Ronan, the hard way.

I love the town of Whitefish, MT.  Six years earlier when I came through town I met some great people and took a day or two off from abusing myself on the trail.  It’s a very comfortable place entrenched at the north end of the Flathead Valley (ie: beautiful), with a great mix of vacationers and colorful locals who can all remember better times when there weren’t so damn many vacationers.  Surmounted by a 2,353ft ski hill, the town sits within 20 miles of a Nat’l Park, four good-sized lakes (and many smaller ones) and endless amounts of other beautiful  places.  So when I got out of bed in the morning, I had every intention of spending some time in town…devising a manner in which I could relocate to the area. 

Dulcy and Dick were off to drain the blood of strangers and get a root canal, respectively (Yes, she works for the Red Cross Bloodbank, and he was going in for his 11th stint in the dentist’s chair…he claimed to be worth more dead than alive thanks to all of the gold in his mouth).  I said my goodbyes and thank yous, then lingered in their home after they left to drink a pot of coffee and journal for a bit.  After checking out some maps and looking at what the day had in store for me, I reluctantly decided that forward progress was needed…so there wasn’t much time to play in town.  I rolled through it, snapped some pictures, nabbed a new card for my camera (because apparently I take about 50 shots a day?!?!?!), and started moving south for the first time in a few days.

After much debate with the locals, I had decided to work my way through to Missoula on the east side of Flathead Lake…but not so far over as the more bike-friendly hwy 83.  It would have taken me well out of my way, and while quite scenic (the GDMBR hop-scotches this area between the Mission and Swan Mountain Ranges), I didn’t have an extra day to spare with so many miles left to travel.  So, having heard stories about small-to-no-shoulders and fast drivers, I focused on the fact that most people reported that hwy 35 was far prettier than its cousin 93 on the west side of the lake.  With my three options whittled down to one, I set out from Whitefish with a slightly south-eastern route.  Oddly enough, just a few miles outside of town on a side road, I found a huge warehouse that said “Hammer Endurance Nutrition”.  I looked at my rig and thought…endurance nutrition?  Maybe some free samples were in order?  I was quickly given their pitch, a box of powdered mixes, goo, pills and a water bottle…and sent on my way.  Not the case-load of free energy bars I was hoping for, but free is free!

I pushed on to find the outskirts of Kalispell to be just as I’d left them many years before…slightly sketchy and definitely dirty.  I moved on and rounded the top of Flathead Lake at Big Fork…which is quite charming in a lake-village sort of way.  It was somewhere around one in the afternoon by the time I set out on the lakeshore stretch of hwy 35 south.  It took me all of five minutes to wonder if I had made a huge mistake.

It was a 36 mile commitment with no chance of rerouting…so hanging my head down and pushing through was about the only option.  I had some trucks roll in super close and one even slowed down to dust me with diesel exhaust by sharply downshifting at the right time, then honking at me…all within the first three miles.  I pulled over in the pueblo of Woods Bay for some french fries and iced cream about four miles into the stretch.  It was the only thing on the map that broke up the ride, even though it was practically at the beginning.  I dreaded getting back on that road…but time was ticking away and I did not want to sleep anywhere near a road with drivers like that.  I pushed on and found that, like most roads, if you keep on plugging away you’re bound to find some nice spots.  I realized that almost every other mile contained a roadside stand selling fresh Flathead Cherries…and no one batted an eye at letting me toss a few samples into my mouth on my drive-by mini-breaks.  I also found that the descriptions of the road were quite accurate…it was absolutely beautiful.  For the first half it rolled along a few hundred feet above the lake…then it came dipping down to meet up with the water in selected spots.  The views divulged some of the staggering beauty of the Flathead Valley as it widens toward the south…but far down at the end of the lake I could see a huge storm brewing. 

I cruised along and cursed at drivers, occasionally tossing out some threats at the less gracious ones, but generally convinced myself that the beauty and time-saving aspects were sufficient in making up for the discomfort having to roll off the road from time to time when the lanes were super tight.  The cherry stands kept me light hearted enough in my travels, but the storm was growing and shifting from the western to the eastern shore.  By the time I got within striking distance of the bottom of the lake, the rain finally drifted down out of the hills and started to lash out at me.  I thought about shaking it off and pushing through, but the solid wall of rain gave me the impression that it might last for a while.  Just as things looked seriously wet and miserable, I came upon a fancy looking restaurant with a handful of cars out front.

I wheeled in to find a hostess standing in an alcove with a sign advertising the $30 trout special.  I meekly asked if the establishment had an area where I could wait out the storm.  She sized me up and reluctantly confessed that there was a bar over on the side of the building.  The grin on my face nearly pushed my ears together onto the back of my head.  Two minutes later I saddled up to a stool and began dripping a small pool of water around my feet.  A local carpenter sat next to me and chatted me up with local stories about local catastrophes while the place filled up with not one but two wedding parties!  He and I were the fish out of water, though I wasn’t far off from being fully inundated.  I guffawed at tales of semi-trucks rolling over on this dreaded road, and road rage taken to extremes in this rural outpost.  He even offered me safe passage in the back of his truck for these last five miles…but I felt it my duty to finish the job.  The rain subsided just around the time my stool was needed for the guests of honor.  I felt refreshed and energized as I mounted the bike and pedalled off onto a soaked and steaming road.  Polson was just around the bend, and provided a splendid respite in a bike path!

I scooted through town and climbed up onto the west, then east side of the road.  I caught some truly spectacular views of the valley to the north before smoothing out on a high and flat road that peeled away to the south.  The bike lane persisted and brought me through some more reservation lands…evidenced by the mobile homes and excessively grotesque and vivid anti-meth billboards.  I took a slight detour to document some low-level clouds that stuck to southern Mission Mountains, splitting the hills in two with spotty white ribbons that puffed up and dissipated in the humidity.  I felt strong and exhausted at the same time…and was ecstatic to see a campground just at the onset of the town of Ronan.

After chasing down the campground host, I gladly set up camp and settled into a shower.  I was surprised to find that I’d somehow squeaked 85 miles on the day.  This made me feel better about the aches and pains.  I got back to my tent to find a touring motorcyclist was setting up next to me in this land of 5th wheels and class A recreation vehicles.  Kevin was from Michigan, but had just finished his second tour fighting fires up in Alaska.  He was taking the opportunity of being called off unseasonally early to try his hand at touring and see some of the country as he never had before.  He was easily covering in one day what I struggled to do in five…and for a while we both kind of sat there in awe of what the other was accomplishing. 

He seemed to be the classic seasonal firefighter…tall, strong, handsome and completely carefree in a submissively confident manner.  We entertained each other until well after dark with stories about nearly destroying our respective chariots in our less focused moments.  I was glad to see someone else travelling in a manner that leaves plans and schedules up to the day-to-day obstacles…and by bedtime I couldn’t help but picture myself doing these tours on a motorcycle later in life.

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