7/14 - Seeley Lake to “Ovando Pass” - A very large day of riding and climbing. Joe and Jason out pace me on this climb. I eventually let them vanish from sight and follow my own pace. I break for water and ponder the expanse of nature spread before me. Will I ever come here again? Will I ever be able to afford a break in my life like this? This frame of mind needs to be preserved when I am hunting for a design job when I get back home. I need to remember how inexpensive this trip is relatively speaking. I’d gladly trade money for the ability to take time off and enjoy my time on Earth. I want to learn the ropes and then get out on my own. We make camp at what we dub Ovando Pass. Nothing and nobody around. I wish more of our nights were in areas like this. Everything is really dry so we take great care when building our fire, which is needed since it gets really cold after the sun sets. Although we often say that our respect is our best defense against the bear, if I were here alone, I think I might be comforted by a little S&W.

 

7/15 - “Ovando Pass” to Continental Divide #2 - This was the hardest day of the trip. The sun hid behind clouds and the chill cut to the bone. Early in the day we hit some singletrack climbs that seemed to go straight up the mountainsides. I moved so far forward on the bike that I seemed nearly to be camping on the handlebar. I have rarely if ever climbed anything this steep. That I’m able to do this with a full trailer is testament to how strong we are getting. We break on the first CD pass and eat lunch, resting and soaking up the occasional sun. The second half of the day, the climbing combined with the growing cold starts to seriously wear me down. We finally hit CD pass #2 finding an inviting pasture. I was so damn exhausted and cold and hungry I could barely crawl off of my bike. I took off my cycling clothes and put on everything else I had. We made a huge meal of beans and rice, summoned enough strength to make a fire and collapsed soon after.

7/16 - CD #2 to Helena - We got lost almost immediately, passing through a strangely abandoned town. We found one house that was surreally well kept, fresh paint on the house and smooth green grass on the lawn. Perhaps the scene of a witness relocation participant. The resident gentleman points us in the right direction and after a frigid, extended descent on a straight gravel road, we find our way to a highway that led us to Helena. The entry to the touristy town was less than beautiful, with sprawl and strip malls galore. But once we move through this nastiness, we entered the older part of the town where it improved greatly. A trip to the local outdoor store provided us with directions to a beautiful camping spot on private land. The gate leading to it is closed and locked but the sign says, “Closed to vehicular traffic due to public abuse and misuse. Hikers and bikers welcome.” Gotta love Montana. Time for some R&R. In the evening Joe and Jason head to town to bar hop while I stay back to write and save cash. They met two Great Divide northbounders out at a bar named Miller’s Crossing and bring them back to our campsite to share info and suggestions.

 

7/17 - In Helena - We do laundry and eat at Jailhouse Laundry and Sandwich Shop. We get back in time to make preparations to get rained on. Afterward and Joe and Jason go riding while I stay back again to write and read. Those guys simply have more energy than I do. I realize that what I need is down time to absorb all that I’ve seen; to sit still and meditate. I love to read. My body is exhausted and my mind craves the written word. I finally decide to head into town to a cafe that Jason and I hit the day before. Joe and Jason are already there so we eat and converse with the crazy bartender. She is a nut, with a stream of consciousness conversation that we simply can’t follow. We hear for the first time that something happened to “one of the Kennedys.” Exactly what will have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight we walked into town to see Star Wars Episode 1. Oh George Lucas what were you thinking? Jar-Jar? I kept wishing Samuel L. Jackson would pull out a .45 and blow his fool head off. “And give me my lightsaber. . . the one that says ‘bad motherfucker’ on it.” And Metachlorians? You can take a blood test to see if you are a Jedi? Whatever!

 

7/18 - In Helena - Eat at No Sweat Cafe. Remember that Arby’s commercial where the guy is running down the abandoned streets of some town calling out “Where is everybody? Where did everybody go?” Well that is Helena on Sunday. Don’t plan a layover on Sunday. It is DEAD!

 

7/19 - Helena to Basin - We got off to a late start because we had such a great lunch. We hammered too hard and then weren’t communicating well, and then ran into a huge ass climb. Tempers got a bit short and after we rolled into Basin after dark, missing a lot of incredible scenery (on an unlit ripping fast fireroad), we had a talk about communicating and trying to be a bit more sensitive to the group as a whole. Without a doubt the three of us have very different personalities, but we all think that we are handling the stresses pretty well. We just have to learn to respect the differences and think about the group.

 

7/20 - Basin to Boulder - We are now off of the route. Joe and Jason met a woman in Helena who told us to check out the hot springs just outside of Boulder. It wasn’t really what we expected but it was still cool. We were thinking of a more natural relaxed setting, but it is in this old retreat/resort. The mood is pretty much set by these retreat groups dealing with pretty intense emotional issues. So there is this fairly somber feel about the place, at least to me. The whole place kind of gave me the creeps. But for $5 we got to take a shower and relax in the hot springs and sauna. We went up into the land behind the resort and poached a spot on a hill. We are now traveling and creating our route day to day. We want to see some of Yellowstone but we have heard horror stories of all the RVs; cyclists getting killed by the mirrors hanging off of those behemoths.

