Cycle Tripping, pt 1.

July 11, 1993 on 8:44 pm | In Mountain, Touring |

Cycle Tripping 1993 - Part One of Three

This series is based on my experiences bicycling from Colorado to Western Canada and back to Cincinnati. This may have been the first cross-continental bicycle tour ever done on a customized BMX cruiser (an OM Flyer). All remarks in quotes are from a personal journal I kept during the trip.

On June 16, 1993, I left the comradery and safety of Telluride, CO, for the solitude of oneness. My bicycle-loaded with food, shelter, clothing, and various enrichment materials-took the transition from pavement to dirt with the certainty of a backcountry veteran. As I pedaled up Last Dollar Road into the hail that typifies late afternoon storms at 9,000 feet, I knew that I would be learning a great deal over the next four months. Off into the world’s greatest classroom I rode. Over the next 4,700 miles I would witness nature’s last frontiers: the high and low, the bountiful and lifeless, the wet and dry.

Just two days before my departure I had been pondering what might happen to me over the next few months. I was on the rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River, and as I walked down the scree slope to peer into the setting sun. I jumped out onto a stone pillar. The 3,000-foot canyon walls vanished into the most severe abyss in North America, swallowing the ability to forecast my future. My insignificance soon became apparent.

No matter how much I had read to gain understanding of particular natural systems, I get great satisfaction simply observing. The city strips us of our senses and makes us numb to the nature around us.

The summer of 1993 re-opened my eyes to nature. It is one thing to talk about the mountains and desert that are being fouled by humankind. It’s quite another to get a first-hand look at and feeling for America’s last frontiers.

The ride from Telluride to Moab, UT, took me five days. Of the 210 miles, roughly 20 are pavement; the rest are dirt and gravel. The path climbs up and over the Uncompahgre Plateau, drops briefly to Gateway, CO, and then up and over to Utah’s LaSal Mountains and down into Moab.

Despite the snow that covered a good deal of the forest floor, the ground had been torn up and timber removed and damaged. Never before had I seen forests that seemed so mangled. Fortunately, some sections were left untouched or had been undisturbed long enough to cover up clear cuts from 50 years ago.

I disciplined myself to write in a journal every evening. The second day on the trail, the entry reads: “The communication here is one way. The birds sing, I listen. There is a major (artesian) cold spring that surfaces about fifty yards from me. It has provided me water and a brisk facial scrubbing. The sun has been on my face since I began this entry, but is now diffused by the largest Aspen that I have ever seen. There is a feeling that I have not felt in a long time. Although it is a bit early in the trip, there is a faint leading edge of an inner peace that Clifton tends to drain me of.”

The ride from Telluride to Moab is not an easy one. With ascents as long as 30 miles, endurance and patience are key. I met a few folks along the trail -Dave and Aileen, in their mid 20’s; Doc and Ron, in their mid 30’s; Carl, 40-ish; and Rex, 50- and traveled with them as partners. The human spirit is strong, indeed.

After three days, we followed Indian Creek and dropped 3,000 feet to the familiar heat and scarcity of the desert. It was June 20, and the temperature was over 100 degrees F. That night, as we gazed at the surrounding rimrock thousands of feet above us, an eighth rider, Michael, soloed into the group. We drank beer, and Rex helped us distinguish Latin and Greek constellations.

The John Brown Canyon Road is a 4,000-foot vertical gain on squirrelly dirt and gravel. The key here is to bust out before sunrise and beat the heat. Mike and I were the only two of the group to ride it.

The next morning was destination day: Moab, city of fine 3.2 beer, snobby bike shops and world-renowned slick rock mountain biking. Dropping down on a stretch of the Porcupine Rim Trail at 25-plus m.p.h., dodging boulders, ruts, and drop-offs, I felt a sense of great accomplishment. I headed straight to the Lazy Lizard Youth Hostel for a shower.

