Whitehall

Cycle Greater Yellowstone, Day 3: Bozeman-Whitehall

More smoke today, this time from a grass fire that might require a diversion in our route. Although GPS tracks had been helpfully provided before the ride started, we were reminded to follow the road markings (and route marshals) to stay on course. Yesterday's track, for example, showed a return route from Emigrant on the highway (rather than backtracking on the quieter parallel road), a plan that had been changed.

This morning's route made us all feel supercharged: it looked flat, but was a gentle downhill. For the first two hours I averaged 17 mph. [So that's what it feels like to be a faster rider!]

A couple passed me, then slowed down. I passed them. They passed me. After a few rounds of leapfrog, the husband finally picked up the pace. I left a gap for his wife, but she didn't fall in; instead, she drafted me, I drafted him. We arrived together at the first rest stop, and I thanked him for the pull. They introduced themselves, and she said “You're amazing! You're so consistent!”

There is a lot of Lewis and Clark history along our route. In the town of Three Forks, the grounds of the Sacajawea Hotel accommodated us for a rest stop. A bicycle trail led us to (and from) lunch, and there I learned what it's like to follow a rider who is not consistent.

He would spin spin spin really fast, then coast. Spin spin spin like crazy, then coast. It was maddening. At the first opportunity to slip past him, I did.

Much of the terrain has reminded me of our rides in the Eastern Sierras, which left me pondering whether I should simply have joined that ride again this year.

But then we followed the Boulder River through a scenic canyon, and I perked up. I also couldn't resist the chance to snap some photos from a locomotive's perspective, as the tracks were right there, with plenty of visibility to spot any oncoming trains. [There were none.]

Our approach to Whitehall gave us a straight-on view of the enormous open pit hardrock Golden Sunlight mine (in particular, the waste rock filling a valley). From camp, we had a view of the back side. These mines create huge toxic hazards, with the potential for cyanide runoff and a great volume of acidic water, that will endure for years. (Centuries?)

Even though this was a 76-mile day, with only 1,160 feet of climbing it was a fast trip. I gathered my stuff at camp and looked for a shuttle to the bed-and-breakfast ranch where I'd be staying. Maybe the shuttles would start before 3 p.m., since most people were done riding.

Nope. In fact, they wouldn't start till 4 p.m. How would I get cleaned up and back to camp for dinner by 5:30 p.m.?

I was one unhappy (non)camper, hungry, overheated, and gritty with salt, sunscreen, and road grime.

The only sensible solution was to make one trip, after dinner, to the ranch. I claimed a towel, used the shower truck, washed out my bike clothes and strung them up to dry on a fence. I had been curious about the Laundry Pods, anyway; now I had the opportunity to use one. (It's a manual washing machine—think salad-spinner-for-clothes.) It worked quite well.

Of course, I was free to use all these facilities, and once clean I was considerably less grumpy.

The Iron Wheel Guest Ranch was on the outskirts of town; tomorrow, we would cycle past it. The property is the site of an old stagecoach stop on the Yellowstone Trail; what could be more fitting than running a modern-day equivalent? The proprietors took good care of us—even rising early to supply us with a hearty breakfast the following morning—and proudly gave us a tour of their taxidermy workshop.

Authentic Montana, genuine folk. Just as I'd hoped it would be.

Paradise Valley

Cycle Greater Yellowstone, Day 2: Livingston-Bozeman

There were two options for today's ride: short or long. Long, or short? Decisions, decisions ...

The prudent course would be the direct return to Bozeman, about 35 miles, conserving energy for tomorrow's long route. So of course ... I went long.

One could think of it as two rides: a 50-mile morning ride through the Paradise Valley toward Emigrant, followed by a mere 35-mile ride in the afternoon.

We headed out of Livingston on a paved path paralleling the highway for several miles. A roadside sign cautioned drivers: Watch for Wildlife on Roadway Next 51 Miles. [Okie dokie.]

The on-course support for this ride has been above and beyond my experience. Two people were stationed at one spot to divert us around a large patch of broken glass on the shoulder. The turns are marked, and route marshals keep us on course at key intersections. This makes good sense, really, because a wayward rider could be challenging to locate given that cell phone coverage is spotty. I confess that I was gleeful when I crested a hill and found the road marked “steep grade”—but, you know, that's me.

