This is a great touring artcile written by Tony Tapay.

“Work is the curse of the drinking class.”
- Oscar Wilde

6/30 - Leave Asheville on the Greyhound - The first images of Greyhound were everything that I expected it to be. Exactly. Even your obligatory punk rocker with six soaring red peaks to his impeccable mohawk. At the station we tried to help a wayward, rather intoxicated guy who spoke no English, get back on track. It appeared that he had lost his way and a friend to boot. We tried, but the best of intentions, gestures and drawings only go so far. After the station attendant spotted an open bottle of Corona in his pocket, he instructed “Wayward” to get rid of the beer. We then watched in disbelief as he took a final swig and tossed it in a graceful arc into the grass. “Wayward” was summarily banned from the bus. But alas we couldn’t even get on that bus. It is understood that on the airlines you are given a particular seat on a particular plane. People’s airlines went out of business with their first come first serve seat policy. With Greyhound you are not even really assigned to a bus. Have a ticket to a city? Find a bus going there or in the general direction and jump on, if there is a seat.

So before the next bus came, Jason and I waited and napped on our bags,  guarding everything while Ann, Eric (our send-off team) and Joe acquired the ingredients for Margaritas and  brought them back to the station in rather inconspicuous cups. It was, ironically, while “Wayward” was tossing his Corona high into the air, sealing his fate, that we were all tossing back our contraband Margaritas, more conscious of the vagaries of life. So I’ve never ridden the Greyhound. Took the train to DC once when I was a kid, but the bus? No. And despite the continuing nightmare of dealing with Greyhound, the company, Greyhound the drive is so far proving to be pretty cool. Kick back, relax, eavesdrop on some conversation and look out the window as the mountains of Asheville wane into the countryside of Knoxville. For the next event you have the “transfer all of your stuff yourself from one bus to another” relay event. First help the man in the red shirt unload a few of your boxes, move them and safeguard them while going back to get the rest. Then load them on the new bus and get a seat. Do it in ten minutes and your on the bus to Chicago, stops in Lexington, Cincinnati, Indianapolis and Gary. The sign that says, “Your operator _ _ _ _” has scrawled beneath it “Forrest Gump.” The driver, bearing little resemblance to Tom Hanks launches into his routine, seeking comedic expression while describing prohibited behavior and substances. “Don’t even think about it,” he says, referring to the use of drugs, “or I’ll have to call the man with the bubble machine on top of his car.” Bubble machine. Yup, go Greyhound and leave the stand up comedy to us. And next stop Cincinnati, where I just graduated from UC with a degree in Industrial Design. Home sweet home. We had an hour layover from 1-2 a.m. so Joe, Jason and I stepped out to stretch our legs and breathe in some fresh downtown air. We wandered and talked and Joe told stories of street riding when he lived in Cincinnati. Growing restless at the thought of our stuff sitting unguarded on the bus, I headed back and was greeted by our men in blue searching the bus with a drug sniffing dog. Of course they found nothing, but the presence of the dog and the dregs-of-society treatment delivered on Greyhound travelers was depressing. Airline passengers simply would not tolerate the indignity. Calls to congressmen and city council would be made and this would stop. I sat in the seat waiting for Joe and Jason to return, watching the K-9 team move down the line, opening cargo hatches and searching every inch of every bus. Having to hear a woman smack her two-year old around in the restroom, from Lexington to Cincinnati, it occurred to me that our priorities are sorely misplaced. In a very selfish way I am relieved when she gets off of the bus dragging her children behind her, smacking, shoving and hollering. I simply don’t have the courage to say anything and I justify my inaction by convincing myself that any action on my part would only later backfire on the kids. Regardless, I do nothing and sigh relief when her wake of tension wanes and we are left in silence.