 

7/21 - Boulder to Three Forks - In the morning we went back into Boulder, bought some groceries and made a very substantial breakfast. All in all we got off to a fairly early start. Then we made really good time until we hit what we now call “the desert.” The desert was hot, hot and no shade for miles. Despite the liberal use of sunscreen we got cooked. After “the desert” section we jumped on the interstate to get to Three Forks as fast aspossible. Searing crosswinds were insane and I nearly got blown out into traffic at the moment I hit my BOB trailer downhill max speed of 35 mph. I’ve done 54 mph on a road bike and this 35 with crosswinds was much scarier. After much searching and deliberate communication, we found a nice city park by a pond where we camped. No mosquitoes.

 

7/22 - Three Forks to Bozeman - Woke up and made a leisurely breakfast an packed up. Some local horses wandered up to us and sniffed around our stuff. Joe used to work as a groom when he was younger so he showed us the finer points of dealing with the equines. At times they got a bit bold, getting into our stuff and stepping dangerously close to our bikes, lying there on the ground. I can only imagine the damage done to a wheel by an errant step from one of these very large animals.

Except for our first day (1/2 day) from Kalispell to Whitefish, I think today was our first all pavement ride. For the first 2/3 it was a wonderful road ride, running through some beautiful farm plains and small towns. After the Gallitan airport though the traffic got nuts and we had to deal with trucks with double trailers and RVs whizzing past us with only inches to spare. If this is what Yellowstone will be like, I want nothing to do with it.

Came into Bozeman and went to a local bike shop/Ace hardware store where we met the most awesome and hospitable Chuck. Now often bike shop/hardware stores can be a bit sketchy, with an old guy in back mangling a headset with a pipe wrench and vise grips. This shop worked fairly well though, with the two senior owners hiring capable wrenches to do the right thing. One hint to those red vests who own the place; you might want to reduce the price on the vintage ‘95 XTR combo lever/shifters sitting in the case. Four year old components at full retail aren’t likely to move very fast. We quickly got the skinny on the town while I worked on my pedal which had developed a very annoying pop, turn the crank pop, turn the crank pop. Borrowing a stand and some tools, I overhauled the pedal and did some minor truing to my wheels. Jason also worked on his bike, but the increasing attention paid by the red vests hurried us off. Not wanting to get Chuck in any hot water with his bosses, I insisted on paying for my stand time.Before we left though Chuck offered us the use of his backyard, kitchen and laundry. We went to Chuck’s to drop off our stuff and then headed out to explore Bozeman. One very strange and scary note; the backstreets in Bozeman are ripe with four way intersections with no stop signs, nothing! Seriously! I can’t imagine that people aren’t killed here on a regular basis.

At one of the user-friendly stop-sign intersections we were greeted by an attractive and assertive woman cyclist who came up behind us, “Well isn’t this great! I get to stop at a stop sign with three handsome guys.” Meet Nancy, local jewelry designer.

Mentioning our current indecision about where to go next on our trek, she invited us to her house to look at some maps. At her very cool home we kicked back, listened to the soundtrack from Saturday Night Fever (on vinyl!) and talked about the ins and outs of Yellowstone at this time of year. We said goodbye and then departed for the Cat’s Paw (which is next door to where our bus broke down on the way to Kalispell). There we enjoyed 25 cent very nice pints (Sierra Nevadas, Guiness, Bass and the like), and got thoroughly tanked. On the way back to Chuck’s I got separated from Jason and Joe and raced through the back streets, intercepting them only yards from Chuck’s house. Flying up from behind I snatched Joe’s cap from his head and promptly hit pavement, hard. Barely skipping a beat I jumped back up, apologizing to Joe, thinking that I had knocked him over as well; I hadn’t. We headed to Chuck’s backyard where he quickly appeared and took me inside, showing me where I could shower and clean off the considerable amount of blood coming from my left leg and arm. Fun had while drinking and riding.

 

7/23 - In Bozeman - Joe and Jason go for a ride with Chuck and his girlfriend Janice. I feel sick from the sun exposure we had the last few days and my leg and arm are killing me so I don’t go. Instead I cruise around town as slow as I can and even then my heart pounds in my chest. I go to the Salvation Army thrift store and buy a light-weight, baby blue long sleeve shirt. I even look for a cowboy hat too but no luck.  I am of the school of thought that when the sun is raging, you cover yourself up, not strip down. I look to the cultures of the middle east and defer to their experience. One rather surreal detail about Chuck and Janice’s backyard is the presence of one duck and one goose. The duck is totally chill or at least we initially think so. Later it occurs to us that perhaps the duck is indeed the mastermind of our torment by the thug which is the goose. The goose, with no known name, hounds our every move with unceasing honking, challenging us and our right to exist. Every waking moment in the backyard is accompanied by his note of disapproval. We are told that the goose more than likely will not live beyond Thanksgiving. A recent former vegetarian, pity escapes me.\

 

