2016 The Great Divide Mountain Bike Route

My last day on the Great Divide – 2016

Breakfast is served at 5:30 am at the motel. I eat two cold hard boiled eggs, sliced, on toast, with salt; a bowl of instant oatmeal with dehydrated apples and cinnamon; and a frozen waffle with maple syrup. I drink a glass of orange juice and two cups of coffee. I am ready to ride!

It is 60 miles to Frisco from Kremmling, CO. Thunderstorms are predicted for 2 pm. E informed me last night that I am on my own. They are going to ride fast to try to beat the storms. I consider taking Highway 9, since it is shorter, but decide I really want one last day on the Divide. I feel anxious. Yesterday a bolt of lightning struck with a loud boom, just outside our hotel window.

It is foggy when we leave at 6:30 am. As we ride out of town, I see the fog sitting over the Colorado River, in wind-blown wisps. It is cold; long-fingered glove cold; wool hat cold; and why-am-I-wearing-shorts cold.

Soon M &E are gone. All I can see are their tracks on the dirt road. But, it is my last day, and I intend to enjoy every minute. I feel happy; strong; anxious to see Traci. The grade is easy even though I am climbing.

Osprey in nest near Williams Fork Reservoir

I see two skunks along the side of the road. I stop for photos. I have never seen a live skunk; only road kill. I am nervous as one skunk runs towards me, so I snap photo and jump on MGJ and ride off.

The Williams Fork Mountains are on my right and Morgan Gulch on the left. We were told not to drink the water in any of the creeks in this section. Curious, I wonder why. So far the ride has been through typical cattle country, filled with sage brush in the lowlands and beetle killed trees on the mountains.

I try to keep my pace up and make only full service stops: pee, snack, check the map and adjust clothes. I push myself keeping an eye on the gray clouds as they start to build to the south.

I ride hard; my legs pump up and down. No day is easy. Each day and each stretch of road has its own challenges and moods. I try not to think and just stay present with what is going on around me; to be a part of the passing green fields, flowing creeks and dusty roads.

But, today I start to second guess myself. Did I make the right decision? Am I a quitter? Will I regret not finishing the ride through New Mexico? I ask a group of black cattle along the fence what they think, but they just stare at me, chewing. Okay, I’m talking to cattle again, maybe it is time to go home. I laugh. I am ready.

As I start the steeper part of my climb up Ute Pass, I ride by a giant earthen dam. There signs for Climax Molybdenum and numerous no trespassing signs. At the top of the first set of switchbacks is a giant beige processing plant, then a giant foamy white lake held back by the dam. Giant pipes came from the mine and pour into the “lake”. It smells awful and I am afraid to breathe the misty air. I continued to climb through the adjacent forest and note that all of the clear water creeks are dammed. After spending so much time in sage brush country, worried about finding water, seeing these creeks ready to feed the molybdenum processing plant, and then get discharged as smelly, white foam into the “lake”, seems sacrilegious. No wonder we were told not to drink the water!

I finally reach the summit. It is cold and though I am hungry, decide I had better make my descent immediately. I have a blast riding down into the valley. And at the bottom, there are M & E eating lunch on the shoulder of the highway. They are surprised to see me. E says, “You were jamming it!” I eat one last tortilla with cheese, a handful of dried dates, raisins and apple and a Sweet and Salty bar of some sort. There is a rumor that there is a Whole Foods in Frisco.

Meanwhile the clouds are getting darker as we ride down the Highway to Silverthorne. Along the Dillon Reservoir, the thunderstorm finally hits, when we are a few miles out of town. We lay are bikes on the shoulder, put on our rain coats and stand under some skinny pine trees. But we are impatient to be done, and hot showers in a motel await us rather than a wet tent in a campground, so we leap on our bikes and head to Whole Foods.

I nearly weep in the produce section. I want one of everything: blueberries, strawberries, watermelon, bananas, green and red grapes and collards, kale, avocados and heirloom tomatoes. Meanwhile, Traci is wondering where we are. But, after days and days and weeks of horrible, nutrition, (think gas station breakfast burritos) we can hardly contain ourselves. I buy fresh cantaloupe and a ginger lemonade for starters, then ride off to meet Traci, who is standing on the corner of Main St. waving at me. We hug and hold on tight.