You try very hard to sleep on the bus, hoping to slip into a suspended animation of sorts, so that the time spent sitting cramped doesn’t hurt so much. The economics are rather simple. At this stage in my life, my time isn’t worth that much, so I can in effect trade it for money, paying less for a form of transportation that takes so damn long. How to survive? Do not look friendly. Except for rare stretches, there are always a few empty seats. You want one of those seats to be next to you. Given the girth of the average Greyhound rider, boundary disputes are not uncommon. Sometimes you are fortunate and have a bus that comes with arm rests. Those are the DMZ of travel, giving the combatants hard reference points. Even with those DMZs though, disputes can escalate to small scale skirmishes similar to what I experienced with a rather large Harley guy. At one stop I wasn’t quick enough to feign sleeping across both seats and could do nothing as he settled in next to me. Instantly my border alarms went off as encroachment threatened. Harley man’s mass simply could not be contained by his seat and I, skinny white biker boy, couldn’t compete. I though was not giving up my space without a fight. Pinned in the window seat, I exploited the solidity of the wall to my right. I placed my right elbow against the side of the bus, clasped my hands together and extended my left elbow to the edge of my space. Any force against my left elbow was simply transferred via my arms to my elbow, braced against the wall. At first my frontline elbow contacted only his expansive side. Soon though he muscled his right forearm against my left elbow and into the fray; the contest was on. Neither of us made eye contact with the other or acknowledged in any way what was building. Over the span of ten or fifteen minutes, the détente escalated in small increments, until there was simply no way to explain this away as casual body contact. Had either of us suddenly given way, the other would have ended up in his lap. Reaching a new level of absurdity, I leaned against the window and pretended to sleep, all the while expending significant energy, maintaining the structure of my transabdominal forearm-elbow brace. Skinny white biker boy that I was, I simply wasn’t going to lose this one.

As the hours passed, my arms and shoulders went numb and I experimented with variations on brace theme. I had to struggle not to laugh out loud at this pissing contest gone awry and continued it for the sheer hell of it. Finally, we pulled into a stop and he got off. I giggled aloud. And we wonder why we wage wars.

Now in somewhere, Wisconsin at 2:45 Thursday. We’ve been on the bus for about 24 hours and we just had our first opportunity to get some real food. Lesson 1 for the Greyhound, pack a survival kit for the bus. Include bottled water, cause there is none on the bus, food and because the restroom is essentially an outhouse on wheels, take some handi-wipes, their’s run out frequently.

 

7/2 - Still on the Greyhound - 6:20 a.m. 370 miles from Billings. Still very far from Kalispell where we’ll assemble our bikes and gear and start a 125 mile trip north to the Montana/Canadian border. Late yesterday we started to notice the change in the trees, showing our progress north. Fewer hardwoods and more conifers. The trees that are around seem stunted, perhaps not as ambitious in the summer so they are better able to weather the severe winters. The land rolls slowly with an occasional small peak. Farm equipment of unknown function stands by the road with “for sale” signs. The slow rising sun finally breaks through the clouds, revealing a yellow sheen to the green expanse which seems to grow more confused as we roll on. The pattern of highs and lows and what leads to what has yet to reveal itself to me. I remember learning how the mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina worked during my ride down to Asheville. On a loaded bike there are no small hills and you come to realize that none of it is random. You start to be able to predict what the other side of a mountain will look like and which way the road will break. If I am lucky I might scratch the surface of this more subtle, almost lunar landscape.

Just left Dickinson, North Dakota and the ground has opened up into canyons and outcroppings; Theodore Roosevelt National Park. Just left after an hour layover in Billings, apparently the largest town in Montana. Finally had a chance to walk around, stretch our legs and relax, for the first time since Cincinnati, where of course our feelings of goodwill and relaxation were greeted with drug sniffing dogs. Just entered a controlled access highway. You know what that means? “We let you on this highway at the wrong time of year . . . and you could die.” Something poetic about a highway with a record of mayhem and destruction. Rim Rock, Montana, quite the happening place when we cruised in. Hundreds of Rim Rockians were crowding the sidewalks, drinking all manner of refreshments; a genuine 2nd of July party. What is in Rim Rock? It seems rather well to do relatively speaking; lots of shiny new parkas. What do these people do? There was a real community going on there. Jason and I were very intrigued by Rim Rock.

Bozeman, MT - The bus has perhaps broken down. The driver and a mechanic are working on the fuel pump, with gasoline pouring onto the pavement beneath the bus. Despite the obvious danger of a catostrophic fire, the driver makes no attempt to empty the bus of passengers. People sit on the bus, oblivious to the fact that there are gallons of gas pouring out onto the ground. Hmm. So this gives me an opportunity to expound on Joe’s, Jason’s and my philosophy on the true nature of Greyhound. You see Greyhound is actually not a busline; it is a loosely organized hitchhiking co-op. You pay your money which entitles you to compete for a spot on a bus. You try as best as you can to move in the general direction described on the ticket. By not making it onto the original bus in Asheville, we got bumped from the express line to the “get you there sometime” line. We were originally scheduled to roll into Kalispell in about half hour. Now it seems we’ll be lucky to get there tomorrow. As to the mission statement that each Greyhound employee recites every morning; it probably reads “I will strive to get you closer to your goal. Maybe not there but closer.”