7/24 - Still in Bozeman - We awake early and escape the orbit of the goose. We find a coffee shop with unlimited refills and caffienate ourselves beyond prudent levels. Suitably jacked, we head to Nancy’s jewelry studio to see her way-cool bug pins. Nancy is not there though and we meet one of her employees, Jen, who is putting in some hours on this beautiful Saturday. Feeling quite shaggy, and growing self-conscious of the growing visibility of grey hairs on my head, I cut my visit short and head out in search of a plain old, old school barber. I find Dick’s Barber Shop, where Dick invites me to bring my bike inside to avoid possible theft. Again the hospitality of Montanans amazes. An hour later, suitably shorn, I return to the studio to find Joe and Jason wrapping up their conversation with Jen and the recently arrived Nancy. Nancy’s got the gig down. She’s able to live in Bozeman yet sell her stuff as far away as New York. As a recently graduated industrial designer with hopes of eventually doing my own thing, I am inspired. Having grown weary of the goose, we head over to Chuck and Janice’s, gather our belongings and head for quieter pastures. Score one for the goose. We ride only a block away to the backyard of an abandoned church, make a late lunch and nap, sketch, write or whatever. A silence falls over our trio and Jason, then Joe head off separately into town to clear their heads. I stay back and write in my personal journal, update entries in this trip diary, get something to eat and do some reading. Later Joe returns, calling out, “T! . . . T-dog! . . . T-nugget!” These are all the nicknames that Joe and Jason have coined for me during this trip. He has arrived to take me back to a bar where Jason and Joe have been hanging out since running into each other on the street. At the bar they toast me, thanking me for organizing this once in lifetime trip. I thank them too, never to know if I would have gone through with this trip if they hadn’t joined me.

 

7/25 - Bozeman to Old Chico - Breaking free of Bozeman proves difficult but not impossible this morning. We’ve enjoyed our stay and the people here, but it is time to move on. We get jacked on good coffee at a local bakery/coffee joint. We then head to The Cat’s Paw. This time it isn’t for cheap brews, but cheap food. A short jaunt on the freeway as we pass several Highway Patrolmen and being the good Montanans they are, they smile and wave to us. We jumped off of the highway and onto a fireroad and with a major tailwind, climbed up a hell of a grade at about 12 mph. We first encounter a convenient store and laundro-mat where a gathering of strangers welcomes us. We sit on the porch of the laundro-mat and listen to blue-grass playing from one of the guys pick-ups. I forget how much I like and miss this music. The pendulum has swung us far away from the south, not just physically but emotionally. This music instantly reminds me of what I love so much about it. Freshly laundered, stocked up on groceries and calls made home, we leave this little oasis and head out per the directions of one of the folks we met. We are told of a great spot along the river past Old Chico. So we saddle up and head out for the brief ride. We pull into the resort of Old Chico where there is a heavily yuppie populated hotel. As fate would have it, there is a lecture, outside, delivered by the author of a book on grizzlies. With our lives depending on this information, we drink it up. Scary yet respectful stories abound; death, horrible injury and being stalked. Our healthy respect rejuvenated, we head out again, leaving the safety of the populated hotel area toward our camp spot nestled in the woods, very aware that after a break in Bozeman we have returned to bear country. A bright moon illuminates our camp with silver, the surrounding hills cocoon us.  Running water lulls us to sleep in a picturesque valley in Montana, far from home.

 

7/26 - Old Chico to Gardiner - Gravel road to pavement to Yellowstone Park access road. Cruised into the Four Winds food store, a whole foods/new age kind of place. Great soups and okay coffee (a bit weak). We arrived there starving and proceeded to feast ourselves. Afterward we hung out outside, waiting for the worst of the sun to pass. In the shade we met a very nice, very genuine cowboy drifter named Chris. Chris was passing through the area looking for work and had met locals Elizabeth and her husband. They gave Chris a place to stay for a while and no doubt offered him some direction on his search for work. Elizabeth soon arrived and joined us in our impromptu in-the-shade gathering. She is from Switzerland and came to Montana ten years ago as a college student and is now involved in a very inclusive church/spiritual community in the area. Also involved in the church is Hans from Sweden. Kinder people you would be hard pressed to meet. Having lived in the south, where religion is so often used as a tool of hate and divisiveness, all three of us were taken aback by the genuine concern that these people show. Hans first takes us to where he lives so we can stock up on cold water, then guides us to an old railroad grade that should lead us to Yellowstone.

An historical note. Over a hundred years ago Sitting Bull lived in this area and with the influx of whites settlers and the railroad, was obviously concerned for his people. One day he and a small group of his followers arrived and sat down within sight of the rail line, then just being installed. The US soldiers guarding the railroad workers responded to this rather non-violent protest by shooting at the men. Sitting Bull and the others were not moved though, completing their mission, sitting and smoking a peace pipe as bullets whizzed past them. Not one bullet found its mark though and with their mission accomplished, Sitting Bull and his group peacefully gathered up their belongings and left. We rode on the very rail road bed involved in this story, now devoid of tracks, and talked of all that had come before us. I looked off to the left gazing over the plain where Sitting Bull had preceded Ghandi and King in thoughtful protest and I thought of the ghosts, white and red whose brief lives had clashed here.

We entered Gardiner, the town just north of Yellowstone, just before sunset and hit the 2-Bit Cafe for a few beers and coffee. A change that I notice in myself is that I look people deeper in the eyes. I see less clothing and social standing and connect more quickly with the person. “How are you doing?”  means more to me now. It’s an invitation to genuine conversation. It’s hard to be in a hurry when you are riding like we are. And when you aren’t in a hurry you realize that the encountering of others and the exchanges that follow are the real point of it all. Life is profound because of all of those we meet and with whom we share an unhurried handshake.