I left Moab the next day in 117 degrees. Following the Colorado River east I made it as far as Castle Valley before I was picked up by Keith and Scott in their truck. We had met on the trail a few days earlier. They offered me a ride back to the high country-the desert was too wide to cross without water. Their 1967 Dodge pickup overheated before we hit the mountains.

Two days later I approached Wyoming with cracked bleeding lips, hands, and toes; numb fingers and feet; burned and blistered skin; and amazement at how I had begun to believe in God. Although my riding was strong, the desert was wearing me down.

Wyoming & Yellowstone

Up before the sun, I “…began my 32 mile climb at 7a.m. With the goal of pushing 80 miles to rock Springs, WY. Irish Canyon is a breathtaking formation. Like so many geological attractions, it is a fine example of subduction, with the oppressive mass jutting west. The road wove up 12 miles and popped me out into the sum at 8:30 a.m. Up the watershed divide I rode, reaching its apex after about 32 miles. Tailwinds, gravity, and tow strong, will-nourished legs pushed me down 15 miles before the winds shifted to cross and oppose me in great gusts.”

Wyoming contains twice the area of Ohio but with only five percent of its population. It is the most sparsely populated state, surpasses in density by Alaska in the late ’80’s. Its average elevations are greater than 6,000 feet above sea level. Hands that once roped cattle are now likely to be working extraction equipment in search of Wyoming’s underlying natural gas or oil deposits. The first structure I encountered after biking through 60 miles of Sweetwater County, WY, was an ARCO refinery.

I spent June 30 slowly approaching Jackson Hole. Twenty miles into the morning, the Wind River Range appeared on the horizon. Afternoon temperatures had dropped to a pleasant 85 degrees, but the wind plowed straight into me all day. Waves and honks from passing motorcycles, cars, buses, and RV’s kept me going. I waved back in an attempt to keep my mind off the fact that I was averaging a meager 12 m.p.h.

The Wind River Range features a spectacular line of 10,000-ft. peaks that punctuate the Continental Divide. They were covered in snow and stretched as far as the eve could see, delineating into arid tundra at the horizon. To the north they rise into alpine wilderness that attracts five million tourists yearly.

“My left hand is not getting any better. I can’t cup my third or fourth fingers, which makes splashing my face very difficult. My right hand continues to tingle.” I was experiencing carpal tunnel, which had been getting worse over the previous four days. My body was trashed.

Apparently I was not the only one who noticed. I spent the ensuing week with friends Joe, Paulette, and acquaintances canoeing in Jackson Lake, hiking in the Red Hills, and climbing the Tetons.

Picture the most beautiful meadow ever imagined. Speckle it with columbine, fir, and marvelous little yellow compound flowers. Then place it at a 30-degree angle with serpentine switchback roads. You are in the Grand Tetons. We attained a backcountry permit from the Teton National Park ranger station and were warned that the weather conditions were unstable. Joe and I climbed into the mountains for an overnight trip.

Once we had hiked a vertical mile, we set up our tent in the snow. We crunched through the snow in a final approach to Disappointment Peak. Joe insisted on climbing the technical face that led to the peak overlooking the Grand Teton. I understood his vigor, but knew that the weather could turn rapidly. As I watched him climb above the bowl, my nerves began to quiver. I must have watched Joe shrink into a speck for 45 minutes before the first thunderclap shook the mountain. I knew he was in trouble.

Quite suddenly, the sun disappeared and the temperature dropped at least 15 degrees to below freezing. The wind blew up, and twice I was nearly blown off of my feet. Gusts of at least 50 miles an hour brought sheets of snow and less than 15 feet of visibility. Joe and I were separated for hours.

I knew I would be all right because I had all the good gear. I also knew that Joe’s wet cotton insulation would slowly tap him of his bodily warmth, leading to hypothermia. I pictured him falling asleep in a snowbank and never waking up. I tried to wait for him to return to the shore of the frozen Amphitheater Lake. Eventually the conditions got far too severe to wait any longer. A feeling of helplessness consumed me, followed by a sense of survival that revived me. I found my way back to the tent through the blizzard and waited. Lightning struck all around. I felt responsible for the crisis. I knew Joe’s mountaineering experience was not as extensive as my own.