Our bus pulled into Missoula almost exactly at midnight for an overnight layover. We’ve been on the bus for 3 days and have a rather spicy, stale road funk aura about us. All of our stuff will stay boxed up at the Greyhound station so we head for a cheap hotel. We caught the last room of the night which also happened to be a triple and all was good with the world. We showered and slept hard.

 

7/3 - In Missoula then depart to Kalispell on bus, ride to Whitefish. Cheap breakfast was had at a casino/bowling alley across the street. Then we explored Missoula searching for a place to email our articles and get the scoop on the trail. All we needed was a phone line for 20 minutes (I had a lot of images to send). We were directed to the Cyber Shack where the very cool Carrie and Joe hooked us up with a line and a great cup of coffee. Then to the Black Diamond where we got the inside line on some back ways around the region. Missoula, home of very friendly people. Home of a beautiful bowl of mountains from which to paraglide on a beautiful third of July. Home of a bald eagle nest on top of a utility pole or so we thought. We later discovered that it was more likely an Osprey. We find that we really like Missoula.  Missoula women say “Hi” and ask “How’s it goin’?”  and really mean it it. We were very sad to leave Missoula, home of Cyber Shack, killer intra-town bike paths, and very friendly people.

We board the bus around three.

The last leg of this trip was very enjoyable, the three of us chatted with a young migrating couple. The guy’s name was Rocky. The girl was more comfortable keeping her name to herself. They usually made their way around the country by hitching rides on trains, but with the recent railroad serial killer, the trains were crawling with cops. Ejected from their familiar mode of transportation, they somehow got hooked up with a minister who had purchased two tickets for them. We listened to Rocky as he explained the intricacies of rogue travel. How to tell where the trains are going, how to be safe, how to keep in contact with other wanderers. Hotmail is a boon to them.

We arrived in Kalispell at 6 p.m., dropped off outside of a casino, the Greyhound adventure behind us. Upon arrival we thanked the spirits of good fortune that all of our boxes arrived together and undamaged (it’s a crap shoot with Greyhound). By the way, if GH looses your luggage, they’ll only give you a hundred bucks.

We assembled our bikes and became better acquainted with Jamie, a personal trainer from Miami. He was doing the GDT as well. Almost instantly Jamie got a flat and the unfamiliarity he displayed with the various facets of fixing a flat including the simple operation of the pump, instantly worried me. He was riding a full suspension frame with a squeak in the rear pivot. He mentioned that when he had them clean his bike, “they must have gotten degreaser in it.” He was embarking on a 2500 miles off rode bike tour where you sure as shit better know your bike inside and out and he had paid someone to “clean” his bike. Did he really know what he was in for? This was no simple extension of the gym.

Arriving in Whitefish, we stopped at a pub for a beer (Jamie abstained)  and directions to a possible campsite. Along the way though we stumbled upon a quarry and hunkered down after grabbing some food. Joe took off to pick up some beer and ran into Rocky and Girl. In Kalispell they had found a church picnic for food and were able to get a ride to Whitefish.

We ate, drank a few more beers (Jamie abstained again) and watched as the locals celebrated the independence of this country a day early. It seemed that the locals competed with each other, launching sizeable rockets bought at street stands located everywhere. Since darkness doesn’t arrive at the northern latitude until about 10:30 p.m., many of the fireworks competed with daylight, succeeding mainly in making noise. The more patient fireworks folks were rewarded later when night fell and their rockets exploded in the dark Montana sky. We were settling in and getting comfortable when headlights suddenly seemed to be heading our way which was a good trick since there were locked chains across both entries. The lights turned this way and that, never coming around the pile of gravel that stood in the center of the clearing, between them and us. Finally around they swung, the headlights stopping on the four of us.

An old school Jeep Cherokee with wood paneling, pulled up and a very perky mom leaned her head out. “Are you with the ’such and such’ family. “No,” Joe said. Mom then mentioned, “Well we are part owners of this place.” “We’re just camping for the night,” Joe offered, “we’re on our way to Canada.” “Oh cool,” she said, “Have fun!”  The Perky family then pulled back around the other side of the gravel pile and after a few minutes of nothing that made us very curious, “KABOOM” a rocket exploded high into the air and burst into a exclamation of light and color. Our very own fireworks show. Welcome to Montana.

 

7/4 - Whitefish to Polebridge - Wisconsin Ave to E. Lakeshore Dr to Upper Whitefish Lake Rd  to Red Meadow Rd to Outside N. Fork Rd. - Jamie takes off early. He is trying to do the whole trail in 6-7 weeks. His goal is to do 58-60 miles a day; a precision goal befitting a triathlete.