The four of us celebrate with dinner that night and then breakfast at the Butterhorn Cafe the next morning, before M & E ride off. I feel only a little sad saying goodbye and then Traci whisks me away for a walk on the bike trail and a full day of sightseeing at Vail, Leadville and Copper Mountain.

We talk about the Great Divide as we wander through the retail offerings of the ski resorts. The stores make me feel like I need that green plaid shirt from Patagonia. But after living on my bike for 7 weeks, I really don’t need or desire a thing. I walk out of the store.

I have everything I want. I am confident. I am relaxed. I have seen a lot more of our country; its ribbons of highway and purple mountain majesties. I have ridden 1850 miles, climbed 133,000′ of elevation and am in the best shape of my life. It has been a strange trip. I have no idea what it means. But I can tell you one thing for sure; I have seen enough sagebrush to last me a lifetime.

Traci’s Spoon

After the helicopter, that evacuated Traci with her broken collar bone, was out of site, I stumbled around gathering up my gear: my front pannier, with my uneaten peanut butter sandwich and empty potato chip bag; my damp long-fingered riding gloves and bike helmet. Then I found Traci’s titanium spoon.

Somehow, as I was getting Traci her rain gear, ibuprofen and tarp, I grabbed her spoon. Since her damaged bike and panniers were already headed down the mountain, in the back of the Conservation Officer’s pickup truck, I tossed the spoon in my front pannier and rode off to finish our climb up Elk Pass in the rain.

My first thought was I can’t finish the ride; I will go home. But, I was days from any simple exit plan. I was in the middle of nowhere, it was pouring rain. I was shaken and suddenly alone, riding with complete strangers.

I met Traci on June 1, 2012, the day we left Anacortes, WA to ride our bikes together to Montana. We were from as different backgrounds as you can imagine. As she once described us, I was from left of left Seattle and she was from right of right Dodge City, Kansas. Yet, our friendship grew as we climbed, in the rain and occasional snow, Washington and Rainey Passes; then Loop Loop, Waucanda and Sherman Passes. We battled mosquitos, biting flies and chiggers; a pack of reservation dogs, thunderstorms that beat our tents, rain that filled our ears and we ate countless pancakes with extra crisp bacon (“almost burn it” Traci says) and scrambled eggs with hash browns in small town cafes.

DSCN2141 — Dipping our rear tires in Puget Sound in 2012

There is something about being on the road, riding your bike, that simplifies things. All you need is food, water, your tent and sleeping bag, clothes and a bike. Your goal is to arrive each night, safe, with a healthy though tired body, a bike that still rolls and enough calories to fill you up so you can get up the next morning at 6 am and a do it again. It is not a time to discuss politics, it is a time to band together and find every ounce of shared values. As Traci once said, on the matters that matter we believe the same things.

Like the importance of the first cup of coffee in the morning; second breakfast in a little cafe where the locals look at you like you just landed from the moon wearing spandex padded shorts; and a nice grassy flat place to set up your tent. But, mostly we value our friendship, hammered out on the road, through laughter, play, self-confidence, a few tears, patience and frustration. Through the constant uncertainty of the road, I know Traci’s got my back and I have hers.

In 2014, Traci and I rode from Missoula to Denali National Park in Alaska on a 60 day self-contained bike ride with the Adventure Cycling Association. It was a tough, grueling trip. We started with 16 people and only 10 were able to complete it. Some days it was so hard, we played the glad game. I am glad we are only riding 80 miles today. I am glad that the fireweed is blooming purple. I am glad we don’t have to cook tonight. Meanwhile, it is pouring rain, the potholes are filled with water and our feet are muddy and it looks like the next hill is unridable. Inevitably I would say, “I am glad you are here.” And, inevitably Traci would say “It is a good thing we are tough.” And, we are tough, really tough. And, we like being tough. We find great joy in being strong; stronger than our minds think we can; stronger than most people think we can.

