Maybe I’m easily excitable, but stopping by the ACA in the middle of a long trip is akin to strolling into a small town watering hole after scoring the winning touchdown in their annual rivalry game.  The first person you see (in this case Elliot, who turned out to be an ex roommate of the coffee shop manager…yeah…small town) instantly lights up and offers you free ice cream…”as much as you’d like”.  Another guy pops up and snaps a Polaroid to go up on the wall…someone else leans in to ask if you want some soda pop or water or whatever.  I mean, it should be enough just to be in a place where you don’t have to explain your freakish obsession with pedalling…but these people are actually built of like materials…distant cousins who respect and envy you for the very same thing that others think you’re f-ing stupid to be doing.  The place certainly feels like some sort of sanctuary.  Old bikes from historic trips hang on the walls next to pictures of people doing the same damn thing I was…just 30+ years earlier with way heavier equipment. 

The wall of Polaroids only covered the summer of 2010, and it contained over 200 photos.  Every face on that wall was anchored by a HUGE beaming smile…except for the German couple who were apparently quite unimpressed with the savage bike travel network we have here in the US.  I was gawking at the notes on the pictures when Greg stopped by with his classic 35mm camera, perpetually stocked with black and white film for his portraits.  We chatted and walked around to the alley behind the building, then set up his white drop-cloth background.   Greg took a few pictures while I shared some stories about my latest trip.  He even took a separate portrait of Pinocchio and the Headless Ninja…two mangled figurine/companion/mascots that I had acquired along the way.  The tales of these two are legendary in my own mind…and to be quite honest I’d made it a point not to show them or even mention them to anyone else…but when Greg noticed the mangled little plastic figurines, I sheepishly divulged how essential they were to maintaining my sanity…or lack thereof.

When Greg was finished I asked him to pose in front of my rig for a few of my own pictures.  Then I started grilling him on some of his bike trips.  His stories were incredible, and before I knew it we were going through old books and photographs that he kept in piles around his desk.  But time was running out on me, and the office was closing down.  I chuckled a bit as we dug up Cycling’s Greatest Misadventures from their library on the way out…I couldn’t resist showing him the story I’d published, sitting amongst their never-ending collection of magazines and bike travel guides.  I finally bid my farewell and said many goodbyes as the gang all packed up, hopped on their respective bikes and pedalled home. 

One kind employee (who ironically turned out to be one of the cartographers) asked me how I was doing on maps just as I was walking out the door.  I hesitated before admitting that I’d made it this far off of ‘maps’ that were slightly more helpful than a compass and a sextant.  I was shamed, dragged back to the map area, and handed what turned out to be the most helpful and friendly document that I’ve possessed outside of my birth and marriage certificates…and a few diplomas.  With many thanks, I bounced out of the place just as they were locking up the doors.  On to my next adventure in Missoula…The Silver Dollar…and the ever-hospitable graces of the great Mr Brian Patterson.

A life-long friend to my old buddy Pat McNamara, Mr Patterson had taken exceptional care of me when I’d stumbled through town six years earlier.  And again, without so much as a handful of hours notice, I was greeted like a long-lost cousin with a hug and a cold tall-boy.  Mr Patterson has a day job that pays the bills, but he’d been working odd shifts tending bar at the Silver Dollar (one of the very old, legitimate bars in Missoula) for years and years.  Unfortunately, he was such good friends with the owners that when they left town…as they had a few days before I arrived…they left the place completely in his charge.  He was chained to the place without any help…but that didn’t stop him from ordering us a feast from another place!

We ate, caught up and shared stories as I tossed back the beers.  A few hours later he tossed a key across the bar and opened up an apology.  Turns out that his girlfriends parents were in town…so his place wasn’t going to be a pleasant respite for the night…but he had access to an unfinished apartment (thanks to his other job) less than a mile away.  I was welcome to set up shop there for the night.  Thrilled to have a hot shower and a roof at my fingertips, I pedalled over to check it out. 

It should come as no surprise that I got just a little bit lost along the way…but eventually arrived to find a classic college student-housing apartment with a brand-spanking-new coat of stain on the hardwood floors.  Brian had mentioned that a crew had been by earlier in the day to clean the place…but as luck would have it they had also stained the floors with an uber-powerful sealant that instantly watered my eyes.  Well…to be honset…I could have cared less.  I carried the rig inside and started tossing things around.  I opened all the windows and then hopped in the shower…refusing to get out until the water heater gave up first.  My clean skin got a clean set of clothes, and I was back on the bike toward the Silver Dollar!