After midnight we found an ideal spot to camp for the night, a small city park/picnic area with a welcoming expanse of green grass, a rarity out here in the west. We bed down and fall asleep at the doorstep of the grand Yellowstone Park, excited about what we will see and somewhat concerned about our safety among all of the traffic and RVs. We were told in Bozeman that just last year a cyclist was killed when a passing RV struck him in the back of the head with its rear view mirror.

 

7/27 - Gardiner to Tower Junction, Yellowstone - And we awoke at 5:30 a.m. screaming in hysterical panic as automatic sprinklers popped up and sprayed forth, sending us leaping naked in a sleeping bag/potato bag race, seeking cover from the rain. Joe got it the worst, with one of the sprinklers popping up right under his head. Thoroughly awake a little earlier than planned, we decided to take advantage of the early start and get a move on. We ate a big breakfast at the 2-Bit Cafe and entered the park.

An observation - It cost the three of us $10 each to enter the park. With our bikes and equipment we probably weigh in at no more than 240 lbs. each. That’s $30 dollars for maybe 720 lbs. of no-noise, non-polluting transportation. A huge RV gets in the park for $20, no matter how many people are in it. How much do those things weigh? 10 tons? It doesn’t seem right, especially given all of the road damage that we observed.

My suggestion - Charge by the pound. Maybe a penny a pound. Install something like a truck scale at the entrace.  It might encourage those bus sized vessels to park outside the park and drive in those SUVs that so many of them are towing. The beginning of our journey into the park is fortuitous, with us being directed to a gravel service road, away from the bulk of the traffic. We wander in and up, only occasionally encountering outgoing employee traffic.

A movie reference that is helpful here; I saw the surfing movie “Endless Summer 2″ a few years ago when I rode up to Yellowsprings from Cincinnati with Jason and Brad Miller. It is an update of the late 50’s surfing movie “Endless Summer.” The premise of the sequel is apparently similar to the first and fairly simple; join two surfers on their journey around the world as they search for a year round summer of surfing spots. Only once does the movie really refer back the first movie. Back in California near the end of their journey, there is a flashback to the group of young surfers as they crest a hill to overlook dunes and a glorious vision of surf. Accompanied by a similarly uplifting musical score, the modern day counterparts crest the same hill to overlook a glorious vision of . . . suburban sprawl.

Riding along the gravel, seeing all manner of birds and deer, we imagine ourselves traveling back in time to where nature is queen. We leave Gardiner behind and enter the unknown. Pedaling along we, like the surfers, crest a large hill and begin to see parts of the Mammoth Hot Springs, a monument to the constantly changing Zen of nature. The Hot Springs are essentially hot water springs with a high sulfur content. As the water flows, it builds a landscape of sulfur. The wooden walkways which allow visitors to walk around the area without trampling the springs, must be rebuilt every few years to accomodate the everchanging scene.

But as we roll over the pass, a scene unfolds before us that stops us in our tracks, a huge hotel, cabins, restaurants, souvenir shops and asphalt. Quite literally a giant sore, festering and growing. We just shake our heads and roll on in. Despite the development that roars around us, the Hot Springs still awe. And then we meet Tomonari Seki.

Tomonari is a student from Japan who with very limited english, is biting off a bigger bite of cycling the US than I’m ready to take. Having started on the west coast, he is heading east, seeing the US for the first time; seeing more of it than many of us natives will ever see. The bikes of course provide us with an instant bond and saying very little, we take in the springs together. We walk around seeking various vantage points and share the wheres and hows of what we’ve seen and where we’re going. I mention to Tomonari how we very recently became fans of Sumo wrestling. Revealing my beginner’s understanding of the sport, Tomonari is thrilled. We head back to his bike and he pulls out a book/program covering the very championship we had watched in the bar back at Seeley Lake. Some synchronicity shared at the sulfur springs. Soon though we have to depart, we are heading west and Tomonari is heading south through the park. We bid each other farewell, hoping but not planning to meet again. Leaving the Hot Springs, we rip it down a nice downhill section and then climb. We stop at spots at the side of the road where the hillside drops away to nothing, giving us a view over the valley with roaring water hundreds of feet below. A preview of things to come.

Continuing to climb we finally arrive at Tower Junction where at the visitor shop we meet the very cool Stacey, a med-school student from Chicago. Travelling east to west by herself, she is braver than any of us and simply exudes an incredible sense of peace. I think of her father and simply cannot imagine being able to sleep with a daughter cycling across the US on her own. We climb the brief and very steep road up to our camp spot next to an Australian couple who are biking west to L.A. In a rare pro-hiker/biker move, Yellowstone sets aside a couple of “hiker/biker only” spots at each campground. The logic being that it is a lot harder for hikers and bikers to simply move on to the next campground. Bravo.