For, me, when Traci got hurt, I really didn’t know if I could ride the Great Divide without her. Sure, I was physically capable, but could I emotionally? I set simple goals. I would ride to Eureka, MT and see how I felt then. It would be easier to get home from there. Once l was in Eureka, Whitefish became my goal, then Bannock State Park, near Dillon, where my parents live. Once I was there, I thought I really want to see the rest of Montana. Idaho was only two days, then Jackson, WY called my name and as hard as it was to ride across WY, I thought why not finish it too and go to Colorado. And I did.

There is a tradition in bike touring, of carrying messages or funky items and then passing them on, like a baton, to the next cyclist you pass on the road. In 2014, on the ride from Missoula to Alaska, we passed a dented aluminum fuel bottle around between the ten of us. Traci reported that when she rode the Northern Tier in 2014, a cross country cyclist gave her a Power Bar, with a masking tape note on it “do not eat” that has been passed from cyclist to cyclist since 1994.

Carrying Traci’s spoon felt a little like that. And, I decided I wanted to deliver it to her before the end of my trip. By now, I was traveling with Mayumi and Ericka, the faster gals were long gone. I rode everyday alone and though I enjoy my own company, the days were hard with no one to share them with. It is no fun playing the glad game by yourself and it isn’t all that convincing to tell myself “it is a good thing I am tough” when pushing my bike up an unridable rocky road, fighting for every inch of ground, wanting to throw the bike down and sit in the dirt and cry.

So when Traci said she would meet us in Frisco, CO, I knew what I wanted: see Traci and spend some time together, deliver her spoon and go home to Seattle. It was tough deciding to stop riding. But, I had a lot of time to think about it. I rode 1850 miles over some of the roughest and most awe inspiring terrain in the country. But, I missed Traci. The fun we have together; the inside jokes. The friendship we forged on the road. I never wanted to ride solo. And, I knew Traci would start lobbying me to ride the Great Divide with her next year. And, she has. Everyday. I’m smiling.

What I love about bike touring

The air smells like cinnamon. I look around as I climb up out of French Creek, Colorado. There are aspen trees, lodge pole pine, assorted firs and yes, ceanothus. That is it. The distinctive smell. Oval shiney leaves on a low bush. It is also known as mountain lilac. The smell reminds me of California and Duck Cove in the Point Reyes National Seashore where I grew up. I breath deeply, fill up my lungs with its gentle sweetness.

Colorado is a relief. We returned to a landscape of green forests, tall mountains and running water. Goodby, Wyoming! Sure, we are climbing a lot: we have been up to 9500′ a couple of times. And the days are getting shorter and it is wool hat, gloves and long underwear cold in the morning. And, yes there are a lot of thunderstorms, but the heat and wind and endless sagebrush are gone.

I love bike touring. And, riding the gravel roads of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route has certainly spoiled me for road touring. Anytime I am on a paved highway now, I can hardly stand the traffic, noise and smell of exhaust. I feel assaulted by runaway steel.

I love riding my bike through ever changing landscapes. I like to follow rivers, drink water from cold clear creeks. I like expansive views that take my breath away and make me grip my brakes tightly as I descend. I like to see farmers at work cutting grass, cows with new calves, and old pioneer log cabins.

I love the smells! No, not the cow manure, though it is a daily part of my scent landscape. It is the sweet smell of blue lupine that are just now blooming at high elevations. The resinous smell of pine tree sap and needles heated up by the sun. The clean smell of thin damp air in the morning campground. The smell of rain blowing in from the Southwest. Even the smell of sagebrush still has some appeal.

I love the sound of rain on the rainfly of my tent when I am safely tucked in my sleeping bag. The booms of thunder rolling down a canyon. The sound of birds at dusk after the rain stops. I love waking up to the chatter of chipmunks and squirrels. The call of an osprey protecting it’s nest. It is the sound of my camp stove roaring to boil water for my morning coffee. The clink of the the titanium pot. The crunch of my tires on gravel roads, the click of index shifting, the slosh of water in my dromedary bag. The squeal of my disc brakes. The squeak of my dry, dusty chain begging for more oil. The piston pumping sound of my heart as I climb slowly on a quiet paved road. It is the absolute silence. And, darn, the shrill song of mosquitos in my ears.