Jamie is from Florida where the highest altitudes are bridges spanning sea-level water. He has his entire load in two panniers suspended from one of those seat post racks. We have seen those things break with less than he is carrying. Good luck Jamie.

We have slightly different goals for this trip. Such as no set schedule, no set route and much fun. Time and time again the three of us confer with each other to ascertain the collective mindset. Agreement all around; low key, no stress.

So the 4th of July, Independence Day, was our first full day of freedom; no Greyhound in sight. We woke up when we wanted, ate breakfast (instant oatmeal with banana chips and peanuts, Yum!), broke camp and headed to the unknown town of Polebridge. Climbing so much on the first full day was a challenge and I was more than a little paranoid of having my Achilles tendon explode on me like it had on my Cincinnati to Asheville trip. To be honest, I am terrified about my tendon. I thought about it during the whole bus trip, but refuse to acknowledge it. I was thinking positive. I was more careful this time not to have my saddle too high and I moved my cleats as far back as possible. After a few hours our legs settled in and we chugged along, climbing fast and breaking when we wanted. During the climbs we amused ourselves by making up the words to old TV theme songs. One of our favorites was our X-rated version of the theme to “The Love Boat.” All day it seemed we climbed until we finally crested the mountain and hauled ass down the potholed gravel access road. The BOB handled well at moderate speeds, but anything approaching hell bent got sketchy. At times it’d hit a hole and skip off to the side, making the bike hard to keep in line. I learned not to fight it too much and concentrated on threading the hundreds of holes and rut. The descent was rippin’ and made all the climbing worth while. No roller coaster could have equaled this. Although the reality of what might happen should I lose control and go careening off the road into oblivion certainly added to the thrill. At the bottom of the hill we met with an older couple going the other way. They pulled two-wheeled Burley’s behind their bikes, with a small dog hitching a ride atop the gentleman’s trailer. They were just starting the GDT and had left the official starting point only a day or so earlier. We weren’t planning on starting at the official point, deciding instead to call Kintla Lake our beginning. Discussion about the trailers abounded. They had tried the BOBs but preferred the stability of the two wheeled Burley. I was already convinced that on a road like this, a two-wheeler would be nerve racking, requiring you to consider three lines (one for the bike and one for each of the two  Burley wheels) when negotiating the pock-marked road.

Warning them of the intense climb ahead, we departed, but not before asking them if they knew what Polebridge might hold for us. The man stated emphatically that there was nothing there. How wrong he was. After eight hours in the saddle we rolled into Polebridge. Imagine that you are riding through the most inspiring country in the world, all the while hammering out a pretty hardcore ride. You dream of rolling in somewhere that offers what you really want and nothing more. Polebridge is exactly that. The main mercantile building has enough staples (peanut butter, pasta, tuna, beans, dried fruit) to resupply your food stores and a mighty bad-ass bakery. Loaves and scones, Foccacia bread, olive and three cheese, sandwiches and French-press coffee. Next door a small tavern with real food and local brews. That’s it. A store/bakery with hand-ground coffee and next door a bar. Stand on the front porch of the mercantile and all you can see is a gravel road and mountains. This place is an hallucination.

Celebrating the wonder of Polebridge, we eat and eat and drink. With food coma coming into view, we dragged ourselves down to the river to camp, racing against the threat of rain. The rain stops after a few minutes though and our tarp lean-to will suffice for the night. It’s only 7 p.m. when we collapse on and under our sleeping bags. We should hang our things up but we’re wiped. We sleep until midnight when we are finally able to summon the strength to get up and make some Grizzly precautions. Back to sleep we go.

 