 

7/28 - Tower Junction to Inspiration Point - How should I say this? We woke up early and escaped paying for our spot. Call it frustration at the Yellowstone admission fee. I like to think of it as a little civil disobedience. We hit the road just after the Australians and immediately started climbing. Early morning in Yellowstone. Very little traffic; the smell and dusty lighting of dawn. We pass the Australians, which reminds me that I’m probably going too fast to enjoy where I am. So I drop back and enjoy the view. Near the pass we take an even steeper road off to the left, taking us up, up, up to the trail head to Mt. Washburn. The name is ironic to all three of us, reminding us of our psychotic old landlord in N.C. who liked to violate his end of the lease at will while harassing us for the most minor and honest mistakes. We break for a hearty lunch, change out of our cycling clothes and hike up for an hour and a half. And it is worth the effort, as a panoramic view of Yellowstone unfolds before us. The roads below ribbon through the hills, still marked with the standing black skeletons left over from the forest fires which decimated the park eleven years ago. The flies chase us away and back down the trail where we saddle up and ride on. Immediately Joe leaves us in the dust. Jason and I ride along and in a little while pass a “bear jam” caused by visitors pulling off the road in order to a view a bear hardly visible at least 500 yards away on a hillside.

Eventually we regroup and crest the big-daddy pass and haul absolute ass, tailgating the cars and RVs. On road downhills the BOB is an absolute rocket. The acceleration of the bike/trailer combo far exceeds my own, which is limited by the hole my body punches in the air. The result is that when I get off the brakes, the bike wants to shoot right out of under me, feeling like I’ve nailed the throttle. Traffic is the only thing limiting our speed.

We roll in, meeting up with the Australians, cop a spot outside the grocery store and eat, eat, and drink. We’re dirty, we smell and as often as people are interested in us and what we do, people give us a wide birth shielding their young women and children from us. The lyrics from “Aqua-Lung” have become our mantra, “Sitting on a park bench . . . “

I picked up some slang from the Aussie. Enjoying the “fruits” of my high fiber diet, I put on a display of healthy methane production. This is called “opening your lunchbox.” We find a spot back in the woods, overlooking the “Grand Canyon of Yellowstone” and prepare a resting spot. We don’t “camp,” since that would be illegal. We simply rest, and if we should get tired and fall asleep, then oh well. A storm rolls in and it rains briefly, we erect a small shelter with our trusty tarp and wait it out. The winds whip around in the canyon and up the walls, creating a constant updraft near the edge. Large ravens pair off, exploiting this free ride by engaging in aerial games of tag. Barrel-rolls, loops and freefalls showcase the incredible skill of our airborne brothers and awe us with the beauty and sheer joy found in nature. With the enormous field of vision that we enjoy at the edge of this canyon, this is the original Omni-Max Theatre. For hours the birds entertain us until finally the winds die down and they return to their niches and perches. And as the winds abate, our nemesis the mosquito returns to haunt our peace and draw blood. Patience wears thin and we amend our declaration of love for all creatures great and small.

 

7/29 - Inspiration Point to Grant Village - Our aversion to erecting our tents, since as I stated, we weren’t really camping, meant that we knew no peace last night. It was too warm for me to completely cocoon in my bag and all exposed flesh was tested by the blood-suckers. While I understand that DDT was a bad thing, representative of our postwar hubris, I understand the motivation to eliminate the bastards. Imagine digging the Panama Canal where more died from Yellow Fever than from construction accidents. Such a pesticide must have seemed heaven sent.

We break camp and go on a tour of the area, taking in the magnificance of the canyon. We hike down a trail to a area overlooking the edge of one of the falls. Watching the water thunder by and freefall into a cloud of mist is fearful and wonderful. I’ve seen Niagra, but this was different, better. Not simply because of Niagra’s commercialization, but because of the intimacy. In a paradox, by being smaller, it seemed bigger. For a few hours we shadowed the canyon on some small paved trails. Jason in a moment of excitement tried to bunny hop off the edge of a walkway. The problem though was that with the trailer, the physics of such a move are radically transformed. Thrown seriously off balance, Jason careens into a parked car. He is able to control the impact though and somehow does nothing to the car but snaps his right brake lever off. Miles from anything resembling a bike shop, Jason looks at me, holding up the broken lever and states simply, “I fucked up.”

We roll up to the visitor shop and prepare ourselves for departure, eating and amusing ourselves as Joe and Jason rig a fix with a hose clamp and cotter pin. It’ll have to do. We set our sights on the unknown Grant Village and hit the road.

We stop along the way and visit boiling mud pits, sulfer-spewing caves and bison herds. I stand looking at a huge bison, standing no more than fifteen feet from me, with only a bear-proof trash can (set in concrete) between us. With impunity the animals around here wander among people in a very unatural way. In an efffort to provide the animals with a pristine environment, free of human threats, the animals have learned that there is truly nothing to fear from us. Their boldness is surreal. The bison finally walks away and ventures into the parking lot, entering a line of cars moving through.