It is yellow and black butterflies. Blue birds. Red Indian Paintbrush. Purple and yellow asters, white daisies, blue lupine, purple penstemon, blue bell shaped flowers and shiney red berries. It is purple-pink fireweed.

It is the sense of my own strength. The fact that I am in the best shape of my life. It is knowing that I can climb a mountain, after mountain, after mountain. It is the respect I get from strangers. It is my knowledge of myself; the good and the challenging. It is riding away in spite of my fears of failure. It is the confidence to sit by the road eating lunch as people drive by at 70 mph thinking you are crazy. It is being a little crazy.

It is seeing grizzly bear tracks on the road, a kestrel perched on a fence post, an osprey flying by with a fish it just caught. It is the warmth of a campfire, a long cold drink of water on a hot day. It is Pronghorn antelope running.

It is riding downhill in a tailwind.

It is seeing the ribbons of highways and talking to people from all over the country and the world that you would never meet, if you weren’t on the road. The guys on Harley’s, the couple from Arkansas, and fellow cyclists.

It is about moving every day and not ever knowing what is around the next turn in the road. Is it the summit? Or are there miles more of climbing? Everything is new every day and not much is the same, but that instant cup of coffee, the gear you carry and your faithful bike.

It is patience. It is determination. It is a positive attitude. It is keeping riding even after you are exhausted and think you can’t.

It is the surprise of the Colorado River. The sound of trumpeter swans. The crunch of grit in your teeth. It is the relief of climbing off your bike after hours and hours in the saddle.

It is being flexible. Sleeping in a cow patty pasture, an Exxon Gas Station, with llamas in a field.

It is a nap in a rainstorm in your tent.

And, it is singing every morning as I click in, reset my odometer, adjust my helmet and sunglasses and push off:

“On the road again,

Just can’t wait to get on the road again,

The life I love is biking with my friends,

And, I can’t wait to get on the road again.”

(with apologies to Willy Nelson)

What am I doing here?

It is lunch time, 92 degrees and windy. I sit in the shade of a highway sign, just off the shoulder of Highway 287, eating salami and cheese on a tortilla. It is the only shade accessible to me. My hair is caked with salt. My arms burn. My lips need constant applications of Chapstick. Mr. Green Jeans is laying on his side on the shoulder resting. We just finished a long hot climb up to Beaver Rim, the ancient shore of an inland sea. The view for miles and miles and miles is mountains and valleys of silver-gray sage brush. It is awful. I can’t figure out what I am doing here.

I am on day one of my two day solo ride across the Great Divide Basin. I can’t think of a more foreign and inhospitable climate. It is a weird place to be alone. I feel a little crazy with the gusting wind, the heat and desolation. Sure there are cars going by, but this is Wyoming and frankly no one is interested in cyclists.

So, I have to take care of myself; keep myself together. I can’t bonk. I stop every hour for a snack, an electrolyte pill and to refill my water bottles. I am carrying 16 pounds of water. There is only one water stop between Atlantic City and Jeffrey City, at Sweetwater Junction. I can’t run out.

The view of my world from the shoulder of Highway 287

The wind is fierce. Twenty five miles per hour over my right shoulder. It throws me around. I keep imaging that I am sailing MGJ. The wind should make me go faster, but it doesn’t. A tire and wheel are not the same as keel and asphalt is different than water. At mile 52, I stop at the Sweetwater Junction Rest Area. The lawn is thick, long and green. I sit in the lee of a picnic area out of the blast furnace wind and in the shade. The water I drink is cold and plentiful.

I feel saddle sore. My feet and fingers are numb with tight shoes and gloves. I sing songs to keep my morale up. My back hurts from leaning into the wind. My cold water has already turned warm. Twenty miles to go. I know I can do this. I rode across Kansas in 2013. My legs go up and down without thinking. I am slow with my fat mountain bike tires. I dream about drinking a cold orange juice.

