friends, back at the gate to Grand Teton. I was shuttled through in the bed of a pickup truck acting as a pace car. It was 6pm by the time we reached the far end, and Tony, the driver, said it was 12 miles to the top of Togwotee Pass and that there was going to be blasting further up the road tonight, so I had him take me a mile back and drop me off at a local lodge.

I beat motorcycles!

While at Colter Bay, I finished reading one novel - Tim Dorsey's The Big Bamboo (he's like a sillier version of Carl Hiaasen) - and picked up a left behind copy of Michael Crichton's State of Fear. I knew nothing about the Crichton novel, but he's usually a reliable entertainer. As I got into it, I was wryly amused to discover that it's his global-warming-denial polemic. It's transparent and condescending and reads like a Jack Chick tract, but I'm finding it funny, given what I'm up to.

Day 31-33: Colter Bay Village

2008-08-19T16:30:00.000-07:00

After two days of struggling to advance, I had decided to take the weekend off at Colter Bay Village. As I reached the turnoff, a profound sense of relief settled over me.

The word "village" is a bit misleading, as Colter Bay Village is not a residential center, but a recreational area with cabins, camping, a marina, horseback riding, hiking trails, and an Indian interpretive center. I'd called ahead to try to reserve a cabin with no luck, but I was sure I'd find a campsite. I stopped at the cabin rental office anyway; I desperately wanted a bed. I confirmed that no cabins were available, but I was able to rent a "tent cabin" for the following two nights. These turned out to be half-log half-canvas structures with suspended metal cots in them, sort of like mobile army barracks. I wondered if they had in fact housed troops or forest rangers. Meanwhile, I would take a campsite for the first night.

Colter Bay Marina

Since my chain was short a few links, I also pumped the office staff for information about getting to the next town, called Moose, where my map showed a bike shop. I learned that shuttles ran daily to Jackson Hole, the tourist destination beyond Moose. As I was wrapping up my interrogation, another fellow in the office who'd overheard my conversation, offered to give me a ride to Moose or Jackson Hole the following morning. Vernon MacIntyre and his 13-year old son Andrew were vacationing in the area for a week, and they had spotted me back at Old Faithful. Andrew was a competitive cyclist, so they both took a quick interest in my trip. Andrew had once broken a chain during a race, so we painbonded. In addition, Vernon's brother was at that moment near the end of an east-west transamerican tour; I suspected that helping me offered him a way to help his brother via karmic proxy. We chatted for a while, and arranged to meet back at the office at 7am the following morning.

So now I had a plan. I went to explore the village. In the village center were a laundromat / shower facility and a general store. While I was investigating these, I saw a van with a rack of bicycles on top - a packaged cycling tour. I'd seen these before and was actually on the lookout for one, because I thought they might have some spare chain for me. The van was empty. I scanned the area for a likely driver. While I was waiting, a group of four took an interest in my bike. We exchanged a few words, and then I resumed my hunt for the van owners. This is, of course, when the van pulled away, driven by the people I'd just spoken to.

I raced after the van, losing it as it disappeared into the cabin district of the village. I traced it to the tent cabin area, where I found the van's passengers preparing for dinner with a larger group of people. I apologized for following them, and asked if they might be carrying any spare bits of chain. I was directed to a young man who was helping to prepare dinner, whom I took for a member of the crew running the tour. When I explained my problem, he gave me a funny look and said, "I ride a recumbent too." He climbed into the van, rooted through some gear, and came back with a short bit of chain. He compared it against my chain, and finding them compatible, offered me the links. I was very grateful, and we talked shop for a bit before he returned to his mess duties.

So now I had a plan and a bit of chain. I wasn't sure I still needed to visit the bike shop the next day, but I decided to leave the option open. I did still need to find a camp site, so I rode to the campground, which was half a mile removed from the cabin area. At the campground registration, I was greeted by a ranger, a young woman, who asked me, "Did your girlfriend find you?" She became very embarrassed when I told her I was traveling alone. Apparently another pair of bicyclists were also camping there. I checked in and rode to the the hiker/biker ghetto, where, naturally, I met that couple.

They were Kevin and Alanna, a hippyish young couple, she with blond pigtails, he with a long brown hillbilly beard. They were riding the national parks mountain bike trail, which coincided here with the transamerica bike trail. They were each pulling a BOB - a third wheel trailer - and we quickly got to comparing experiences and inquiring about each other's rigs. I was eager for a shower and needed to set up camp first, so after a time I politely disengaged.

