Dillon

Cycle Greater Yellowstone, Day 5: Dewey-Dillon

Mother Nature smiled on us; by morning, the day's rainy forecast had changed. Last night's brief showers cleansed the smoky air and bestowed lower temperatures.

After shuttling back to camp, I rolled out with the first band of riders. We were headed for the Pioneer Mountains National Scenic Byway, a left turn that was just a stone's throw from the Wise River Club.

A small plane landed as we passed the airport. [Airport?]

The Byway was a long, gentle climb that took us past Crystal Park. A volunteer at our nearby rest stop not only answered questions and displayed a small collection, he welcomed us to choose a small crystal from a container of samples—no need to dig! I chose a piece of smoky gray quartz, which seemed fitting for this trip. Given the long day ahead, I pedaled past the park itself. I was impressed that it was open for digging, though; generally, removing things from a park is prohibited (not encouraged).

We crossed the Continental Divide again. Presumably it was the highest point along the Byway (unmarked, but evidently about 7,800 feet). The altitude has not bothered me on this ride so far, but then I typically start to notice it above 8,000 feet.

Our next stop was on private land in the tiny community of Polaris, where the present owner of its historic Polar Bar was proud to host us. Improbable as it seemed, Polaris has a Post Office. I had been seeking a stamp to mail a get-well card, and I managed to land in this tiny place during the short hours that its Post Office as open. As you might imagine, the postmistress was eager to chat.

Why do rare things happen on rides far from home? In Corsica, a sidewall cut (and low-speed blowout) taught me the importance of packing a spare tire. (I was lucky to borrow a tire from a better-prepared friend, then; now I bring one.)

On this ride, I didn't bring my usual little first-aid kit. It's a supported ride, after all. And I can't remember the last time I actually needed to use it.

Headmistress Jennifer had briefed us thoroughly on the safe crossing of cattle guards. No problem, I've crossed many. I was carrying some speed, just a few yards from one, when ... YEOWW! An unlucky bee managed to slip between the visor of my helmet and the top of my sunglasses.

In its final act, the bee managed to inject some venom into the tender flesh above my left eye. I needed to keep the bike steady, I needed to swipe at the bee in case it wasn't done, I needed both hands on the handlebars, I needed to keep moving across the cattle guard without braking hard, I needed not to crash.

My first aid kit at home has some anti-sting swabs. The EMTs didn't.

Lunch was late along today's route, around mile 65. At the briefing last night, we were told what a special place Bannack was—but not why. By the time I arrived, hot and hungry, I was focused on finding some shade and eating lunch. The last bit of road was packed dirt. Returning to the main road would entail a prolonged, exposed climb; I didn't linger and would only learn the significance of Bannack later. Thus, I had no clue that there was a ghost town on the site.

Some riders were fussing about a challenging climb late on the route. At lunch, SAG drivers were loading up bikes and people, actively offering rides. [I'll have none of that, thank you very much.]

As we approached The Hill, I thought it would be nice if there were some shade. And lo, the sun slipped behind the clouds. Surprised when I reached the top, I honestly said “That was it?” At the end of the day, I'd biked 88 miles and climbed 3,980 feet, and I was feeling just fine.

The small town of Dillon rolled out the red carpet for us. For a donation to their youth organization, moms with SUVs lined up to shuttle us to and from our hotels (past the headquarters of the Great Harvest Bread Company!). The Dillon Junior Fiddlers performed as we ate dinner. Most of the town turned out to see the encampment in their downtown park before the night was over.

The mood turned somber when we learned that we lost a rider today. [Which explained the sirens and ambulance rushing toward town on the main road as I climbed up from Bannack.] Before reaching the lunch stop, the last rider on the course gave a “thumbs down” signal, before collapsing. He was 74, and was actually doing this ride to train for another event. [Believe me, you're not doing this ride if you're not fit.]

He was not alone; support was right there, monitoring his progress. We have a dedicated crew of EMTs traveling with us; they reached him within minutes. At the hospital, the doctor said that there was nothing that anyone could have done.

Was he pushing himself just a little too hard today, pressing on in the heat to reach a lunch stop so late in the day? Or was it, as the doctor said, “his time?” Rest in peace, fellow adventurer. Rest in peace.