The locals had filled in the place when by the time I returned…and the place had 4×6 portraits of most of them hanging above the bar.  I got to see a dispute over some local housing issues, a girl bawling over the boyfriend who’d broken her heart a month earlier, some under-age college students trying to act WAY older than they actually were, some ridiculous trail workers in town wearing ridiculous outfits…one of which involved a guy wearing his underwear outside of his clothes…and of course, Monday Night Football on a Thursday night (I never did figure that one out).  Too much fun. 

I’m not even sure what time it was when I finally bowed out and gently cruised my way back to the apartment.  I left the place as open as possible as I crashed out and heard the sweet sound of rain on a rooftop…not my tent’s rain fly.  Thanks to the fumes, I was unconscious in seconds.

I faced a relatively short 50 mile stretch of road, but I could have guessed that the law of averages would make that stretch last me the full day.  The opening piece was pretty enough, and St. Ignacious provided a nice little break…but as the miles added up the wind really started to press against me.  The pass at Ravalli damn near brought me to a stop, but I was rather head-strong to make town well before business hours closed the doors at the Adventure Cycling Association (ACA).  I slugged through the winds and hardly noticed the fact that my feet had completely leathered in the sun.  They now required frequent applications of sunscreen in order to keep the itchy spots of sunpoisoning from swelling under the skin.  My flip-flops were creating a wicked solid-band tan line that looked damn-near fake to most people…but I couldn’t imagine putting my feet into shoes on a sunny day anymore.

I enjoyed a break near Evaro, and then I should have bombed down a scary steep hwy into the corridor of interstate 90, but the head wind was so strong that I had to pedal just to keep my balance.  This hill that would normally take me a few minutes to roll down instead took me ten times longer to push my way down.  It was laughable how fiercely I was being held up and shoved to the side.  I was very nearly at the end of the Flathead Valley, and it was so dry that I never even knew I was sweating.  The hills completely petered out on both sides of me as I caught a glimpse of the first freeway of my entire trip.  I hardly hesitated as I crossed over it and veered east on an access road into town.

Ten miles and some odd-ball directions later, I came across a coffee shop just a few blocks away from the ACA office.  In the time it took me to drink a cup of coffee, I met three separate people who had been on long distance bike trips in the last two years.  Add to that the manager of the place who was really into endurance hiking/camping, and the other guy who I recognized as an ex-Seattleite in the bike community…and I was suddenly left with impression that Missoula is not for the lazy. 

I should probably take a moment to introduce you guys to the Adventure Cycling Association.  They’re a non-profit organization based in Missoula that (in 1976) helped create the bike-travel culture that thrives throughout the United States (largely in the summer months).  The organization started as Bikecentennial…an idea that sprung from the minds of two couples doing a hemi-tour (biking the Western Hemisphere from north to south) between 1972-1975 (2 years 8 months and 9 days, covering 18,272 miles…I would later find out).  One of the original foursome of this group still works as the archivist at the ACA…a wonderful gentleman named Greg Siple.  Every summer he catalogs the cyclists who come through town to visit the ‘mothership’ of an organization that relentlessly pursues the rights of cyclists while linking together the best routes for people to use when travelling long distances by bike.

So…I’m somewhat of a history nerd…and rumor has it that I enjoy pedalling a bicycle around every once in a while…and lets face it, if there’s any chance that I’ll ever be involved in anything even close to a ‘hall of fame’, this place is it.  Greg had taken my picture before, so he also had a small file logging some of my previous trips…and I had a few more to share with him this time around.  So with a double shot of caffeine in my system I merrily bounced into town and straight up the steps of the ACA.

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.

Together, the five of us took turns getting cleaned up and introducing ourselves to each other.  Dick had spent the last seven days hiking, camping, spraying and rafting with the two volunteers, though clearly I had not met anyone before, and when Dulcy had arrived at her house she was only familiar with her husband…so some slightly complex greetings were in order.  One thing was certain, however…we were all starving.  So with no time to waste we dashed into town for one heck of a meal.  Over food and drinks we all traded stories, and in the end Dick insisted on taking care of everyone…almost generous to a fault!  It was with full bellies and heavy eyes that we retreated to their home. 

Regardless of being a cute little house, we each had our own bedrooms to sleep in.  I was relegated to Guy’s old room…being that I was the guest male in the group.  He being the missing piece that tied me into my current lodgings (being married to my wife’s friend’s sister), it was only appropriate…right?…aside from weirdness around the fact that I’d never met him.  I was somewhat comforted by the fact that his old bedroom from days of yore looked an awful lot like mine.  Same type of posters and snowboard magazine spreads on the walls…damn near the same library of books on the shelves…and exactly the same glow-in-the-dark astronomy poster pinned to the ceiling above the bed.  Hilarious.  Each time I glanced across the room I chuckled at some other item that looked familiar in some way. 