Once the blizzard mitigated, I crawled out of the tent with my flashlight to begin searching for Joe. Minutes after I left the camp, Joe responded to my cries. He was soaking wet, unknowingly freezing to death. He had already passed the camp and had begun to scurry the five miles to the base of the mountain. I don’t think that he could have made it. “That was the stupidest thing that I have ever done,” Joe finally said, exhausted.

During my stay I was treated very well. “Do I deserve this? What more, besides good hands, could I ask for?” My hands regained some feeling and a little strength, but no control. Still, I had to keep moving it if I was going to meet Jim in Missoula, MT, on the agreed-upon date.

I left my friends and pedaled north, making it into Yellowstone National Park by sundown. “The forest that I have been sitting within has been scorched. Many trunks remain vertical but are unable to support life. Others create a gravity-based lattice work.” The carnage from the Yellowstone fires of ‘88 is ubiquitous. A variety of wildflowers, however, were in bloom against the scorched earth overlooking the Lewis River Canyon.

The next morning I called my friends Jeff and Nola, who lived at the Yellowstone Lodge, and we went to the Firehole River to bathe in its riverside hot springs. A stretch of the shore is riddled with cascading water heated to 130-140 degrees F. Bison watched us as we splashed and giggled.

Nola, Jeff, and I watched Old Faithful erupt on her new schedule. The plate activity in that region over the last couple of years has moved eruption intervals from approximately 65 minutes to roughly an hour and 20 minutes. Never before had I seen such an awesome display. Once she had piped down, we scored nearby Bee Hive Geyser, which erupts at intervals varying between ten hours and six days with a dance of over four minutes. The Old Faithful Inn had ample supplies for our celebration of water and friendship.

Montana & the Canadian Border

I rode through Gardiner, Bozeman and Butte, MT, utilizing Forest Service roads wherever possible. “After a long and windy descent down Montana SR1, I headed west on 38. Crossing a fall line, I turned north onto Rock Creek Road. Dirty, sandy bumpy, stormy, and beautiful. What (on the map) looked to be about 30 miles long turned into 60 miles through Lolo National Forest.”

The dirt path dead-ended onto I-90, and I rode 15 miles of rainy highway. I got off at the base of Mt. Jumbo and rode to a friend’s trailer in East Missoula.

I was tired and introverted. After going to a bar and trying to be sociable with my Missoula hosts, Jordan and Romie, I found a ride back to my tent in the sideyard and dreamed about my dog, the illustrious Paco.

A couple of days later, Romie and I went to see the film Close to Eden. As we rode back to the trailer I saw a familiar person, who was not supposed to be there until the next day. But there he was-James Kreisa. Out of the trailer came Dan…and Abby… and Paco! This was way too much to handle. Dan, my Cincinnati roommate, had driven with Jim and our dogs to drop him off in Missoula. Paco and I exchanged kisses and groans. I could hardly believe I was seeing my dog. I missed her so much it was silly. “It has quelled my desire to go home early. It’s funny how contact with Paco can make me feel so complete.”

Our original plan had Jim and I leaving Jim’s car in Missoula and coming back to it in a few months. Now, with Dan taking the car home, we would bike through Canada to the Pacific Ocean, down into Portland and then all the way back to Cincinnati. We calculated there were 4,000 miles ahead of us. We were right.

Jim and I left Dan and the dogs in Hot Springs, MT. After coming as far as I had, nothing could stop me now. Especially not the rain that pounded the arid soils bordering that day’s 90 miles of paved path.

My riding style was slow and patient. Jim was chomping at the bit all day, often as far as a mile ahead of me. He’s a monster. It would take us a few weeks before we learned how to effectively draft behind one and other.