7/5 - Polebridge to Kintla Lake - Via Inside North Fork Road. We wake and meet Tom McBride. “Riverguide, naturalist, storyteller . . .” is what the brochure says. We go over our maps and Tom makes a few suggestions. He shows us where he flies his “beat” when searching for downed aircraft and explains what we might see with different trails. He also gives us some of the most thoughtful, specific advice for dealing with the reality of Grizzlies. “First thing is take everything that you have heard about Grizzly bears and take it to heart, really take it to heart, because it is true. You shouldn’t fear Grizzlies but you should respect them. Take any food that you have and anything else, sunscreen, anything that has an odor and hang it in the tree. I saw a bear eat a whole box of those spiral things that people burn to keep the bugs away. Now it probably tasted like hell, but that didn’t matter, somehow that bear associated that smell with food. Sweaty shirts and other things usually don’t matter, except for a two-year old male; throw out all the rules for a two-year old male. He’s old enough to be dangerous but not old enough to know what’s going on. He’s getting the shit kicked out of him by the big Papa bears and he’s pissed, he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand the rules. The older a bear gets, the more predictable s/he becomes. Now for the most part the only times a bear will attack is if it’s a Mama bear protecting her cub, if you surprise one, especially if it is over a kill, or if it’s just curious and the person doesn’t do what he should. If a Grizzly bear comes after you, nine times out of ten it’s just curious. It wants to see what you are. So drop to the ground and cover the back of your neck with your hands. What she’ll normally do is just bat you around and maybe gnaw on your scalp a bit. But don’t scream cause she’ll think that your putting up a fight. You see what she’s trying to do is teach you a lesson and she’ll keep messing with you until she thinks you understand. Now at night all rules are off, because if a bear attacks you at night, he’s gonna kill you and he’s gonna eat you, so kick and scream and fight like hell.”

We fuel up on amazing breads and French press coffee at the Mercantile and cruise to Kintla Lake, perhaps one of the most beautiful spots in the U.S. We arrive only a few miles from the border, go for a day hike and call it a start. Tomorrow we head south.

 

7/6 - Kintla Lake to Polebridge to Lake McDonald - Via Inside North Fork Road - Heading out of Kintla was a downhill sprint compared to the uphill entry. Polebridge to Kintla was an easy, low-key day with lots of steady climbing. Kintla to Polebridge was a pre-lunch sprint. We looked forward to our break at Polebridge; Moose Drool beer and Ruben sandwiches for Jason and Joe and a mesquite chicken for myself. We stocked up on a loaf of bread and 3 beers to go. It seems that whatever we put into our bodies is burned in nothing flat. I am always hungry. We then left Polebridge for Apgar and Lake McDonald. The way that we took to Lake McDonald went through Glacier on a rolling piece of fireroad. We finally hit pavement near the lake and wound our way to the grocery/restaurant/giftshop area. Greeted by power boats and families galore we arrived in Apgar, the anti-Polebridge. Perhaps years ago McDonald Lake lost a coin toss to Kintla Lake and McDonald Lake became the tourist lake. Realistically it is because Kintla Lake is furthest north.

Whatever the reason, having already weaned ourselves off of large populations, the bustle and commerce contributed to a static in the air that chased us off, urging us to move somewhere out of the way.Trying to save money for essential things, like Moose Drool beer, we poached a spot on a piece of beach along the lake. We casually hung out on the beach, and our camp unfolded around us as the sun set, and the stars exploded above. In the dark we could hear an amplified voice accompanied by inspirational music. Apparentlysomewhere nearby the was an amphitheater perhaps with a surround sound slide show. With furrowed brow I contemplated the abundance of glorious, purely natural sounds and sights. Just what is the point of a slide show? Around five or so I awoke to the preamble to the sunrise. Across the lake, the mountains were silhouetted by the sky, just beginning to glow. The jagged mountains looked like a cardboard cutout, pure black and devoid of depth. The lake sparkled. Later the next morning, we compared notes on the night and discovered that all three of us had awoken, independently during the night, thinking that the blazing moon, which wasn’t even full, was a some ill aimed mercury vapor light. There was no such light, only sunlight reflected off of lunar dust, exploding white. Not a whole lot around here to interfere with the night sky. At this point, by the way, the only time we’ve set up our tents was at the quarry at Whitefish. During the night clouds appeared and it seemed all but certain that it was about to come down on us, so we set them up as a precaution. And except for Kintla Lake, we haven’t paid for a spot. Kintla was ten bucks for the spot and $5 each for entry to Glacier National Park, which included McDonald Lake. So for two nights, for three guys, that works out to be just over four dollars a night. We plan on poaching sights when we can. Touring on a budget.

 

7/7 - McDonald Lake to Kalispell to Bigfork - Route 2. The morning we left McDonald was somewhat hurried as we spotted dark clouds coming in. We agreed that getting rained on while you pack sucks. Once you get going on the bike and have all your gear set up, you can pretty much handle anything, but while packing it is an emotional direct hit. Rolling out of McDonald, we grinned ear to ear at the notion that this was our life for the next two months. Camp and ride, camp and ride. Life is rough. It did rain on us briefly as we left, but a nice easy rain that lasted only a half hour. The sun came out, our rain gear was taken off; cruising time again.

