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.

Dewey

Cycle Greater Yellowstone, Day 4: Whitehall-Dewey

I've begun to see a pattern. Most people on this ride came along with a buddy (or a small group), and they draft each other or form short pacelines. Each day, I've been passed by a group I dubbed “Team BMC” (a couple of them wear BMC jerseys). Each day, they pass me and then slow down. Catch the target, mission accomplished. Now riding at a slower pace than I wanted, I would pass them. [Lather, rinse, repeat.]

Today, however, their pace was adequate. Maybe they're getting tired. I figured, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em; they weren't taking turns, anyway. They looked at me a few times, but I hung on at the back of their paceline until some little uptick in the road or another divested me.

A gentle climb led to our first crossing of the Continental Divide, at Pipestone Pass. Crossing the Continental Divide seemed like a big deal to me, but apparently not to the state of Montana. No sign marked the spot, but evidently the elevation is about 6,453 feet.

There have been some fine snacks at our rest stops. Fudgsicles (I confess, I ate two). A new CLIF bar product—nut butter filled. And a make-your-own revelation: half of a flour tortilla, upon which one slathers peanut butter and Nutella. [Oh, yum!] I think there will be more of those in my future.

Headmistress Jennifer had considerable angst about our route through Butte; she's not an urban rider. From a distance, we could see the upper walls of the massive Berkeley Pit (former copper mine that is now a Superfund site).

A lovely trail led us out of town on the other side of the tracks, straight to ... I-15 South. Sometimes there just isn't another road between towns, and when that happens, bicycles get to use the Interstate. [That's right, the Interstate highway.]

The shoulder was wide, the highway patrol was stationed with flashing lights at our onramp, and they lit an electronic sign in our honor: BIKES ON ROAD, DRIVE CAREFUL [sic]. Truck drivers were particularly respectful, moving over to the left lane. I may not have driven on a road where the speed limit is 80 miles per hour, but here I was biking on one. After about three miles, we took the next exit and continued along a frontage road.

Yes, another frontage road. Yes, another hot day. Yes, another interminable, exposed climb. There's always a headwind. A ladybug hitched a ride on the frame of my sunglasses.

After peaking around mile 48, I decided it was time to boogie. With a slight downhill assist, I cranked it up in excess of 20 mph for the next half hour and blew past fading riders. Making up for lost time, I managed to cover the the distance (65 miles, with 3,110 feet of climbing) at an average pace of 12+ mph.

At the town of Divide, we turned into a valley along the Big Hole River. A large bird soared high above the river; a flash of white tail feathers confirmed a hunch: Bald Eagle.

As we visit each town, we tap the local residents for volunteer help. A driver who gave us a ride to the ranch last night seemed amused that we were heading next for Dewey. “I have never been to Dewey,” she said emphatically. We were warned that we would be out of cell phone range.

Camp set up not far from the river; a few folks cooled off in the water, and at least one tried his luck at fly fishing.

Having booked early enough, I was fortunate to score a room a few miles down the road in the town of Wise River; most non-campers were shuttled to a motel back in Butte (an hour's drive).

And what a score it was! I was promised a room above the saloon, with a shared bathroom. I'd been reassured that this would be fine, as it was not a weekend and there wasn't much fishing action because the water level was low.

My room was right up front, next to the communal balcony (where my laundry dried in no time, with the wind). Of the entire trip, this room was my favorite.

Sheltered from the raindrops on the balcony, I watched lightning streak across the sky. So happy not to be in a tent tonight. So happy.

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.