On July 26 we pushed into Glacier National Park. The rocky shore of Lake McDonald provides a wondrous, but illegal, camp spot. The entire 16-mile lake had been formed by a glacier doing the grind all the way through the alley, leaving a terminal moraine, which acts like a natural dam.

“Today we ride Going To The Sun Road. Rock on.” That we did. Heralded as a remarkable achievement of engineering, this road ascends 3,000 feet at a 6.7 percent grade for over 20 miles. Slowly we entered the clouds, and windows occasionally opened up to reveal distant facades and peaks. Jim waited for me at the top.

We reached the top, Logan Pass (6696-ft.), just before 11 a.m. Drenched in sweat, we dropped into sunshine. The range was holding the clouds from crossing the divide. We careened into one of the world’s most magical valleys at speeds in excess of 40 m.p.h. There is no way to explain this place. Just go there.

I was beginning to understand the complexities of travelling with another person. I prefer backroads and dirt, although they’re often slower. Jim preferred highways for their speed and directness.

“Oh my goodness. Harsh entry into Canada… After a few routine questions concerning tobacco, firearms, and money in possession, we were asked to speak with the emigration officer.” After unloading an arsenal of undermining questions, the U.S. officer snorted, “I see two problems. One is you (meaning me) has no money.” He was correct. He then turned to Jim. “Two, this DUI is against our emigration code.” Jim would have to pay $80 to gain a discretionary entry pass. Mind you, his DUI charge was eight years old.

I had been borrowing money from Jim for a while, and then a third party followed through on a deposit to my checking account back in Ohio…or was that Iowa? The officer, Kevin, told me that, based on previous experience, he was worried that we might go broke and become a burden on “the Canadian people.” I explained to him that I was used to subsisting. In fact, the $300 apiece he required us to have would get me by for six weeks. We only planned to be in Canada for three weeks.

Refusing to turn back, Jim and I were permitted to prove-or fake-our financial security. Kevin let us leave our gear in his office and pedal into the town Waterton, Alberta, which possessed the closest bank-in-the-box. The 40 round-trip miles were a blast to ride without the extra 70 lbs. of gear. The bank machine would give us $50 each and ominously stated that our account balances were “unavailable.”

We got back to the border to find Kevin was gone for the day. The officer on duty held the same rank as Kevin, but she could not directly override his entry requirements. But her boss, the Chief Emigration Officer, could. Unfortunately, he was 50 miles away at the region’s main border crossing. The officials did not understand the implications of travelling by bicycle.

After a long conversation, Kevin’s replacement (Jodi) saw my point and let me call her boss. He, too, recognized the uniqueness of our situation. I was able to convince him and Jodi to permit us to enter their country, and they let Jim charge the $80 to his mother’s VISA account. Finally, after seven and a half-hours, we rolled into Canada as “welcomed tourists.”

We cycled north across the high prairie of Western Alberta for a day and a half. The vistas are incredible. To the east, rolling prairie. To the west, the front range of the Canadian Rockies. Steering west, we were opposed by a steady headwind.

Towards the end of our second day in Canada, we transcended the front range in Bow/Crow Wilderness. The next 60 miles would be dirt. We entered a canyon where all the wind hides.

Never before had I imagined such a chaotic and brutal wind under a blue sky. The mountains rose on all sides. As the wind traveled the serpentine canyon walls, it bounced with the resilience of a racquetball. The river gave its mist to the unseen force in great veils worthy of extended observation. At one point, our tent-with 50 lbs. of gear and seven stakes holding it down-was thrown 15 feet.

“God, it sounds like the ocean out there, doesn’t it?” Jim spoke from his attempt at slumber. “A violent one,” I agreed. That night I could hardly sleep myself. The wind was so loud. Twice I had to get out of the tent to resecure the stakes. We were both thankful when morning broke.

We entered a region known as Kananaskis Country, comprising provincial parks and designated wilderness. Located about 80 miles southwest of Calgary, Kananaskis is one of the richest areas in natural splendor that I could ever imagine.

here are the pics from this entry