We briefly re-enter civilization heading through Kalispell. The headwinds coming into town were evil, 30 mph and full of piss and vinegar. Never having replaced my misplaced beloved Bolle Breakaways, we stopped at a few bike and outdoor stores once we got into town. I couldn’t find any glasses that I liked for under $100, but I did pick up a new computer for my bike so we can now keep track of our mileage. Later on Joe and Jason did laundry while I downloaded more images and text to Eric Krause of Bio Wheels Touring in North Carolina. When in Missoula I had had great luck at the Cyber Shack with Joe and Carrie. Their cyber cafe was cool, an extension of a cool town and cool people.

In Kalispell I found another cyber cafe, not nearly so energizing. The owner was, and I quote, “The Montana leader for Y2K preparedness. My security man is a Viet Nam vet who never really came home, but that’s who you want for security.”  Uh huh. After sitting through some disparaging remarks about Mormons an uneasy conversation related to “Post-apocalyptic America” literature and a paranoid theory related to the new quarters, I paid my $2.50 for a half-hour of phone time and pedaled off. Too much A.M. talk-radio is hazardous to your ability to perceive a reality not oriented around conspiracies. Boo!

The laundromat though, where I met up with Joe and Jason, more than made up for cyber boogie man. Don and Janet Jordan own Bright Side Laudromat on 1st Ave East in Kalispell. They were incredibly interested in our trip, genuinely friendly and gave us directions to our next poached campground in Bigfork. We headed out of Kalispell on 93 and hung a left on 82, catching tailwinds that made us feel bionic. We made amazing time and rolled into town and poached at the town outdoor theater. We pulled our bags out on the stage and made ourselves at home. During the evening we were visited a few times by local high-schoolers who used the stage as their smoke spot.

 

7/8 - Bigfork to Strawberry Lake - We sidestepped significantly to check out Strawberry Lake, recommended to us by a guy working at an outdoor store in Missoula. The last five miles was a straight up climb on a gravel road. We make camp and I hang out to write and read while Jason and Joe ride up some seriously steep single track. Their return is announced with whoops and hollers. “Oh man, you are gonna, oh HELL yeah that is so much fun!!!,” Jason exclaimed as he dropped his bike and threw his fists into the air. Worth mentioning that where we are camping is serious Grizzly country. The next day when the three of us explored even more singletrack, we doubled back on trails that we had just ridden only to find bear scat (poop) that was most certainly not there only 15 minutes before. The bears were more aware of where we were than we were of where they were. Boy that’s a lot of “w” words.

 

7/9 - Stay at Strawberry Lake - We climbed on some of the most exposed singletrack that I’ve ever seen. Not a good place to fall off the trail. Led by our intrepid scout Joe Moore, we climbed until we hit sizeable snowbanks, this is July mind you. We left the bikes and continued to climb, hoping to crest the snow and find the rest of the trail. No such luck, so we admitted defeat by snow in July and returned to our bikes and headed back. We prepared our food across a good sized stream, putting running water between our “kitchen” and our camp (Prepare food and eat in one place, store food in another and sleep in a third). While we cooked, we talked to a fisherman who we had met earlier way up near Strawberry Lake. He had a handgun and a can of bear repellant which I swear looked to be the size of small fire extinguisher. “You don’t have a gun or repellant?” he asked. Nope “You don’t have a car?” Nope. “You don’t have a gun?” Nope. “You don’t have a car??” Nope. Now at first I appreciated his concern but after a while his questions seemed directed at confirming two things; that we had no transportation other than our bikes and that we had no gun. Visions of Ted Bundy dance in my head. “You don’t have a gun?” Nope.

 