There were no campground showers - only the main shower facility back at village center, a half mile away. By the time I reached it, I'd already been at Colter Bay for hours, without a moment's break. The gymnasium-like men's showers were set up in two rows, each with a little curtained foyer. I dug in my toiletry bag for the bottle of liquid soap that was so convenient, yet so unsatisfying because I prefer the solid heft of a fat bar of soap. Since Mary'd left, I'd been carrying an unopened bar of Dr. Bronner's soap that I hadn't used for fear of creating a soapy mess in my toiletry bag. Digging past it now, I realized I must use it or lose it. I considered the long day and the broken chain, weighed it against each small comfort. And that shower was the best shower ever, because I had a real bar of soap.

After showering, I washed laundry. Kevin and Alanna had the same idea, and we passed the time together enjoying the comfort of domestic routine. I shared the cherry tomatoes I'd bought with Alanna, while Kevin drank from a tall can of Budweiser. I marveled at the amount of clothing they carried; measured in volume, the two of them had easily four times more clothes than I. Afterwards we all made a stop at the general store, and then rode through the dark to our camp sites. Though I was exhausted, I set my alarm for 6am in order to make my 7am appointment with Vernon and Andrew.

Morning came too soon, and I crawled slowly to wakefulness. I left my tent and gear at the camp site, and biked back to the cabin office. Vernon and Andrew arrived shortly after, in a rented white four-door Chevy. Vernon had taken the time to look for bike shops in Jackson Hole, and found four of them. Their only plan was to have breakfast and poke around Jackson Hole for a couple of hours. We'd be there before any bike shops were likely to open, so I was welcome to join them for breakfast.

Vernon and Andrew engaged in a quiet, constant stream of chatter that did not require my participation, for which I was just as glad. It was my first time in a car in the month since I'd left home. I was severed from the elements, my view was obstructed, and the world passed unnaturally quickly. I watched the Grand Tetons scroll past as if projected on a movie screen, while the conversation in the front of the car ranged from skiing to local geology to cell phones to sidearms, from which I gleaned that Vernon had once been a cop.

The only photo I got of Vernon and Andrew

We parked in downtown Jackson Hole, passing signs for a Scottish Festival and a farmer's market, and hunted down Jedidiah's Original House of Sourdough, a supposedly legendary flapjack mecca set in a squat, century old cabin. We found it suitably crowded, and in fact, a line ran out the door from the time we arrived until the time we left Jackson Hole, three hours later. The newsprint menus reproduced century old newspaper articles that outlined the founding of Jackson Hole; faded sepia photos and rusted bits of mountaineering gear decorated the walls.

After breakfast, Vernon and I arranged to meet back at the car in two hours. I checked a town business map for bike shop listings, and found Fitzgerald's Cycles a short walk away. On the way through Town Square, I heard a band of kilted bagpipers playing pied piper to the Scottish Festival.

Six pipers piping

The clerks at Fitzgerald's were still opening shop when I wandered in unawares. I hadn't examined my chain or front derailleur carefully - I just knew I wanted options. I'd broken at least three links, and I couldn't vouch for the integrity of the remaining chain. Either I needed a few links (which I'd already obtained), or I needed a full replacement, which means two and a half standard lengths. I bought the replacement chain along with some spare master links. Later, I would wish I had left the chain and bought a new front derailleur, when I figured out that mine was not just mispositioned, but bent.

Fitzgerald's Bicycles

I was left with an hour to kill in Jackson Hole. I wandered through expensive boutique art shops, admired the green slopes bordering the town, bought a cookie at the farmer's market, shopped for a paperback, and met Vernon and Andrew back at the car at the prescribed time.

On the way back to Colter Village, Vernon wanted to stop at a fish hatchery. It wasn't a stop I would have chosen, but I found it surprisingly interesting. The main attraction was a series of cement culverts, like shallow tethered lap pools, some covered with canvas monkey huts, which were populated with thousands of fish in various stages of development. We noticed a vehicle like a fork lift covered with funnels and wide mouthed PVC tubes, and identified it as a fish vacuum.

Fish Hut

It was mid-afternoon by the time we returned to Colter Bay Village. As we pulled into the lot of the cabin rental office, Vernon received a call from his brother, who'd reached his destination in Oregon and was getting ready to catch a train home. I thanked Vernon profusely and said my goodbyes. Since I was moving from a campground to a tent-cabin, I needed to return to camp to break down my tent and collect my gear.

I did as little as possible during my remaining two and a half days at the village: resting, replacing calories, reading, blogging, and utterly failing to take advantage of the village's attractions. I almost felt guilty - while other visitors were escaping to nature, I was escaping from it. Nonetheless, I returned to the road on Day 34, well rested and ready for the miles ahead.

More Monday goodness

2008-08-18T09:12:00.000-07:00

I've basically been vegging out at Colter Bay Village. Apart from hitching a ride to Jackson Hole and back, I've eaten, slept, read a novel cover to cover, and monopolized the public clubhouse for its wifi. Everyone else vacationing here is escaping to nature, while I'm escaping from nature, spending most of my time out of the sun. Not so many pictures to show for it, but I've caught up on a week of detailed back posts.