We finally leave the bustling parking lot and venture off. Very shortly though we encounter a stand-off in the middle of the road. A bison bull and cow were crossing the road when apparently a Honda Goldwing (one of those touring motorcycle that is practically a car) pulled a little too close, threatening the bull enough that he stood his ground and bellowed a steamy protest. The Honda, a bit ungainly for the rider, couldn’t easily back up, the bull wouldn’t, and a Mexican stand-off ensued. Without missing a beat, Joe rode off the road to the right, up an embankment and simply headed around the whole mess. Jason and I quickly followed, reveling in the high mobility of our machines. As I passed the stand-off participants, the bison bull watched our progress, making eye contact with me as I cruised by. Twenty yards later we jumped back on the road and pedaled on. For some reason the opposing traffic was much denser than where we were coming from. We were immediately behind the motorcycle, with only a couple of cars behind us. In the opposite lane as we rode away from the blockade, traffic was backed up for at least a mile. As we rode along, we noticed that of course there was no one behind us and enjoyed our own private lane. We took up the whole lane and laughed and giggled as if we had just gotten away from with an great joke. One driver caught in the line of idle cars and SUVs hollered out to us, “What’s the hold-up?” Before I could respond with a dim witted honest answer, Jason hollered back, “There’s a bison back there and he’s ramming cars!!” All eyes on us opened wide at the thought that an attraction at this amusement park might be out of control. We whopped and hollered and smuggly patted ourselves on the back. Pride goes before the fall.

And the rain began to fall. It was wonderful though, giving our legs a break from the typical heat. We cruised, feeling like a formerly air cooled antiquity, introduced to water cooled efficiency. It rained and stopped and started and stopped and all the while we chugged along.

The road disintegrated into a construction zone and the pavement gave way to gravel then mud. It was hard packed from all of the traffic, but the surface was slick and even with fenders, it splattered up on us, turning us into characters from the Tours Paris-Rubaiux stage. White eyes peered from muddied faces and I was so happy. This moment, as much as the picture postcard moments was why I did this and I revel in the here and now. Eventually the road returns and I giggle at the eyes in passing cars, glued on these three motley travellers.

It got greyer and greyer as the clouds descended and brought with them the hammer of the gods. CRACKLE! WHAM!!! KABOOM! Lightning unloaded right on top of us, striking something very close. “Whooooo!” we hollered. “Yeah!!!” And the rain came down in torrents, buckets. Not rain but torrents and then . . . Hail! “Oooowwww!” I screamed as the pea sized pellets hammered us, nailing my hands and face. And it suddenly occured to me that I hadn’t put the rain fly over my duffle bag on my trailer. Now my duffle bag is fairly water tight, but it has a zipper, and in a deluge like this, I was thought of water pouring into the bag and nailing my camera which I hadn’t put back into its water proff bag. Of all the times to not have it in there. We were onlly about 2 miles from Grant Village, but I envisioned my camera poised conveniently under a stream of water, pouring through the zipper. As we passed a rest stop, I hollered to Joe and Jason that I was peeling off to check on my bag. “Come on!” they screamed, “Only two more miles!” “No!” I hollered back, “I’m checking on the bag! I’ll be right behind you!” So I turned off and tried to find shelter, but every nook and eave was taken by travellers who had pulled off the road in their cars and gotten out to seek shelter. Got that. They are in cars and they got out to hide under the eaves of announcement boards. I found an especially dense tree to get under, put on the rain fly and off I went. At least moving on the bike I was warm. A mile later the asphalt turned bone dry as I rode out of the storm. I rolled into the Grant Village visitors shop to find Jason and Joe standing there. We smiled big smiles, and bystanders, not seeing any rain, could not for the life of them figure out why we were wet.

I removed dry clothes from my bag and walked with squishy sock through the store/restaurant into the bathroom. An manager came in and got an eye full of naked, muddy, soaking wet guys, stripping down, drying off with paper towels, smiling like idiots. Friendly questions abounded and without mentioning the havoc we were reeking in his restroom, he wished us good luck and left us alone. We bought food and drink and more drink and food and sat outside under the entryway roof. Rain finally came, but by that time, we were dry and cozy in our fleece, looking like we had just escaped getting wet. No red badge of courage to display to the passerbys.

This was indeed a joyous occasion. We sat and moaned in ecstasy as we ate our sandwiches and drank our beer. Occasionally we just laughed and laughed. No where to stay, no plan, not time to worry yet. It’d come to us, it always did.

“Jason?” As voice asked. We turned toward it, and a man in his late thirties stood there. “Oh,” he apologized, “you’re not Jason.” “But my name is Jason,” Jason said. “Are you from Kentucky?” the guy asked.

“No, I’m from Indiana,” Jason offered.

“But I’m from Kentucky,” Joe said.

“And I’m from Ohio,” I said, filling out the tri-state representation.

And like that we met  Bill.

After introductions went around, Bill asked the regular questions and was quite impressed by our exploits. “So where are you staying tonight?” he asked.

“No where, yet,” we all responded.

The conversation continued and then Bill asked again, “So where are you guys staying?”

“No where, really.”

“Well, if you guys want, you can be my guest in the employee compound and stay in my cabin and do laundry and take a shower.”

Looking at a pile of soaking wet clothes, the invitation for laundry was the most inviting. We quickly looked at each other, as if there was a decision to be made, and Jason spoke for all of us, “Well, hell yeah!”

“Thanks!” we all added.

Bill stepped into the shop for a moment to make a few phone calls and purchases, then returned to guide us along a wooden walkway to the employee compound. Walking our bikes with all manner of soaking clothing hanging from barends and draped across the trailer. And then I soon felt the eyes upon us.