Our out-and-back route to Emigrant would follow the same route, though Headmistress Jennifer thought we should stay on the highway for the last leg into Livingston rather than take our chances playing “Frogger” to get back on the bike path. (Traffic would be light enough, as it turned out, to cross back onto the path; a welcome respite from riding the fog line next to vehicles traveling at 70+ mph.)

Sadly, too much of the West is ablaze; haze hung heavy over the hills. I left a smoky Bay Area only to find myself in a smoky Montana valley.

We passed through the communities of Pine Creek and Pray, the former of which mostly survived a wildfire four years ago that burned nearly down to the road.

A few miles from the rest stop that would be our turning point, a guy caught up to me and then sat on my wheel. [Sigh.] Honestly, I don't create much of a draft. I had the last laugh, though, dropping him in short order as soon as I got a slight downhill boost.

I stopped briefly after making the u-turn near Emigrant and was startled by two loud thuds behind me. I turned to see a pair of stout mule deer (doe and offspring) dashing across the field.

The day was heating up by the time we made it back to Livingston for lunch. And here's the thing: Although the morning wasn't a flat route, the last 35 miles presented two-thirds of the climbing. [I prefer my climbs in the morning ...]

We baked in the afternoon sun riding the ups and downs of a frontage road heading due west along I-90. It was a long, gradual uphill into a miserably strong headwind. I began to doubt that I had the ability to keep going. SAG vans passed with bikes and riders aboard. When I reached the penultimate rest stop at Grizzly Encounter, I could not incur the delay to visit the bears. Here the route turned north, and I convinced myself this would offer a break from the wind.

Our final rest stop was a one-room schoolhouse on the National Register of Historic Places, the Lower Bridger School. The building dates to 1900, and was used until 1958. Some riders refilled their bottles at the old hand pump; I stepped inside and back in time, recognizing a style of desk that was still in use at the public school I attended through grade four. (These were in much better shape.)

Another rider warned me that we would face a steep hill before we were done. Was this it, I wondered, at the first little rise? Maybe it's this one, I thought, at the second uptick. Ah, no, here it is ... at mile 79, riders were paper-boying it up a 10% grade that lasted for a tad more than a quarter mile. Admittedly, it was tough after all those miles, and with the heat. At altitude.

I was proud to finish strong: 89 miles, with 3,310 feet of climbing. In the morning haze, I failed to start both apps to track my route, so for today I can share only this image:

The hotel lobby, with its trophy elk heads and Kodiak bear (native to Alaska), was a welcome sight. This time, with my bicycle for a stress-free start tomorrow morning—another long day on the saddle.

Livingston

Cycle Greater Yellowstone, Day 1: Bozeman-Livingston

I watched enviously as a couple of the other guests at our hotel pedaled off to the park. Despite repeated phone calls, the rest of us waited 1 hour and 15 minutes for the shuttle that was supposed to pick us up around 6:00 a.m. We were not off to an auspicious beginning. Taking advantage of the hotel's free continental breakfast was a wise move; by the time we got to the starting line, most of the camp had already cleared out and been packed away.

Once we were underway, it was a nice ride; climbing very gently for the first 20 miles, past the Bridger Bowl Ski Area and cresting Battleridge Pass before heading downhill (woo-hoo!). The roads were in excellent shape, compared to our local California Bay Area roads. Montana gets weather (ice, snow), and we don't ... go figure. This being a Sunday, I wasn't surprised when local motoring enthusiasts passed us (one Ferrari, trailed by a Corvette and assorted muscle cars). Roads that are fun to bike are also fun to drive.

Rumble strips were commonly carved into the center line of the road, as well as along the fog line. Rumble strips are not friendly to bicycles, but I do appreciate that they help to keep motorists safer. The shoulder was often quite narrow—less than the width of a bike lane—and strewn with loose gravel. The fog line rumble strips, fortunately, were not continuous; when the road was clear, it was easy to dart in and out through gaps as needed.

Montana is a “personal responsibility” state. For example, there is no helmet law for motorcyclists, and many choose to ride unprotected. Personal choice is fine with me, as long as the consequences are also personal (i.e., don't count on the taxpayers to foot your medical bills).