Day 25: Dillon, Montana
Day 26: Dillon to Virginia City, Montana
Day 27: Virginia City to West Fork, Montana
Day 28: Entering Yellowstone
Day 29: Leaving Yellowstone, Parte Un
Day 30: Leaving Yellowstone, Parte Deux

Alive in: Colter Bay Village, Grand Tetons

2008-08-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

After a couple of particularly hard days - physical, mental, and mechanical - I've washed up at Colter Bay Village in the Grand Teton park, where I'm taking off the entire weekend to refresh body and mind while I do some necessary bike maintenance.

Day 30: Leaving Yellowstone, Parte Deux

2008-08-15T18:30:00.000-07:00

Lewis River

I woke at the Lewis Lake campground just as cranky and achy as I'd been the day before. I set my sights on Colter Bay Village for a day off, only 28 miles more. Beyond that was a huge bastard of a pass, Togwotee Pass, elevation 9,658 feet, a 2,700 foot climb. I would make a concerted effort to reach Colter Bay early in the day, to maximize my rest time.

In my experience, there's a point in every long trip when something inside says, "I'm done." I contemplated this, considered past trips, and wondered if I had reached that point. Then, at six and a half miles, my chain snapped.

I'm not a bad mechanic due to lack of aptitude. I'm a bad mechanic due to my complete lack of interest in how things work until I need to understand how to fix them. I'd never touched a broken chain before, and this was something I'd been afraid of. I carry a multi-tool, and a second, complete set of tools. I hauled my bike off the road, dug out the heavy toolset, and got to work.

The broken link had been stretched open. The pin was still attached. I needed to reseat the male part of the link and tighten it, but I couldn't get the halves aligned with the pin in place. I needed to replace the pin with a guided pin. I had no spare pins. Or did I? I discovered that the pro chain tool had a pin stashed away inside it. The pin was a millimeter too long, but I thought it was my only option. I had one chance to get it right. I guided in the spare pin and closed the chain.

A recumbent bike uses six feet of chain, or two and a half times the length of a standard bike chain, which crosses over itself on a spindle with twin grooves. I'd threaded the chain in backwards. I had to reopen it. I had a notion of what a master link was for, and found it on my chain, but misunderstanding it, I broke it getting it open. I rethreaded the chain correctly, but now I was back at square one.

I spent two or three hours wrestling with this as traffic whizzed by behind me. At times I thought about hitching a ride, but I wasn't yet ready to submit. I thought that I should be able to open another link, carefully, leaving the pin partially placed, so that I could remove a link and stitch the two ends together. And this actually worked. I got back on the road. The concentrated mental effort had cheered me by giving me something specific to focus on, and I left in a better mood than I'd started in that morning.

Most of the next six miles was downhill, and I soon rolled past the gates of Yellowstone and into Grand Teton National Park. I began to climb a rise just beyond the gates. My chain snapped again.

I had no idea which broke: the millimeter-too-long spare pin, or the half-assed patch job. All I could do was another half-assed patch job, and I lacked the confidence to attempt it again. I decided to walk back to the ranger station I'd just passed, and beg for a ride to the next bike shop. I turned around and began walking back toward the gates of Yellowstone.

Minutes later, a cyclist caught up with me from behind. She slowed to a stop, asked if things were all right. Her name was Audra, and she was traveling with two other riders on recumbents. She was sure they must have parts for me. We waited for her companions to catch up. They appeared with a third rider. Audra told me I was in luck, because the third rider was a mechanic, whom she had thought was already ahead.

In short order I was introduced to Keith the mechanic, and two middle aged men on recumbents, whose names eluded me. While I was happy for the help, in my depressed state they seemed like a threatening hive of samaritan energy. In a moment, Keith laid down his own bike, donned a pair of stretched rubber gloves, dug in his tool kit, and came out with an assortment of chain parts. He didn't have a match, but he thought he could patch the chain - the same way I had. I was dubious after my own failure, but I trusted his greater experience. He made essentially the same repair I had made, if using a slightly different technique.

After the ad hoc repair, the quartet surrounded me and peppered me with advice for places to visit or avoid. I found the four of them overwhelming and struggled to return in kind. By the time they went on their way, I was as beaten as ever I had been. I got on my bike and discovered that somehow, in the melee of good samaritanism, my front derailleur had been mispositioned so that I no longer had access to my 2nd and 3rd gears. At that moment, I had no resources to deal with it. Using only low gears, I pedalled back up the hill, away from Yellowstone.