Apparently Bill’s well placed phone calls had set some sort of communication tree in motion. “I let the girls know that I was bringing ya’ll in here, so ya’ll better be on your best behavior!” and indeed as if on cue, two young females emerged from around a corner and waved, smiled and then paused before they entered a medium sized building. Given our current state of dishevelement though, their staring at us could not necessarilly be taken as a positive sign.

 

Home to a number of contracted hospitality companies, the compound was a sprawling collection of less than stellar cabins and a rather large building which contained the main office and, ta da!! laundry facilities. We filled out papers and signed our names, informed that our behavior could influence the present and future employment of our friend Bill. Sufficiently admonished, we followed Bill back to his place.

 

Bill, a slight guy, maybe 5′6″, was working for one of the aforementioned companies which cared for the hotels. Bill was, how should I say, very animated and very in touch with his feminine side and funny as shit. Almost from the start, Bill was sharing stories of growing up in a small Kentucky town. Now I had thought my 12 years of Catholic education was scarring, I can’t even imagine having grown up gay in back woods Kentucky.

 

We settled into Bill’s cabin, and the parade of visitors began. Word had travelled fast of the visitors from the outside. A string of Bill’s friends and co-workers, all of whom smoked very heavily, filtered in to meet us. Amid all of this, we paused to thank Bill for his hospitality, he waved us off, “Oh my God, you guys are cool, no problem. I do have one requirement though.” And we were all ears. “Ya’ll are going to have to take a shower cause ya’ll stink!” And we couldn’t argue. We gladly obliged Bill’s request, cleaning the road, rain and construction residue from ourselves.

Finally we headed to the eponymous employee tavern, a legendary establishment we had first caught wind of back at Mammoth Hot Springs. I kept thinking of Jennifer Grey stumbling upon the hidden glories of Patrick Swayze in “Dirty Dancing.” No such luck though for this evening at the tavern, our one shot at debauchery, was unusually vacant. Bill apologized for the anemic showing. “This is dead tonight, most of the time it’s hopping.” No worries we told him, and we tipped back our cans of PBR and drank to Bill and us and this and Bill and the ladies we didn’t meet and as was becoming our habit at certain rest stops, we got drunk. What can I say, we’re old enough to know better but too young to care.

Flopping onto the floor at Bill’s cabin, I had the misfortune of being the last to drop off and was seranaded by Bill’s absolutely atomic snoring. Bill, I thank you for the hospitality but I couldn’t fall asleep until perhaps four in the morning.

 

7/30 - Grant Village to Grassy Lake - We awoke and Bill’s hospitality continued, quiding us to the employee dining facilities where for a nominal guest fee, we stuffed ourselves and stocked up on sandwiches, granola, fruit and other goodies. Bill you are the man.

Fueled up on food and caffiene, we bid Bill and company farewell and hit the road. We climbed briefly and easily and then descended as if out of the sky, out of the park and on our way to the Tetons.

Before we left, we were instructed on where we might find a hidden hot springs, known only to locals or those with local connections. Intrigued, we turned down a gravel road and hunted and hunted, riding ten miles out of our way. Clouds moved in and I thought we were going to get nailed. Finally we gave up, finding no sign of the hot springs, and rolled down a short gravel off-shoot toward a campsite on Grassy Lake.

Be afraid. Be very afraid. No sooner had we climbed off our bikes than the mosquitos attacked unlike anything we had seen on the entire trip. Any exposed skin was instantly covered with at least a dozen of the bastards. Legs, arms, smack them off of one part and they landed on another. Up until now, verything else was simply practice for this assault. This was where mosquitos went to train.

We donned our mosquitoe head gear and threw the tents up as fast as possible and literally dove inside. We laid, moaning at our sudden turn of misfortune and hoped at least to nap through the impending rain. Nothing was going to be that easy though as the clouds parted and what had promised to be our shelter from the rain and blood-suckers became our oven. Now, with the rain flies on our tents, we were roasting. Unwilling to endure the relentless, unreal attack by the mosquitoes, I chose to sweat it out. I was not moving.

Hot and exhausted, I wished we hadn’t searched for the hot springs and ended up here in mosquitoe hell. I chased that negative thought away though, knowing that as in everything, nothing ventured, nothing gained. The misfortune was the balance of the pleasure. Finally the sun started to set with glorious colors and we ventured out, covered head to toe in whatever would protect us. As it cooled, the mosquitoes left and we were finally emerge from our ad hoc bug suits. Dinner followed, then rest, relaxation and then finally sleep.

 

7/31 - Grassy Lake to Jenny Lake in the Tetons - Waking earky to escape the impending mosquitoe assault, we packed up and got the hell out of there. We emerged from the ten miles of gravel road, rejected the overpriced coffe at a nearby hotel and ventured on.

Finally the Tetons appeared in the distance, shooting straight into the sky. Nothing prepared me for the sheer scale and severity of the peaks. Pictures, as is so often said, cannot do the scene justice. Pedaling easily we stop at a grand resort hotel. Inside the mountains are framed by huge, forty-foot windows in the main lobby. A wedding is going on and I spy a beautiful guest and I wish that I could clean up and socialize.

Joe and Jason share their disdain for the setting, the buying and selling of such granduer. I can’t really get into the displeasure. In the grand scheme of things, the hotel is nothing compared to all that is still open and free. I’m enjoying the pure pleasure of this journey and if someone else wants to come here and enjoy this sight with a brandy in his hand, then retire to a warm, soft bed, then have at it man. To each his own, I know nothing of those who surround me.