I learn to dread snow fences. These are placed all along the highway in high wind areas. Uh, oh, here is another one!

At mile 73, I pull in Jeffrey City and stop at the Split Rock Cafe. It took me nine hours to ride here. The town is nothing; derelict mobile homes and closed storefronts. I eat an early dinner at the cafe: greasy roast beef with grilled onions and cheese and big pile of fries; water and yes, orange juice. The place is dusty and dirty.

I stay at the Jeffrey City Community Church, down a half mile dirt road, with nothing else around, but pronghorn antelope. I read the sign welcoming cyclists, then walk in the back door. Inside the air is cool, the floor cement. The wind stops. There are no other cyclists or anyone around. I pick a room, take a shower and explore the kitchen. No one in the world knows I am here. I lay reading on my air mattress. I watch the tall grasses out side the double paned window whip in the wind. I think about the tribes that called this home. They knew how to survive this. But, I am more like a pioneer from the land of evergreens and too much rain. It is too harsh and I can’t wait to get out of here before I get demoralized. Sometimes the landscape of my mind is worse than the actual land around me, but this bad.

My accommodations. Note the leaning steeple.

The church door slams and I jump up, heart racing. Who is there? It is 8 pm. It is Wally, a road cyclist. He looks awful. Salty. Pale. He just finished riding 107 miles from Saratoga, CO, with the last 20 into the wind. I show him the ropes, grateful for the company. He says he feels stupid from the heat and wind.

I pack my lunch, pack my panniers, lay out my instant breakfast and cycling clothes, then try to sleep. I feel anxious. I keep reminding myself that I did fine today. I managed myself well and I can to it one more day; 70 more miles.

I get up at 4:45 am and am on the road by 6 am, before sunrise. The air is cool and the wind is light for now. I say hi to the cows and pronghorn antelope. I plan my second breakfast at the convenience store in Muddy Junction in 20 miles. I take photos of Split Rock in the distance.

By Muddy Junction, the wind is blowing. I eat a breakfast sandwich with eggs, cheese and sausage in yet another tortilla and savor a cold grapefruit juice. I can tell the clerk thinks I am nuts. She gleefully points out the flags and headwind to me, as if I hadn’t noticed.

I cross the Continetal Divide twice. There are no stops for the next 50 miles. The traffic is terrible and the shoulder narrow. Log trucks, livestock trucks, and crude oil trucks all give me wide berth. It is the RVs you have to watch out for! I eat lunch in the shade of a stop sign. There is a lot oil in the ground here and I can smell it in th air. The last 4 miles into Rawlins, WY take forever. But, I finally arrive at the KOA. M & E are already there. We compare notes. They left the dirt road part of the basin early. We are all traumatized.

I set up my tent in a howling wind in the lee of a fence, then shower and order Chinese food for dinner: spicy chicken with vegetables. We decide to take a lay day to recover in Rawlins.

I crawl into my tent by 8 pm. Everything is covered in a fine dust. I don’t care. I made it through the Great Divide Basin and all is well.

Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning!

I crawl out of my tent at the Highline RV park in Boulder, WY at 6 am. The sky to the south was dark with clouds. Sunrise over the Wind River Mountain Range looked ominous. “Uh, oh, ” I say to myself, as I fire up my stove to boil water for my breakfast of instant coffee and instant oatmeal.

We ride off at 8 am towards Little Sandy Creek, our campsite for the night, 39 miles away. M & E take off and that is the last I see of them, except once when I almost catch up with them at the Sandy River crossing.

We are stressed. Our crossing of the Great Divide Basin is coming up and we discuss our strategy over lunch in a Chinese restaurant, with a plastic moose and waterfall, in front of it in Pinedale. The Great Divide Basin is a large flat basin where the water, what little there is, doesn’t drain to the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans. It is noted for its heat, lack of water, lack of shade and herd of wild horses. It is also a place where one can get lost.