The chain held through the afternoon, though I was still beaten. I knew exactly how Mary felt, the day she said "enough", and I wished that there were someone to stop me, to tell me it was ok to turn back, but there was no one to stop me, no one who could stop me, not only because I was alone, but because there is no one I would listen to, because I am driven, and stopping is not an option.

I cycled past a parked car, where a couple stood on a mound of rocks, he with his cell phone held high as if trying to find a signal. I realized that they must be stuck, and almost thought to stop and offer help, which made me laugh when it occurred to me that I was the least capable person for them at that moment.

Soon after, I came to a modest resort area in the Snake River area, where I stopped at a restaurant for lunch and to feel human. By now it was late afternoon, and I hadn't eaten since 8am. I used the restroom, and disliked what I saw in the mirror. My hair was matted and disshevelled. My face was haggard, sunburned an unhealthy purple, and smeared with fingerprints of bicycle grease. I looked like an angry beet.

If conflict is the obstacle between protagonist and desire, and character is how the protagonist surmounts those obstacles, then I'd reached a primal question: "Who am I?" Would I roll over and appeal to the gods? I'm passed by 50 4-wheeled dei ex machinis per minute. Or will I stand up on hind legs and shout, "I go on!" My veggie burger and fries had no answers for me. I sipped coffee and read from a battered copy of "A Wrinkle in Time" while the restaurant staff vacuumed around me.

On the way out I stopped for snacks at a convenience store attached to the restaurant. The small store was busy with people: staff maneuvering around, children playing, adults queued at the register. The bustle was too much for me, and I imagined the raging thing inside me swirling up like a maelstrom to engulf them all, and sweep away this entire corner of the building. Instead, I contained my rage with an ice cream cone.

Beyond the snake river waited one more climb before I reached Colter Village. Just a modest 500 footer, hardly anything. I kept a slow and steady pace - all I had were low gears anyway - and progressed, revolution by revolution, to the top. Beyond the rise lay Jackson Lake, to my eyes, another inland sea, stretching far into the distance. I cried as I descended the rim of the lake toward Colter Bay Village, and the cold wind stung me with my own tears.

Day 29: Leaving Yellowstone, Parte Un

2008-08-14T19:26:00.000-07:00

The Overlook Hotel

Despite the comfortable and pricey accommodations, I woke with the sun. Six hours of sleep after fourteen hours of travel left me feeling cranky, irritable, and headachy. I wondered if my fever had returned. I downed some painkillers and went looking for breakfast. Along the way, I peered outside, where other early risers were slowly gathering. An eruption must be due. I followed the boardwalk from the lodge in a long arc around the geyser.

I imagine that I have little to say about Old Faithful that hasn't been said many times over. It's pretty magnificent. Hundred foot high spout of boiling water, billowing clouds of steam rising to the clear blue sky, the works. Ayup. Youse should see it.

Passing back through the lodge's rear courtyard where I'd parked my bike, I almost walked face first into an enormous blue Genie cherry picker parked just a few feet from my bike. Apparently there was maintenance work to be done on the aerie, and a couple of grubby steeple jacks were brought in for the job. The cherry picker was the largest I'd ever seen, and I watched as they scoped it up four, five, six stories, to the roof of the steeple, and then halfway back down, where they lingered, inspecting the lodge exterior. I was reminded of certain friends, some of whom would have given a premium bottle of Scotch for an opportunity to pilot such a beast.

After gorging myself at the lodge's breakfast buffet, I returned to my room for another nap, still determined to get the most out of it. I still felt off, a feeling that remained with me until checkout time. According to the schedule I'd adopted, this would've been my off day, but this was no place to take off. I returned shakily to the road.

If my entry into the sulphur lands was like a good tab of ecstasy, flooding my system with tasty endorphins, then today I was feeling the unavoidable serotonin deficit, or "suicide Tuesday" as one friend calls it.

Kepler Cascade: looking straight down into the gorge

Throughout the day I was cranky and irritable. I swore beneath my breath at motorists. I grew angry at snapshot tourists: people who drive up to a scenic vista, hop out of their car long enough for a photo, and on their way; or worse still, those who don't even bother to leave their car to take the photo. Sometimes I wanted to scream at them, "GET OUT OF MY WAY! I'M AN HONORED VISITOR!" I passed seven cars parked on the roadside, partially blocking the road, so they could all photograph one lonely moose. The temperature fluctuated up and down by what felt like twenty degrees as clouds hid and revealed the sun.

At least I could get off the road. The lovely thing about traveling by bicycle is that you can step off the road wherever you like, to see things that no driver ever will. In Yellowstone, you only have to take a few steps. I took a short break by a lily pond, breathing in the quiet of the tall grass by the pond side.