7/10 - Strawberry Lake to Swan Lake - Last night Jason had a dream that someone was watching us while we were sleeping. He thinks it was a bear checking us out. I’m still creeped out by the fisherman. We barely get going, heading down the gravel road when Joe gets a flat and a tear in his sidewall. He fixes it and we move on, stopping at the first gas station we hit. We snack, drink coffee and rest under the awning, escaping the early sun. Finally, reluctantly we leave. The lack of off days (even though we didn’t travel yesterday, we did ride) is catching up with us. We get off of pavement and back on logging roads which gives us the mountains to ourselves, no cars at all. As we near Swan Lake we get back on pavement and meander around, hoping to find a cheap place to eat and a free camp spot. Riding along, we pass an RV with a big open air tent set up next to it. An old guy in a cowboy hat hollers out, “How you doing?” His greeting is so emphatic that we all think he must have seen us on the road earlier, or maybe we’ve even met him. We wave and holler back and continue on our hunt for food and real estate. We stop at a convenient store where we pick up some snacks and some beer; something to tide us over til we find something real. We squat outside, eating and drinking and chatting with the owners and bystanders. Open container in Montana? No problem. We are encouraged to check out the big tent which is actually a sort of shade tree establishment.  So we cruise back where we meet the cowboy whose name is Merle. He’s a tall, lanky, former Oregonian, now residing in Montana. With a crushed hat, very similar to Merle Haggart’s, Merle’s name is cemented in my mind. Wearing old Wranglers he swings his legs when he walks, a bit stiff legged, probably the result of an outdoor life devoid of any desk job. Merle is flanked by his wife and her sister (whose names do not stick in my overwhelmed little mind) who are the resident chefs at the Black Swan Restaurant. We order our food, very sizable sandwiches and fries, and sit down to eat and talk about our trip. It’s always amazing how everyone out here, from retired RVing couples to grizzled backwoodsmen, are so welcoming. They appreciate what we’re doing and how we’re doing it. No support van, no iron clad itinerary. There is something “cowboy” about our trip and Montanans respond enthusiastically. Noting our current lack of camping facilities, Merle suggests that his wife call her other sister Jean, who lives only a hundred yards down the road. He thinks Jean might rent us a her yard and shower. A call is made and shortly a clacking Dodge diesel camper shows up. We are introduced to Jean and continue our conversation. Merle’s wife beams over us like a mother whose heart is warmed by watching her sons feast. I watch as she gazes at us like Aunt Bea and the question swells from her chest to her eyes and then she asks, “Would you boys like some pie?” She’s not selling us this, she’s giving us pie. We’re in.

Jean apparently approves of us too and after a brief negotiation with Joe, we are offered a spot in her yard and the use of her shower for $10. Not free but for what we end up getting, it is quite a bargain. After we finish eating and pay a very reasonable tab, we hop on our bikes and mosey on over to Jean’s. After a week without a shower, it is the best $3.33 I’ve spent in a long time. Stepping into the hot water, I moan and come close to tears. Glory abounds in my mind as the hot water cascades over my scalp, the acoustics in my head amplifying the “whoosh,” making the whole experience bigger. A week of road and gravel grime washes to my feet, salt and sweat gone. I step out having shed a skin, ready to sleep the sleep of the dead.

What is so great about a trip like this is the appreciation one gains for things like a shower. A shower when you’re dirty, food when you’re truly hungry, a campfire and a warm bag when you’re cold and tired. Our very instantly satisfying civilized world robs us of an appreciation for these things, an appreciation which feeds our soul. It is something that grants us perspective in our lives.

 

7/11 - Swan Lake to Ball Field near Condon - We awaken to Jean calling down to us from her porch, “Would you boys like some coffee?” Buried in my bag, I grin and giggle, oh my god this is heaven. I hear Jason laugh a little too. I lay in my tent for a while and just soak all of this in. I finally get up and head up to the kitchen to join Jean and Jason. We are then shortly joined by Jean’s husband Marty, who with his shock of white hair standing straight up looks a little stunned by the morning. Joe then arrives and we all talk of where we’re from and discuss the pros and cons of North Carolina and the south in general. Soon though we are all listening to Marty as he spins tails of his hunting days when he guided down over 250 grizzlies. I think all three of us cringed at this notion but realize that Marty was from another time. Our 1999 sensibilities simply do not apply. Marty brought out photos and showed us among many, an image, circa 1967, of a group of men (Marty was amongst them) standing on the roof of a cabin holding up the skin of a very large bear. On the ground, others held the bottom of the skin down on the ground, stretching it out as you might see it tacked to the side of a barn. Another man stood tall in the center of the image, holding a rifle high in the air by the bottom of the butt. A six foot man held a four foot rifle as high as he could, reaching for the sky. The end of the rifle barrel didn’t even reach the nose of the pelt. Some bear. The image to behold though was that of Marty with a gargantuan moose rack strapped to his pack. Silhouetted against the big mountain sky, the antlers spreading wide from his back, transforming Marty into the very image of the angel of death. And that he was. I don’t mean this in the pejorative sense, but as a simple truth. Marty strode wide and far in the day and brought death along. Stories unfolded, of friends killed by grizzlies, unlikely sharpshooters and Marty, crippled when he fell down a hillside, his shotgun going off, blowing off a good part of his left foot. We leave Marty and Jean’s with a greater understanding of a way of life which we’ve never known and an appreciation for someone who lived his life to the fullest, pushing his body as far as it would go, now looking back with photos and stories, passing it on. We head on our way knowing that more sights, sounds and stories await.