I am queasy about the crossing. So are M and E. Some traveling buddies ahead of us texted us and said the GPS track was wrong so they missed one of the water sources. Since, I ride slower and have only a paper map and no GPS, it became obvious that I risk getting lost. It is going to be too hot for M and E to wait for me at the critical turns like they have been graciously doing for weeks. As a result, I have to decide to ride alone for two days across the Basin by myself, but on the highway, the Trans-America route, not the Great Divide route. I feel abandoned. I will have the same issues, heat, lack of water, and lack of shade, but at least I won’t get lost. And, I could flag someone down if I got in trouble. But, I am upset. There are no good options for me. I am grumpy. I am angry.

So maybe that is why they rode ahead without stopping or maybe they knew the forecast called for rain at 2 pm. I never checked the forecast and they never shared it, but I watched the clouds warily as I rode along.

I get to camp at 1:30 pm. They had their tent set up. I quickly set mine up. The clouds are catching up. By the time I eat a peanut butter on a tortilla snack and they cook dinner, the wind starts gusting and rattling the tents and the dark gray clouds move in. It was a good thing we are in the lee of a hill. There is a flash of lightning and it starts pouring big-dropped rain. We run to our tents and batten down our rainflies.

I fall asleep for an hour and a half. I wake up and it is raining and windy. I read my book. It is raining and windy. At 6 pm I run out during a lull, boil water, put it in my dehydrated lasagne and have to run back to my tent to eat it. It rains. The wind shakes the tent. I finish my book by Ivan Doig. At 8 pm there is another lull, just enough time for a quick pee break. Then back in the tent for more rain. I read brochures on the Mormon Pioneer Trail and the Oregon Trail. Then I just lay there, take a few selfies and “go to bed” even though I had been in my tent, in bed, for 7 hours. Some days you just have to be patient!

I can’t believe I rode my bike here!

The miles roll by. The day’s add up. And then boom, I end up somewhere completely unexpected. This time it is Teton National Park, WY! I catch my breath! Did I really ride my bike here over 1200 miles? It seems impossible!

The Jenny Lake to Jackson, WY bike trail

Trumpeter Swan with goslings in Flat Creek, Jackson

Pass it on…

The smoke is thick as we turn left on the highway to Pinedale, WY. The Cliff Creek Fire has been burning for weeks now from a lightning strike. It jumped the highway from south to north and raced through pine beetle killed lodgepole pine.

We thought the route would be clear, based on yesterday’s air quality monitoring dats, but the wind changed direction this morning. I could see the brown haze from our hotel window in Jackson, WY.

Hopeful, we started out on the bike trail out of Jackson, that runs along Flat Creek. The air is chilled and the water clear. Soon we see the fly fishers on the Snake River, drifting in their boats and hear two osprey calling as they fish to feed the chicks in their nest in a telephone pole above us.

We turn towards Pinedale, to follow the Hoback River through the canyon, we begin to see smoke. I feel downwind from a large persistent campfire. Forget the “smoke follows beauty” saying, this is serious. My eyes sting and my lungs feel heavy. I studied the EPA air quality regulations and Forest Service air monitoring data and know we shouldn’t be riding through this. I try a bandana wetted with water tied over my face and nose, bandit-style, but get claustrophobic when I climb up the many rolling hills of the canyon. It only works downhill. By now my riding companions are miles ahead.

Meanwhile the wind is turning into a headwind and the cars and trucks coming towards me have their lights on. I want to hitchhike, but have no way to communicate with Mayumi and Erick ahead and I am sure they are riding heads-down fast. I say a little prayer in my own way. I want options. I want healthy lungs. I want out!

Soon a white utility truck rolls up along side of me and a woman, with a white handkerchief, over her nose and mouth, asks if I want a ride through the smoke. I say yes! Her husband pulls over and I unload my gear and lift Mr. Green Jeans up over the tailgate. I climb in the front seat and meet their son and daughter in the back. It takes over 20 miles to get through the smoke. I ask Mayumi and Ericka if they would like a ride, when we pass them, and they say “no, we are ok.”