We stop at a gas station and buy food and beverage and start talking of fear. What is it we fear? What is fear? What does it do to us? An older gentleman pulls up on an old beat up ten-speed. He sits down with us and enjoys a ice cream stick. So we ask him what he fears. Not much really he says. Losing his wife, his freedom. And he quietly shares some advice with three young men. Summing it up, take chances when you’re young, while you can. Life is good. Do what you want to do.

While we are talking, Tomonai rides by, forty/fifty feet away, he can’t see us very well and when we holler out to him he just waves, thinking us to be simple well-wishers. Our friend the older gentleman, bids us farewell and takes off on his bike. Five minutes later, he returns with Tomonari. We are glad to see our friend and thank the man for chasing him down, and off he goes. A player in this wonderful trip of chance. We talk of our respective trips through Yellowstone, breaking out the maps and telling stories.

Tomonari joins us and we ride off together. Tomonari is way overloaded compared to us, so he was working to keep up with us at first. Realizing this though, we chill and enjoy the new pace. We take the Jenny lake loop which brings us right to Jenny Lake. Where we stop there is a split rail fence looking over a fifty-foot rock strewn slope. We pause taking in this extraordinary view. Then over the fence. First Jason, then Joe, then Tomonari and I. We scamper down to the shore where we take off our clothes and jump into the crystal clear, perfectly cold water. Swimming out, we look down and easily see the bottom twenty-feet below. Joe, Jason and I whoop and holler and Tomonari ohhs an ahhs in reverence. With the magnificent backdrop of the Tetons, we swim around like fish for a half an hour, then basked naked in the sun on the warm rocks. Visa/Master Card not necessary.

 

8/1 - Jenny Lake to Jackson, Wyoming - Last night we could hear the coyotes howling like crazy. Jason said he heard them come as close as 50 yards to our camp. We wake up and go hiking up in the Tetons. Jason and Tomonari go all the way, Joe and I, both plagued by Achilles tendons that dislike hiking uphill, turn back and cruise into Jackson.

Our first impression of Jackson, (Jackson is the city, Jackson Hole is the ski area) is less than favorable. Tourists swarm and shop, shop, shop. Kids cry, mom’s holler and dad’s look like they’d rather be fishing. Joe and I look at each other in horror. These people have probably saved for a year for this trip and they certainly don’t appear to having fun. “Man,” Joe says, “I have never wanted to get out of anywhere so fast in my entire life.

We go into the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar and order a Bud and a PBR and that’ll be $5. For a Bud and a PBR? We drink our beer and get out. Joe wants to go exploring and someone needs to wait here for Jason and Tomaonari. So I kick back and watch the crowds, amazed and horrified by it all.

So finally J and T pull up. While I waited I went into the local outdoor store and asked around for a nearby camp spot. With directions in hand, we ride up to a look-out, stash our stuff and head back into town to a teeming county fair, hoping to run into Joe. Watching a crash-up-derby, Tomonari is thrilled by the pure Americaness of it. I watch him as much as I watch the crowd. Grinning ear to ear, camera in one hand, cup of Bud in the other, he is having a blast.

The fair ends with a spectacular fireworks show that seems to just go on and on and on. A picture perfect fair for our friend. Unable to find Joe, we return to the overlook and hit the sack.

 

8/2 - Jackson - We awaken and head into town and ask a dogwalker where we might find a good bottomless cup of coffee. Directed to Caffe 245, we swing by the local bike shop where we find Joe. Together again we head to the coffeeshop were we eat breakfast and say goodbye to our friend Tomonari. He gives us a black baseball cap with Japanese writing on it. We give him my Frisbee from the 24 hours of Canaan, sign it and gave it to him. It was so cool to see him see and experience this country, even if for only a few days. I feel honored. I leave Joe and Jason, head to the library to do some internet stuff and then rejoin them later, hooking up at Taco Bell, cheap eats. Tonight we camp on a nearby trail and hear coyotes again. We are woken up by joggers trotting by, giggling at the three of us in our bags, our stuff strewn about.

 

8/3 - Jackson - Go ride Black something trail, shower at the local mission, meet Dave, a local MTB devotee, go to dollar drafts at the Rancher and crash at the fairground. Sleeping at the fairground was a rather unsatisfying sleeping experience to say the least, at least for me. We crashed there more or less because it was so late and we really didn’t feel like taking on the hill that would have been required to get us up to our campsite. We found the fairground and since we had just done our laundry, we each had with us at least a small stuff sack with a few extra items. We hid in the main barn building, put on everything we had, covered ourselves in straw and tried to sleep. I don’t know if I actually did, I don’t think so, since I was still pretty damn cold.

An interesting thing going on in Jackson, other than tearing down million dollar homes to build ten million dollar homes, is that it is really easy to get a job but because of the property values it is very difficult to find affordable housing. So there are all these people camped out illegally in the woods around town, and by the sound of it, the law is looking to crack down on these squatters. This fair housing issue has reared its head in other skiing towns, Vail, CO for one, and by the presence of flyers being passed around Jackson, it’s fixing to happen here.

this stage had yielded some great pics.