Despite my crankiness, the climbing wasn't bad, to start out. I had two big climbs for the day, both up and over the twisted spine of the Continental Divide. I reached the first one easily enough, and took a quick break by the marker. This was the second time I had crossed the divide, and I was put in mind of a quote from a Bond novel. (Dr No? Goldfinger? I couldn't remember.) "The first time is happenstance. The second time is coincidence. The third time, Mr. Bond, it's enemy action." I wondered what else the divide had in store for me.

While I was lingering there, I was approached by a big fellow in a blue sweatshirt and a flame patterned dew rag. He was in shadow, and at first I took him for Indian, but as he stepped into direct light, I saw that I couldn't be further off. With his blond hair and broad features, he looked more likely to be of Scandinavian descent, in about his 50s. He was Bob, a pharmacist from West Virginia, and he used to be a bicyclist, before his knees went bad and had to be replaced. Like Frank the frozen man, he'd ridden a Bianchi (the second time someone had mentioned this brand I didn't know). He'd moved to motorcycles only a couple of years ago, and he'd just come from Sturgis, the annual Harley Davidson rally in South Dakota. He showed me his motorcycle, and the walking stick he'd picked up along the way in Snake River, Idaho. Bob seemed wistfully interested in my trip, as if he'd have loved to have done it himself, if only his knees hadn't given out. He reminisced about bicycles he'd owned. He gave me his card, and offered to put me up if I passed by his way in West Virginia.

It was about here where I'd misread my map, and thought that I'd already climbed two humps when I'd only climbed one. The second climb came as a complete surprise that set me back to swearing, and it was only stubborn anger that carried me through. I wondered if I might be suffering from altitude sickness, a thought that returned to me repeatedly over the following days.

Third time: enemy action

I continued wearily on through the park, passing wonders I had no mind for. I stopped for another break at an overlook above Shoshone lake. A minivan parked behind me and disgorged a nuclear family, who showed an interest in me. My bicycle and my trip were of frequent interest to other tourists, but my desire to talk about them was waning.

Shoshone Lake

Fire zone

At last I reached a long downhill slide toward the inland sea that is the West Thumb of Yellowstone Lake. It sprawled, gargantuanly, below me. On the way down I passed a series of bicyclists climbing up, spaced apart like pearls from a torn necklace, one, then three, five, eight in total. I reached the bottom, passed the villages of West Thumb and Grant Village, went on.

I stopped again at Lewis Lake, where I dipped my toes in the chilly water and pondered my next move. The south side of the park has fewer services than the west side, and opportunities were slim.

Lewis Lake

A campground waited around the south tip of Lewis Lake. I crawled in, bleary eyed, with only 30 miles to show for the day. I arrived at 6pm. By 7:30 I'd set up camp, had dinner, and crawled into my tent, where I read briefly, then slept for 12 hours.

Alive in: Yellowstone

2008-08-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

Day 28: Entering Yellowstone

2008-08-13T23:25:00.000-07:00

The day was still early, but I was nervous about entering the park beneath the overcast sky, afraid of being caught in another storm with no barns to hide in. I dithered for almost two hours in West Yellowstone, between grocery shopping, book browsing, and lunch. It was sprinkling when I finished lunch. The clouds were all headed east, over the park.

I rode timidly to the park gates. I stopped at a log cabin toll booth to pay the park entry fee, and asked the gate attendent if she thought the clouds would blow over. "They always blow that way," she said, pointing east into the park. A placard showed that all the park lodges were full, and most of the campgrounds as well. I asked about campground availability. The ranger told me there were always spots for hikers and bicyclists. I looked at all the vehicles lined up to enter the park, and felt like an honored guest - one of the few souls entering the park in the spirit of its original explorers. I paid up and rode on.

The first miles of Yellowstone looked a lot like western Washington, with narrow, tree lined roads stretching out to distant green hills. Different trees, I suppose, but I'm too much of an ignoramus to tell. In one sense, it looked like a million miles I'd already traveled, but the most amazing thing about Yellowstone was the lack of fences. No individual owns this, I thought. It can't be bought or sold or developed or strip mined for gravel or dredged for gold and left useless. It's protected, and it belongs to all of us.

The road into the park still followed the Madison River, seemingly tamer here than in Madison Valley. Though I was following the river upstream, the road frequently seemed to be descending. I'd seen this effect from Darby to Sula, as well. I wondered if it was just a favorable wind. It made for an easy ride, and I quickly reached the Madison campground, about 15 miles into the park.

Madison River

I took a short break at the Madison campground. I'd made good time, the clouds had swept on eastward, and I had the second (or third, or fourth) wind that I usually get in the cool early evening hours. I decided to keep going, 15 miles on up to the campground at Old Faithful. I cackled, "I'm going all the way!" as I rolled out of Madison campground, giddy with end-of-day endorphins. I remembered what one of my high school swim coaches had liked to say about distance swimming: "It's all GUTS."