Eager Girl Scouts served snacks and refilled water bottles at our second rest stop, the community center in Sedan, an area settled in 1885. Out back was the tallest slide I've ever seen—tall enough to make helicopter parents swoon, for sure. I was tempted, but didn't risk it; I have too many miles of riding ahead.

Throughout the day, I passed people (and of course, got passed). A light cloud cover kept the temperature manageable, but as the day wore on some tricky crosswinds developed. Livingston, I'd heard, could get quite windy. Turning south offered some relief ... a headwind is easier to handle than a crosswind.

Camp was set up alongside the Yellowstone River, near a statue honoring Sacajawea “whose loyalty, courage and devotion were instrumental in the success of the Lewis and Clark expedition of 1803-1806.”

Despite the challenging conditions, I managed to average 14.3 mph over 68 miles, with 2,300 feet of climbing.

Cycle Greater Yellowstone

The Greater Yellowstone Coalition has been running a multi-day cycling tour for the past few years. They choose a different route each year, always covering some portion of the Greater Yellowstone ecosystem. The map this year showed participants from nearly every state, as well as a few international visitors.

When this ride crossed my radar screen last winter, I took notice. While it was primarily arranged as a camping event, they would also run shuttles to a few chosen hotels in each town to accommodate non-camping-types (like me). Even though they offer a “tent sherpa” option, where they provide, set up, and tear down a tent for you, I expected that I would not be a happy camper. If you don't get a good night's sleep, in the morning you still have to climb onto the bike and pedal.

The gray sherpa tents were tightly packed in neat rows; good luck if your neighbors snore ...

I walked over to the coalition's headquarters early enough to claim my bicycle, just as they were loading trucks to transport gear to our starting location at Beall Park. I was the first to park in the “bike corral;” later I would learn that the preferred technique is to loop the handlebars over the rope.

There were all sorts of bicycles: road bikes, mostly, but a few mountain bikes, tandems, and full-on touring bikes with fenders. I didn't see any recumbents, but there was at least one Roundtail. A curious concept, for sure.

Our encampment was fully established, the corral packed with bicycles, by the time I returned for the first evening's festivities (dinner and announcements). Our leader, who I came to dub Headmistress Jennifer, was a stern taskmaster. Heed her directives, or else ...

I sat on the fence for months before taking the leap last spring and committing to Cycle Greater Yellowstone. While the route would not entail much climbing, each day's ride would be long. If it rained, that would mean a lot of misery. We would also be riding for seven straight days without a day off. I wasn't sure I could do this.

If I didn't try, I would never know.

I signed up and navigated the logistics of booking nine reservations with the right hotels on the right nights in the right towns (including pre- and post-ride adventures). Pro tip: Track it all in a spreadsheet.

This rock in Lindley Park puts it all in perspective. The plaque is inscribed: “This boulder marks the trail of the Lewis and Clark Expedition 1805.” Two hundred eleven years later, I'm just here to ride a bicycle.

T Rex Territory

Taking a cue from my librarian ride-buddy friend (thanks, Miss C!), I did a little research before heading for Bozeman. Much to my surprise, I learned that there is a computer museum (!) in town—though I didn't manage to squeeze in a visit.

The utility-box-beautification trend is evident throughout town. Near the library, this wrap was so realistic I needed to take a closer look to convince myself it wasn't an actual bookcase.

The downtown area is very walkable, and my hotel was not far from the Gallagator Linear Trail (a rails-to-trails success).

Close to town the trail passes through Bozeman's Sculpture Park, featuring works both abstract and whimsical, before continuing along fields and streams with views of the Bridger Mountains.

Most conveniently, the trail would take me straight to the Museum of the Rockies, featuring artifacts from a distant point on the timescale of Planet Earth.

In the larger scheme of things, humans are barely a blip. Terrestrial dinosaurs roamed the planet for more than 150 million years. Avian dinosaurs ... well, they're still with us.

The exhibits were so fascinating that I spent the better part of the day wandering through the galleries. I was puzzled when I caught a distinct whiff of vinegar, until I rounded a corner to peer through large windows at staff members gently scrubbing some fossilized bones with toothbrushes.

One remarkable display featured a Tenontosaurus that had apparently fallen prey to a pack of Deinonychus, accompanied by a thorough explanation of the scene. Scattered near the skeleton were many of the predators' teeth, lost while feeding—too many teeth to have been shed by just one of them.