After settling my things and making sure that I was taking advantage of a unique opportunity to re-charge all of my gadgets (phone, camera, ipod, etc…), I ventured to the living room for some more time with Dick and Dulcy (the other girls had gone to bed, expecting a 4am departure for a flight).  Our conversation lasted for almost a minute before I noticed a familiar face on the muted television.  Quickly flipping on the volume, I saw that very same 22 yr old bartender from St. Mary’s describe how two nights before someone had “…come into the bar (Bad Frog Cantina/Kip’s Beergarden/$1 PBRs) a little after 8, talked to her and the only two other people in the place, ate a burrito, and left.”  They flashed a picture of fugitive Casslyn Welch (Bonnie of the Bonnie & Clyde couple who had been eluding officers after she helped her beau and two other guys escape from prison and murder a couple in AZ…and her fiance is her first cousin…eeew) and described how a number of people in the St Mary’s area reported having seen her around that time.  Their guess was that maybe the two fugitives would be trying to cross the border into Canada. 

I was dumbfounded.  I couldn’t even get my words straight while explaining to my hosts that I had left that very watering hole close to 8:30 that very evening…leaving exactly two non-employees at that very bar…Bob Coyote and Ed.  Through ignorance, naiveté and an embarrassing number of cans of beer, I had inadvertently rubbed elbows with a known murderer on the run as I took leave of that picnic table on the reservation.  To my credit, it wasn’t until the following morning that I read an article about the manhunt…so I couldn’t have known who she was.  But that thought really didn’t settle my stomach all too much as I leaned way forward on their couch and gave a couple of nervous laughs.  Yeah, surely if I’d have known what was going on I would have called the cops, wrestled her to the ground and single handedly apprehended her with a drink coaster a salt shaker and a bike tube…yeah…that’s what I would have done. 

I trailed off to bed that night reconciling the notion that had I actually been totally aware of my surroundings two nights earlier…I most likely would have crapped my pants and run home crying.

In the morning it was obvious that my legs were quite confused about the previous day’s hike.  There was stiffness and soreness is some new places, and my heels were raising all sorts of hell about the fact that they had been ‘suffocated’ in sneakers for four whole hours!  Sissies.  I caught Craig sneaking out of camp to catch a bus up to the pass, then ride back down.  We had some quick goodbyes and I was off on an impromptu/unguided tour of the trails around the campground.  After a half hour I stumbled into the village area, led by my nose seeking out some coffee.  I found a coffee stand and got in line…then had two separate people cut in front of me to order?!?!  I looked around to see if I had a sign on my back that said “skip me”…or to see if I was secretly being taped by some reality show, hoping to start a fight with a random guy by delaying his caffeine fix.  I turned around to find that Larry, the teacher from Nebraska that I’d met two days before, was standing right behind me…how random!  I caught up with him, got some good stories about the family rafting trip the day before, then actually got to meet his family.

So with about 20 ounces of java warming my hands, I wandered back to camp to pack up.  On the way I bumped into Craig rolling the opposite direction, and heard that none of the morning buses had bike racks on them…so he was getting some breakfast and trying again tomorrow.  We had another round of goodbyes before I scurried off to get moving again.  After seeing a sign for the town of West Glacier on one of the paths, I opted to take it over the road.  It was twisty and curvy and super fun for a morning cruise.  It galloped through some heavily treed woods, and I jumped more than once thinking that I’d seen something big and furry moving out of the corner of my eye.  Suddenly I was in a neighborhood of employee housing…then cruising across the bridge into town.  Mid-way over the bridge in mid-pedal, I glanced at the river below and damn near fell over the railing.  Laying in wait for a new hatch of bugs were no less than 50 trout in one big “screw you guys, you’ll never catch us because we’re not even feeding” school.  They just sat there, casting light shadows over a gravel bed, hovering like loaded gun barrels.  I didn’t even realize that I was talking out loud to them…hurling compliments and insults…until someone road their bike right up beside me.  It was Craig again!  He was off to do laundry in town, and was wondering if I was ever going to make it out of there.  I gave him one last goodbye and peeled off to the post office.  I was shocked and thrilled to find that the care package from wifey had made it in that morning!  I wasn’t about to share the moment with anyone, so I cinched the box down to the trailer with some bungees and beat a hot streak out of town. 