And here is where I made a singularly expensive mistake. Perhaps you already have some idea what it was, but if not, I'll just leave you to chew on this ham-fisted bit of foreshadowing.

The road left the Madison River and climbed for a patch of three miles or so before joining the Firehole River, where it resumed its illusory downhill course, and now I was in sulphur country, and the landscape began to change dramatically.

I passed a grassy plain, tall yellow stalks fringed with red. Half hidden in the grass were numerous ravens, alone or in groups of two or three or twenty. I stopped and dismounted to watch them, and dozens of the nearest ones leapt from their spots to glide further out into the field. I wondered why they all gathered there. A moment later I saw the first vapor clouds, not half a mile to the south. I turned back to the raven field, saw that the ground beneath the grass was leached white, realized that the ground here must also be warm, and the ravens were enjoying the ground heat. I was immediately tempted to run into the fields toward the vapor clouds, but I didn't know the rules yet, and I was pretty sure it was a bad idea.

Around the next bend I reached the first official observation point, the Fountain Paint Pot Trail at the Lower Geyser Basin, where a boardwalk wound through an alien landscape. (Incidentally, did I mention that Shadow of the Colossus has a geyser field?)

The odor emanating from the sulphurous pools was one that I associated with good times, and just being around them brightened my mood.

Signs warned visitors not to stray from the path. As I followed the boardwalk, I examined the ground below. It showed animal prints and dung, and the occasional shoe print. Now that I knew the rules, I felt free to disregard them.

I walked out to one of the boiling pools. Beneath its cloak of vapor, the Celestine Pool was intensely clear, its crystalline hues revealing hidden depths.

The Celestine Pool: The most dangerous photo on this blog

Further down the boardwalk, a family pointed at me, and I heard father and children discussing me. I'd tried to time my exploit so that I was out of public view, and now I felt chastened for providing a bad example for the kids, and imagined their trauma if I had been scalded. I was done breaking rules for the day.

Bacteria Carpet near the Silex Spring

I periodically heard the ugly "quark!" of the ravens, and scanned for their perches. I found them throughout the park, perched above the visitors, cawing to let the people know that this is their land, though no one listens to them.

I returned to the road invigorated, and made a few more miles to the next major observation site. Sundown was near, but I was captivated by the springs.

I soon reached the Midway Geyser Basin, where the hot springs from the Grand Prismatic Spring feed dramatically into the Firehole River.

Hot Springs meet Cold River

The Grand Prismatic Spring bubbles up from a bleached white caldera, filling the area with a refractive vapor.

The Grand Prismatic Spring

I was there at sunset, and the spring's prismatic qualities showed themselves in a subtle, but startling way. I was facing directly east into the vapor cloud, trying to avoid photographing my own shadow, when I noticed the double halo around my shadow. Two concentric rings were centered around my shadow's head, the smaller about one foot in diameter, the larger about six feet. In my endorphin driven state, I stared lovingly at my double halo for long minutes. I wondered if this was anything like the effect of watching an eclipse through a pinhole (something I've never done, and don't entirely understand).

I have leashed the sundogs

I had almost lost the sun, and I hurried to leave. On the way out of the observation area, a sign with red type caught the corner of my eye. I thought it said "Dragon Gourd", and assumed it was the name of one of the springs. On closer inspection, it actually said "Dangerous Ground", and showed an illustration of a boy scout in distress, off the trail, his foot gone through a patch of thin crust into a hidden pocket of boiling, acidic water. I silently promised the sign that I would never leave the path again.

The sky dimmed as I counted the last miles to the park's heart at Old Faithful. I rode the last two miles, a confounding loop, in darkness. Signs pointed to lodging and other services. Nowhere did I see signs for a campground, and I began to grow nervous. I reached the center of the loop, where mammoth lodge buildings ringed a sea of parking. I pulled up in front of the closed ranger station to check my map. A young man walked by, apparently a ranger, and I asked him for directions to a campground. "Madison," was what he told me. Fifteen miles back, in the dark. No campground at Old Faithful. The ranger was young and inexperienced, or I might've tried to bargain for a bed in the ranger station. Instead I turned toward the imposing lodge buildings. Sleeping rough was not an option. The park had impressed me with its many "BEWARE BEAR" and "A FED BEAR IS A DEAD BEAR" signs.

I'd seen the "LODGES FULL" sign at the park's entrance, but I knew there had to be some chance of a room. The first lodge was an elephantine log cabin with a steeple roof, towering like some gothic pagan cathedral. The interior was no less imposing, with a three story stone fireplace, and hand carved wooden stairs leading up to a multi-tiered central atrium, capped by a remote belfry, all screaming "MONEY". Just another asset of the Xanterra Parks and Resorts corporation.