Along our the way to Condon we took a wrong turn onto a logging road deep into one of the many parts of Montana’s grizzly country. This just so happened to be right after our visit with Marty and Jean. Now all morning long we had been listening to Marty’s stories of when he was a hunting guide in Alaska, many of them including grizzly bear encounters. So you can imagine our nerves were a little on edge all the while, but especially when realizing that we were going the wrong way. Once we got back on the right track we hit the highway and headed to Condon. We stumbled upon a baseball field just outside town. Too tired to go any further, we rolled through the field toward a service path that led away from the main road to a spot a little more secluded. On the way in we passed the skeletal remains of a deer carcass. The road we had just left is known as slaughter alley, allegedly with more road kill per mile than anywhere else in the country. Now we hoped the deer was the victim of traffic and not the bears which we were told were plentiful in this area. As we made camp, Joe wandered around, scouting the path we had entered on and sauntered back. He looked at Jason and me and asked, “How would you fellas feel if I told you this was a grizzly bear relocation habitat? I found a warning sign back there that was knocked down.” I rolled my eyes and made quick peace with the gods of fate. “Man, I don’t care,” I said, “I’m tired. Let’s just be careful with the food.” Jason concurred and it was decided. We finished making camp, made dinner, hung the food and went to bed. During the night we were awakened by the breathy huffs and hoots of a buck. I peered out of my tent and caught sight of him and figured that his presence was a good thing. I doubted a deer would be hanging around if a bear was in the vicinity.

 

7/12 - Ball Field to Holland Lake - We quickly broke camp and headed to the ball field to make breakfast. We arrive at Holland Lake, a private campground resort. We try unsuccessfully to ride out to some falls at the end of the lake. We do find a nice rest spot on shore and go swimming. A perfect opportunity to do laundry and bathe in the lake. We poach a camp spot after eating and drinking in the lodge restaurant. We have to start being better with our money and resist the quick temptation to eat out. We have everything we need to make food, we just have to be a bit more disciplined. Mosquitoes are pretty bad.

 

7/13 - Holland Lake to Seeley Lake - This was by far the best day on the trail yet! Beautiful back country roads that flowed into a great Nordic ski path overgrown with all kinds of wild flowers with big snow capped mountains in the background! Early on we broke off of the gravel road and took single track down to Clearwater Lake for lunch and a swim. After the lunch break we made preparations for the big upcoming climb–3,000 ft of elevation gained in 5.5 miles! Big climb, huge climb. We wind up forest access roads which offer us some amazing vistas. On the left side of a mountain ridge, the double track curving to the right disintegrates to a very narrow single track. This is somewhere only cyclists and hikers can go. About the same time the trail narrowed, it started to descend. Joe absolutely flew away, his diefic bike handling skills having me shake my head again. Mental Note: With front and rear panniers, Joe pulls a manual (a wheelie where you don’t pedal) and holds it for fifty yards, flying along feathering his brakes.

Jason and I give chase, threading our bikes through huge boulders, flirting with the nothingness off to our left. We fly, pedaling madly, pushing ourselves faster than is prudent. This decent is the reward for every merciless turn of the cranks required to climb this mountain. Milking every mph we can out of this thing is an unspoken requirement. My eyes open as wide as they can and I marvel at the solidarity of every component on my bike. I put this thing together and with my life on the line, and no phone booth (911) in sight, I make like the U-boat commander in “Das Boot” and scream “Faster, faster!” There is no sense in it, if I crashed I’d be hurtin in a very unfunny way. But hell, the speed is blinding white and the terror clarifies. It is pure. There are no gates or clocks here, no paramedics stand at the ready. This is real. There is no sense in it and it is good. The singletrack eventually opens back to gravel road and speeds increase. A three wheel drift on a gravel road; 60 pounds of trailer in tow at 30+ mph. Sublime. We roll into Seely Lake and despite our previously mentioned intentions to eschew the convenience of restaurants, we roll right up to a Dairy Queen type place and stuff our faces. We then head to a sports bar, which is not our usual preference, where we are thrilled by the inexpensive Moose Drool.

The bartender kindly lends me a phone line to send and receive our email. We sit down to business and get decently intoxicated. We check out the Sumo championships on the television and quickly become fans. We start debating strategy, assign nicknames to the competitors and route for the underdogs. Darkness falls and we have no idea where we’ll camp. Finally we pee ourselves away from $6 pitchers and venture out in search of a crash pad. With Petzels on our heads we ride toward where we were told we might find a spot. We find a clearing just off of the road and race against the blood thirsty mosquitoes. They are the worst yet. Vicious bastards.

Here are the pics from part 1 of 3