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Written by Ben
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Thursday, 14 June 2007 |
Headwinds, guns, rednecks, and funky little college towns. Those are the memories of Montana I'll take with me. I'm sitting in an internet cafe in West Yellowstone, about a mile from the Wyoming border, about to leave Big Sky Country after my first ever visit. In some ways it was exactly what I expected, and in others - not at all. The first Montanan I saw was a little Blackfoot Indian of about 4 years old. He was playing in a beat up old pickup truck outside of a windswept gas station north of Babb - 15 miles from Canada - while his dad did some business in the store. As I took pictures of him, he showed me various things through the truck's window: batteries; a healthy grin; his plump little hands; and finally a rack of about 15 rifle shells. That startled me a bit - I grew up in Pasadena, and the only gun I've ever held was a .22 rifle at family camp when I was 7 or 8. Guns are not a familiar part of life for me. But they are in Montana. Walk into a grocery store, and right alongside the eggs and cheese are shells for your rifles, hanguns, shotguns, and air rifles.
The people here are comfortable with weapons in a way I don't think I will ever be. As we reassembled our bikes after the bus ride to Bozeman, I turned around and there was a young man sighting down the scope of a hunting rifle propped against the window of his car. True the barrel wasn't attached to the stock - but still weird. In the back of the car was a camo-patterned compound hunting bow.
Taxidermy is a big business in this state - the day before entering Missoula, we passed 3 taxidermy shops. One, Second Nature Taxidermy, had a school of taxidermy attached. Guess you have to learn somewhere.
But alongside the gun culture are funky little towns reminiscent of Santa Cruz. Bozeman impressed me especially. Smack in the middle of the windswept prairie, Bozeman has a quality in the air that I have come to expect from this state; a sort of bracing refreshment with every breath. As with every town entered via a Greyhound station, I was not impressed at first glance. Three grizzled old beared men were busy getting drunk on the grassy bank next to the station, and when told of our destination, responded only with, "I'm sorry". Clearly the concept of a bike vacation eluded them.
However, the second thing we rode past on our way into town was the Bozeman Public Library, a beautiful stone and naked wood building with towering windows and Wild Joe's Organic Coffee Bar, tucked next to the front door. My impression improved. And it improved farther the next day with the bustling Main Street, full of wonderful gear shops and coffee bars all housed in turn of the century brick buildings. The internet cafe was top notch, and the streets teemed with bicycles. Bozeman is home to Montana State University, and Missoula hosts the University of Montana. Both have the same sort of really cool downtown, and both are surrounded by gorgeous scenery and big, snow capped peaks. I should have looked into Montana when I was researching schools.
When I stop typing, we'll ride down the street into Wyoming and Yellowstone National Park. The type of person that visits Yellowstone seems different than that which visits other parks; every third vehicle on the road is an RV, and the National Forest campround signs around here have a little plaque at the bottom stating "tenters welcome". Apparently we are in the minority.
Tomorrow we see Old Faithful, Monday we roll into Lander, home of NOLS, and then off down to the Colorado Border and Idaho Springs, from where we hope to bus into Denver on Sunday or Monday (24th or 25th). |
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Last Updated ( Saturday, 29 September 2007 )
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Written by Ben
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Tuesday, 12 June 2007 |
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Animals we have seen close up thus far on the trip: osprey, several with chicks in nest. Hawks and lots of turkey vultures. A coyote (a real one; not the mangy ones you see in California) Many elk (or possibly caribou – we’re not quite sure), ridiculous numbers of whitetail deer, prairie dogs, a beaver dam, a mountain lion that loped across a deserted road literally 50 feet in front of us. Lots of mountain goats during the 15 minutes we spent on the south edge of Glacier National Park (Forgive me; I chased one, from a distance, to take a photo – the babies were so cute!). And we’ve seen 6 bears – two mothers and four cubs. Now can I rant for a minute about bears? First of all, before my mom has a coronary, I’ll just say that the bears we’ve seen have been of the black variety, rather than grizzlies. Furthermore, none seemed in the least ill-tempered. However, they still kind of worry me. I know that my Australian friends will read this and say “Liar! You said bears didn’t scare you!” True. I’m guilty. I’m holding in my hand a can of bear mace. It’s like the mace that women carry in their handbags, only much larger – say about the size of one of those little fire extinguishers that one keeps in a car. I carry it strapped to the outside of my saddlebags, and sleep with it next to my head. If a bear decides to charge me, apparently I’m supposed to wait until it’s 20 feet away, and then spray the mace in its face. Only be careful, I'm