Jeff and his family are driving to their camp and Earthhouse from Jackson. The young boy is excited to see the firefighters camping along the road next to several helicopters. When I asked him what he does at camp he said he throws tomahawks and shoots a bow and arrow. The wife tells her kids to tell me “God-bless” when I jump out of their truck. They do so shyly and with big eyes.

I am now sitting in the shade of a red and white umbrella at the Rim Station RV Park and C-Store our destination for the night. Cheri, the proprietor is kind, but takes time to warm up to me. She has an array of tee-shirts on display. One says, “I will give you my gun, bullets first” and the other says “Shoot like a girl.”

The air is cool. There is weather moving in and the high clouds block the sun. The air smells fresh and clean. I am happy and grateful to be out of the smoke. One of the things that always surprises me on a bike tour is the kindness of strangers. I resolve, again, to pass it on to strangers I meet on the road.

The Cenntenial Valley

The trumpeter swans sound nothing like Louis Armstrong as they land, 8 foot wing spans arched, in Upper Red Rock Lake. Several others call from the aspen covered hill above us. Later, I go to the Cornell bird site and listen to a recording of their trumpeting. Okay, maybe a trumpet played with a mute.

We rode out of Lima, MT, last Saturday, after fueling up with coffee and a breakfast burrito in the microwave at the Exxon Station. The owner, after we thanked him for his hospitality and great tasting well water, said he wished he could provide showers too. Yes, I could use one: dusty roads, sunscreen, Deet, and sweat that dries in strange patterns on the back of my shirt.

We ride out through town and begin to follow the Red Rock River. The irrigation sprinklers are running, transforming the high desert into fields of hay for hungry cattle. Water here is a miracle.

We meet a rancher driving his ATV four wheeler. He just finished his harvest and is on his way to get the irrigation going again so he can get another cutting of hay this summer. He and his wife run 500 cattle. They are busy all of the time, he says, and they miss riding their bikes.

It is hot as we climb up through ranches and cross the Red Rock River. Soon we are at the dam and the Lima Resevoir. The reservoir is like a lake with no trees. It is murky. We cross numerous streams, see hundreds of black cattle and calves. The land is grazed, overgrazed and the smell of manure blows in the wind. The streams are muddy where the cattle wade and drink.

Soon I round a corner and the Centennial Valley opens before me. It is vast like the ocean. It takes my breath away. It is a broad plain framed by distant mountains. Our job today is to ride across it and down its length.

We ride along the north side of the valley. I dunk a red bandana in a stream, then tie it, dripping wet, around my neck to cool me off. There is no shade for our lunch break at a tee in the road. The sign says 47 miles to Dillon.

We start across the valley. The road is sandy, red and grabs our tires like quick sand. Half way across we meet two cowgirls sitting in the shade of their horse trailer. The older one, in a baseball cap, blue plaid shirt and fancy boots with square toes, turquoise inlay and spurs is drinking sweat tea. She is helping her family move the black cows and calves standing next to us – hundreds of the – on the other side of the fence. They are bellowing and mooing, a cattle cacaphony, that we try to talk over.

The two cowgirls are waiting for the cows to move their calves to water further down the pasture. Their horses are patiently standing flicking their tails, saddled up, and shifting their weight from foot to foot. The older cowgirl says horses are like people, they get tired of work at the end of the day. She lives in Great Falls. The other gal is younger and shy, with long brown braid and big flat rimmed white straw cowgirl hat. Her family owns a ranch in Dell, MT right near the Calf-A restaurant. We comment about the terrible sandy road, and she laughs and says they have rescued a number of cyclists stuck in the muck of the valley.

Speaking of muck, we can see a series of thunderheads blowing down the valley. We ride on then hide under some trees for a few minutes to escape the big cold raindrops. After we cross the valley, we turn left to ride down the south side towards the Red Rock Lakes National Wildlife Refuge. We check the forecast and look at the sky. More thunderstorms heading our way. Mayumi and Ericka take off trying to outride the the storm behind us. No chance for me, though I try for awhile, then give up. It passes. Then another one cues up. There is not much cover. I can see the lightning hit the valley floor. I find an abandoned house, trespass and sit under the tiny eave of its roof. Bolt after bolt hits the field in front of me. Streaks of gray rain stream from the sky. Thunder rolls across the valley. I am patient. We studied lightning strikes in my Wilderness First Aid class. I can sit here all day.