I was helped at the front desk by a solicitous clerk who found a lone empty room, and opened a heavy binder to offer photos for my approval. Double queen bed, facing Old Faithful, $220. "I've had 46 people look at this room," he said, "So I had to double check." I didn't know if he was speaking hyperbolically or literally, but I expected the latter. It was no time for hesitation. I took the room.

The lodge's layout confused me. It took me half an hour and three calls for help to find my room. Not until I stumbled into the extra wing did I realize that there was anything beyond the central aerie. I dumped my heavy bags, including my food, in the room. I worried that a bear might come to my room.

I was determined to wring every penny's worth out of my time there. I cleaned, rinsed my clothes, and wandered the halls. By that time the restaurants had closed, and I found that the lodge had no spa. Frustrated and overstimulated from 14 hours on the road, I returned to my room for a fitful night's sleep.

Day 28: West Fork to West Yellowstone, Montana

2008-08-13T15:04:00.000-07:00

I woke dutifully to my 6am alarm and climbed out of my comfortable bed in my comfortable cabin at the West Fork RV park. The morning was cold. Outside, I could see my breath. The park's office wouldn't open for a couple of hours. I skipped breakfast and was on the road by 7am. I cycled through the chilly dawn, toes numb, waiting for the sun to warm me, but the road turned away from Madison Valley, toward the hills around Lake Hebgen, and deep into shadow. The wind blew capriciously, frequently changing course throughout morning.

I made it 9 miles before my empty stomach cramped, doubling me over with nausea. I ate a Clif Bar by the guard rail and pushed on. Waiting just around the next bend was the top of my morning climb, and an interpretive center that explained the sudden formation of Quake Lake, below me. The 6 mile long, 180 foot deep lake was formed during a 7.3 earthquake in 1959. 28 campers were sacrificed to the lake's birth. I was just happy to find a restroom and a sunny spot to sit in.

It was another 6 miles before I found breakfast, at a cafe in an angler's RV park. It was the second such I'd passed; the first had been closed. I rode in half mumbling, half singing, "You'd better be open, you'd better be open." Inside, the tiny cafe was bustling. I sat at an uncleaned table, too chilled to care. The harried waiter told me that it might be a while. I told him I had nowhere to go, which got him muttering, "I've got places to go, and things to do." I assumed I'd come in at a bad moment, and possibly broken etiquette by sitting at a dirty table, but I sat firm and patient, and smiled whenever anyone passed my table. I really did have nowhere to go. The table next to mine filled with a family who were apparently at the end of their vacation and had become friendly with the staff. Eventually the waiter warmed to me, and turned out to be a friendly and solicitous host, who reminded me a lot of Mark Edmison, my partner at the Green Cat Cafe.

After breakfast, a new challenge: 23 miles of road construction. I was unhappy when I saw the signs, but for once the construction worked in my favor. I encountered a road crew laying new tar and gravel just a few miles beyond the cafe. Beyond the crew lay miles of road in various stages of completion.

Spraying tar

Since the whole stretch was full of loose gravel, vehicles were led through at a slow pace by pace cars, in one direction at a time. Once I was past the active construction zone, cars passed me in short waves, leaving me for the most part with the road to myself as I wended around the north side Lake Hebgen.

My own private road

The road around Lake Hebgen was beautiful, and reasonably uneventful. With so little vehicular activity, it was the most relaxed travel time I'd had in weeks.

Hebgen Lake

I passed a few other cyclists on the road, including a pair of women, one of whom was riding a recumbent. Recumbent riders are rare enough that we tend to congregate when we find each other, and I stopped to chat with them. They were Traci and Kathy, on their way from Virginia to Oregon. They had a third person following them in a support vehicle, an RV that they could sleep in. We shared the usual road stories, before going our respective ways.

Traci and Kathy

The remaining miles to West Yellowstone were also fairly uneventful, free of any special character building moments - though the day never did warm up, and by now clouds had rolled in to cover the area, filling me with the fear of more storms.

I reached West Yellowstone in the mid-afternoon. As a major gateway to Yellowstone Park, West Yellowstone is a true tourist mecca, serving up chintzy Americana to travelers from around the world who've come to see America's grandeur. I browsed a couple of book stores looking for a paperback to carry through the park, and stopped for lunch at a self-consciously kitschy burger shop with a model train running along the ceiling joint from dining room to kitchen.