told, because while it’ll stop a grizzly, it’ll kill a human. So make sure that you’re upwind from the bear before you fire it, or it’ll get you too. Is this the most stupid advice ever, or is it just me? I highly doubt that, if I’m being attacked by a grizzly, I’ll have the time or the presence of mind to test the wind and sidle nimbly sideways to a more favored position. Enough of that. Last night we camped ‘legally’ just south of Condon, Montana. Yesterday was overcast, squally, and generally very tiring. We ate cold precooked packets of rice and cheesebread for dinner, inside the tent at 10 pm. And it was great. That’s how tired we were. We rode from Condon to Missoula today, battling headwinds nearly all the way. No one told us this, but apparently the prevailing wind is from the south here. It was gorgous and sunny, though, and the 100+ miles we pedalled south and west weren’t too bad. However, about 15 miles outside of Missoula, I got a flat and broke a spoke on my rear wheel. Not the end of the world, but quite annoying on a brand new bike. Clearly my cheap components were not designed to take all the weight I’ve got on them. However, I’ve got a new spoke and will change it out tomorrow. Speaking of change, our camping arrangements have changed as well. Right now Clint and I are sitting in the beautiful living room of Mike Kavanaugh and his wife, outside of Missoula. Mike is a collaborator of my dad’s, and they just fed us a marvelous meal of elk burgers, let us shower, and we’re about to do laundry! Tomorrow holds new things as well. The 330 miles or so from Missoula to West Yellowstone have no parks to cycle through. Rather than slog it out against the headwinds for several days more, we’re going to bus to Bozeman, just north of Yellowstone. It’ll cut a few days off our travel time, enable us to bike less every day, and possibly even have a day off. |
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Last Updated ( Saturday, 29 September 2007 )
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Written by Ben
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Saturday, 09 June 2007 |
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They don't call it big sky country for nothing. The clouds of Montana tower almost agressively overhead, and the sky is a shade of blue that I have never seen equaled in California. What was a shock to me was that the big sky doesn't end at the Canadian border. I know its stupid, but I've always had this obscure idea that Canada was all mountains. Imagine my surprise when we popped out of the Rockies onto the prairie of Alberta yesterday, with the same billowing clouds and wind mills stretching off south toward the Montana border. There are two things in this world that can endear a landscape to the heart of a cyclist, no matter what the view: a downhill grade or a tailwind. Even better: both. We had both for much of yesterday, and yet I maintain that the prairie would still have been spectacular even with an uphill straight into the wind. In fact, I know it for a fact, since for the last three hours of the day we had them, and I still found myself grinning like an idiot every time I lifted my head. We've had great luck with camping the past 2 nights. In Sparwood, B.C., to the west of the Rockies, we camped at a private campground and the lady let us set up in the covered, concrete-floored picnic area - something very close to a four star hotel to our eyes, particularly as it was pissing down rain all night and into the morning. Last night topped it in every way, however. As we rolled into Twin Butte, Alberta (24 miles short of the U.S. border) at 9:30 PM, with the sun just dipping below the tips of the mountains and the sky lit up like magma, we discovered the the campground which we had planned to stay at was closed. Nowhere safe to stealth camp, either; both Clint and I entertained visions of angry ranchers with shotguns. Unsure of what to do, I hailed a whitehaired man in the front of his property, and showed him our map. He chuckled at the fact that the Adventure Cycling Association calls Twin Butte a 'city', and told us to use his guest cabin - free of charge!! Don - you rock. We cooked up some Bavarian smokies, ate a kilo of cinammon buns, and woke to my alarm clock at 7 AM more rested than I have known recently. The dawn was as awe-inspiring as the sunset, and we pushed off, still into a headwind but still happy, toward Chief Mountain and the U.S. border. Today was really where my lack of conditioning told. Clint (the lousy so-and-so) pedaled up the quite large mountain with no apparent effort, while I paced along like a turtle, never getting above 8 mph during the entire 3 hour climb. You have to WANT to get into the U.S. from Alberta, apparently. The border guards were clearly bored, and completely unpacked all of our panniers (even though I got a haircut!), before, with a restrained smile, telling us that the road through Glacier National Park was totally washed out during the winter, and we would have to pedal around the south end. Clint will be cheated of his views, it seems. However, the Lewis and Clark Wilderness should be mighty nice as well, and the smaller climbs will be kinder to poor, out of shape, me. Missoula on Monday night, and then on to Yellowstone. As Clint would say, we're over the hump. |
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Last Updated ( Saturday, 29 September 2007 )
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