I meet up with Mayumi and Ericka at the visitor center. It smells gamey, like the old stuffed birds and animals in the display case. I use the restroom, fill up my water bottle and leave quickly. We are 50 miles in and have 7 more to our campground and there is a whitecap headwind to slow us down.

Our campsite is primitive, but there is a pipe with spring water bubbling out of it. The water is cold and delicious and plentiful. We are near the shore of the Upper Red Lake. My dream of a swim dies with the muddy, grass choked shore.

We put extra tent stakes in to secure our tents from the blowing away in the wind. Dinner is quick. The mosquitos a fierce. I am in my tent by 8 pm. I listen to the strange calls of birds I don’t recognize, then more trumpeter swans. My mind doesn’t understand the valley that I just crossed, but my body does – the gravel, sand, hills, dust and sweat. I am asleep in minutes.

Cow patty campground

The wind blows all night. The crisp rattling of my rain fly sounds like footsteps walking across the dry grass. I imagine wolves or coyotes. I unzip the rain fly and peer out into the dark. Millions of bright stars in the black sky fill my blurry eyes. The Big Dipper is about to set over the sagebrush hill above tiny, gurgling Indian Creek. Nothing is walking by my tent. I zip up the fly, lay down and pull my sleeping bag over my head. I am grateful for the dark, my reprieve from 11 hours in the burning sun.

We are camped at 7,500′ in a sagebrush and dry grass field littered with old cow patties. Indian Creek, our source of drinking water and shade, is about 2 feet wide.

We rode here from Bannack State Park after two days in Dillon, MT to clean up and visit my parents and nephew. It is always hard to get started again after good family company, cotton sheets, showers on demand, French press coffee, pork loin on the grill and cantaloupe. It was even harder because it was time to ride in the high desert and I do not like riding in 80 degree weather.

Our shuttle from Dillon- Erick, Dad, Mom and Mayumi

My ride was tough: 50 miles and 2500′ of elevation gain up to Medicine Lodge-Sheep Creek Divide. There was no shade. The last mile was so steep I could barely push Mr Green Jeans up it. I was at 8000′ and having a hard time breathing. I nearly sat down and cried. But I kept pushing. The heat made me irritable and angry. I felt faint from the thin air. I was running out of water.

Near the summit of Medicine Lodge – Big Sheep Divide

At the top I was ready for a long down hill. But was disappointed and soon climbing up to out cow patty campground. There was shade and cold water to filter. I washed the dust off my legs set up my tent and ate packaged Indian food for dinner. As soon as the sun set the air chilled. I was never so grateful to be in my tent.

Sunrise this morning brought smoke in from the Southeast. The Lava Creek fire in Wyoming has shut down part of our route. We are waiting until we get closer to figure out a reroute. We were riding by 7:45 AM. And it was downhill! It was glorious and cool. We crossed a big plain then followed a number of creeks through narrow rocky canyons. A golden eagle flew overhead. Fly fishers fished Big Sheep Creek. Barn swallows swooped down from rocky cliffs. Running water and green vegetation was soothing after so much sagebrush and brown grass.

We detoured to Dell, MT for pie and second breakfast at the Calf-A, a restaurant built in an old school house. The chocolate cream pie was delicious, but the hash browns too crisp.

We are camped now in Lima, MT at a little park next to the Exxon station. It has a pavilion that shaded us all afternoon. Tomorrow we head east to Red Rock Lake and Idaho. Wish us luck!

Scenes from the road…

Riding the Great Divide is a full time job. By the time I get up at 6 AM, make breakfast, break camp, ride 40 miles in the blazing sun, set up camp, filter water, cook dinner, tweak my bike, wash up, and climb into my tent, there is often no time or energy left to blog.

Here are some special places I want show you from the early days of my trip.