The Canyon Street Grille

Day 27: Virginia City to West Fork, Montana

2008-08-12T21:48:00.000-07:00

I woke with a slight headache. I'd had the ocassional sniffle and cough since Jackson, and I was afraid I had a fever. Nonetheless, nothing for it but to get back on the road. I knew that I was stressing my immune system to the limits, but I was afraid that if I stopped, it would collapse entirely, leaving me sick for weeks.

I had camped at the V.C.R.V. to best position myself for the upcoming pass. As it turned out, I was only three miles from the top, and then eight easy miles to Ennis. If I'd known, I probably would've crested it the night prior and found a cheap motel in Ennis. Sure enough, Ennis, with less historic value than Virginia City, had $25/night rooms. I stopped for breakfast.

Beyond Ennis I entered the Madison Valley and the cloudless day grew hot with few opportunities for shade, and I felt my fever growing with the miles. Cameron was the only other town on my route that day, and it hardly even a town, with only an RV park and a combined general store / bar / cafe. I stopped there, napped gratefully in the cool grass beneath a shady tree, bought an ice cream, read awhile.

Sitting there on the lawn, I overheard speeches and applause; a meeting was being conducted in a large room behind the combined store / bar / cafe. During breaks, serious looking people stood outside with clipboards making calls from their cellphones. At least one was in uniform, and I wondered if they were law enforcement or area officials or perhaps the Madison Valley Chamber of Commerce.

I returned to the road, resolved to leave earlier the following day and travel in the cool hours of the morning. The sun wore on. I road over a bridge spanning a small creek bordered by trees, and took a break. Beneath the bridge, a large, active colony of cliff swallows had built a large cluster of globular nests. The water beneath the bridge was frigid, shallow and swift; I entered only up to my calves, wetted my shirt, and even that was temperature change enough to give me chills.

I continued on. I had perfect visibility ten, twenty miles down the valley, and I could see a line of trees far ahead. To my right was a dark slash in the earth - the deep channel cut by the Madison River. Looking around, I realized that the entire valley showed signs of violent erosion, its walls crenellated, its floor stratified, as the turbulent Madison River rolled and twisted in its course over geological ages.

I reached the end of my day at West Fork. It's not labeled as a town, and I'm still unsure if it's the name of the area, or only the RV/cabin park that lies there, just across a bridge from a more upscale angler's resort. My map showed services just a half mile down the road. I tried that first, and found nothing. There were no stores, and the cabins that appeared to have once been rentals now showed signs of long term occupancy. I turned back.

I crossed this bridge 6 times

After my feverish day, I wanted comfort. I tried the angler's lodge, which lay on the bank of the Madison, where several people in rubber waders stood in the water casting lines. I approached an open door, beyond which lay a fancy dinner table set with red wine glasses. A tall, broad man filled the door frame and asked, "Can I help you?" in a way that made it clear, in a firm, friendly way, that he was coming out to speak to me, I was not going in to speak to him. In the outdoor light, I saw that he had dark hair with a touch of steel, swept back toward a possible ponytail. Indian, or half, I thought.

I asked if they offered accommodations, and he explained that they only had an all-inclusive three day package. That door was closed, but he was friendly, and interested in my trip, and we stood and chatted for a while. I learned that he spent half the year there and half in Cape Cod (where it was implied that he ran another inn). As for the missing services a half mile south, he explained that the Sun Ranch, which I'd passed coming in, had recently been sold (by actor Steven Segal) to a new owner, who was extensively developing it as a resort for the wealthy, and he'd also bought up much of the surrounding area to house his employees. He finished by recommending the RV park just across the bridge, or the free camping land just nearby. He offered to help with provisions if he could (again making it clear that I was not invited to dinner).

And so, I crossed the bridge to the West Fork RV park. I stepped into the office, which was hotter than the evening air. A scented candle on the office desk filled the air with a suffocating fragrance, thought the office appeared empty. I poked around, and a woman appeared from a side room, seeming slightly scattered, a quality she retained throughout our transaction. A cabin was available for me and I was happy to have it at any price. The office sold a small selection of food, but very little that I could eat. I bought the day's last home made cinnamon roll and settled in to my little cabin off the Madison. It turned out to be one of the nicer rooms I've stayed in, with an open, functional kitchen layout and a small porch. I ate my cinnamon roll on the porch while I listened passively to the conversations of other guests. Before I turned in, I set my alarm for 6am, mindful to be off before the day's heat.

Alive in: West Fork, Montana

2008-08-12T19:00:00.000-07:00

The Bridge of Madison County

Today's character building challenge: unrelenting heat and 40 miles without shade. Fortunately, five years at burningman camp has prepared me for heat.

I'm spending the night in a cute little cabin in an RV park in angler's heaven just down the road from a ranch once owned by Steven Segal. There's an angler's lodge next door, and the river was comically full of fly fishers when I rode in, up to their hip waders in the Madison River.