As late afternoon approached, I scurried off to pick up the registration materials for the main event—the bike tour that brought me to Montana. I spied a fellow registrant sporting a L'Étape du Tour bag. [Uh-oh.] What have I gotten myself into?

Having shipped my bike, I slid the box into a quiet corner to unpack and re-assemble it.

With that out of the way, I could relax over a nice dinner and a stroll through town. What better theme for the utility box in front of an auto repair shop than this?

There's a lot to like about Bozeman. The locals say “Shhh ... don't tell anyone.” So I guess this will be our little secret.

Music on Main

Two women approached me in the hotel lobby. “We were on the same shuttle to the airport this morning!”

What are the odds? We flew to Portland before connecting to Bozeman. They traveled for a family reunion, though, not for biking.

Not having done my homework, I expected to find a somewhat dusty, possibly dated, western town. [Ha!]

I overheard someone liken it to Aspen, but it's not so chi-chi. It's a university town; there are multiple bookstores, fine places to eat, public art, and bicycles everywhere. Stylish bike racks abound, and there are even a few dedicated corrals (each occupying what would normally be a vehicle parking place—imagine that!)

This being a Thursday evening in the summertime, there was also a free concert: Music on Main. The street was closed downtown for a couple of blocks, with fun for adults and kids alike. Balloons, food trucks, beer. And of course, a band—with live streaming coverage for those missing the party.

The sun felt unusually bright, even with only an hour or two remaining before sunset.

It's the altitude (elevation: 4,820 feet). Hello, Bozeman!

A Little More

One of the club's annual getaways was this weekend, but I'm not much of a camper. A local ride fit the bill, though the route would be a tad shorter than I wanted. Riding to (and back from) the start would fix that.

The pace was mellow, the air seemed clear, the temperature was just right. It was a breeze, literally. We snaked through a maze of residential streets on our approach to Stevens Canyon. The group stayed together so well that there was no need for the first re-group we'd planned.

A change in elevation was all we needed to spot the lingering smoky haze.

More than once I found myself keeping pace with, or gaining on, another rider on the downhill stretches—without trying. He was keen on optimizing aerodynamics, and I was just letting the Cervélo carry me along. When an unlucky bee caromed off my upper lip, I was reminded why it's important to keep your mouth closed (and your jersey zipped) while descending.

Roadwork (bridge construction) has continued on upper Stevens Canyon Road. It seemed particularly wasteful that they'd left two generators running, for no apparent reason. This being a Sunday, there were no work crews onsite. And even though I'd just cycled here a few weeks ago, I was surprised when I reached the gate—the last of the wood-planked bridges are gone! Safer for cycling, but kind of sad to lose them nonetheless. It is a mystery why the county is building such beefy bridges on this remote, effectively dead-end road.

At the top of our final summit, the group voted to reverse course rather than descend Highway 9. Having been undecided, I cast my lot with the majority. Highway 9 would be more direct, but ... did I really want to tangle with simmering beach-bound motorists, stewing in their cars? Diverted once again by the downtown street closures designed to keep them from clogging local neighborhoods.

I settled into my familiar commute pattern, strategizing about which route would be best to avoid the thwarted traffic as I got closer to home. My thoughts turned to lunch (“bike to eat,” after all) ... I could enjoy a nice sandwich at Erik's, but that might entail dancing with traffic. With a subliminal prod, perhaps, it dawned on me that I had just passed a different Erik's location. U-turn!

Thus fortified, and feeling strong, I needed More (Avenue). It seemed easier than I'd remembered. Until I got to the last bit, which was as steep as I'd remembered. (Yikes!) In the photo, notice how the road appears to drop off, like the edge of a cliff? Yup, it does that. (That's what I climbed.)

Flush with triumph, I decided to go exploring. I'd seen a cyclist turn onto a side street, let's see where that goes. Another right turn and I was heading downhill ... would I need to climb back up? [No!]

Back to my regular route, and ... there's the edge of the traffic. Decisions, decisions ... one lane is blocked, encouraging them to turn. Straight ahead for me, then! Till I caught up to the next clog. Left turn, bypass!

For whatever reason, I was still feeling frisky. I had actually passed some folks in our group on climbs today. It was still early, why not climb a couple more hills? [So, I did.]

For the day, 44 miles, 3,020 feet of climbing. That's respectable, I'd say.