I made my way west and entered the land of the chain saw wood carvers.  Every 1/4 mile was another stand offering very similar looking bears and eagles and “welcome to our home” signs with ‘bear’ themed puns.  Mile after mile after mile and I finally concluded that in using such a large and unforgiving tool like a chain saw, the pieces of work tend to take on very familiar and repetitive themes.  And just when I thought each structure was copying the previous, I rolled up on a bearpark.  Yup, pay your money and drive into an area with a very high fence surrounding it…then gawk at the bears that roam freely around inside the complex.  I couldn’t resist rolling up to the gate and asking if they had a discount for cyclists.  The woman in the booth stared straight through me as she tried to craft an appropriate response.  Then, in true Montanan fashion, she finally smiled and said that if I signed a waiver she’d let me in for free…then she grinned like an undertaker and said she’d film the whole thing from the safety of her booth.

Bested by a sense of humor even more morose than my own, I pushed on.   In Coram I pulled over by a coffee stand and overtook their picnic table to dissect the care package sent from home.  So nice to have some top quality snacks…esp with sweet little notes stashed in them!  The taste of home fueled me on through Martin City, Hungry Horse, and beyond Montana’s version of the House of Mystery…clearly some sort of later-day kin to the famous H.O.M. on the northern California coast that I’ve visited on a handful of occasions.  Spoiler Alert:  it’s built on a hill!  Around this time I finally began trading msgs with Dulcy. 

It’s a matter of practice that while on these trips I never really know when I’m actually going to make it to any specific place.  Months before I left on this trip, at the home of my wife’s very good friend in Bellingham, I mentioned that I was thinking about heading out on my bike into the Glacier area.  My wife’s friend…also named Erin…was quick to point out that her sister (Keegan) was living somewhere in the West Glacier area, and could probably host me for a night.  Well it turns out that when I was finally passing through the area, Keegan was out in the back country of the Bob Marshall Wilderness (where she’s some sort of volunteer coordinator for projects…and where her husband is a backcountry ranger).  Turns out that Keegan’s mother-in-law (Dulcy) lives with her husband Dick in the Whitefish area…and, according to non-wife Erin, they were two of the nicest people ever to grace the Montana Rockies.  So, armed with the phone number of my wife’s good friend’s sister’s mother-in-law (still following me?), I was placing calls to someone I had never met and didn’t have the faintest relation to…in search of a shower and a place to set up camp for the night.

Dulcy and I traded msgs as I rolled through a section of road next to the Flathead River that offered up a negative shoulder (where the pavement evaporates beyond the left side of the white line) with a guard rail and some nasty drivers.  But after a short stint of craptastic riding, I was pushing through Columbia Falls with confirmation from Dulcy’s msgs that I did in fact have a place to clean up and stay for the night.  My renewed attitude helped scoot me straight into town, through a coffee shop for some fuel, and into the library for some postings.  I emerged two hours later…somewhat blind from staring at the screen without blinking for too long…and crossed the street straight into the heart of the weekly Tuesday fair?!?!?!  Live music, organic fruit and veggie stands, home-made food booths, kids running everywhere, hundreds of beamingly happy people, and Mennonite Iced Cream.  This last item would require pages of words to explain…just rest assured that some video may exist.  And while their dress may not cry out “I make awesome freekin’ ice cream!”…those folks sure-as-hell knew how to convert a John Deere tractor engine into one damn-fine iced cream making machine.  

I met a number of wonderful folks at the market/fair…ate plenty of wonderful food…and heard some decent music…but I finally had to roll on to the outskirts of town to cath up with the long-lost friends whom I’d never met.

I moved on and basically climbed for the next couple of hours.  The notoriously awful traffic on this most famous highway was actually pretty tame by my standards.  The cars had to stop for flaggers and I got to advance to the front of the line each time.  I jockeyed with a few cars in particular and had a little cheering crew of 4-12yr olds in a van.  I felt so good, and the views were so amazing, that I was charging up the last parts of Logan Pass.  As the last part of the climb was dirt and gravel, I actually had a corvette behind me that was obviously afraid of getting dirty or scratched…so for the last 1/4 mile of my climb up the Continental Divide at 6646 feet, I outsprinted a sports car!  WooHoo!

At the visitors center I was happily refueling with water and my snacks when I finally got the real-deal on cycling Glacier from a ranger.  Turns out that from 11-4, they keep bikes off a section of the highway that I needed to cross in order to get to Apgar that evening.  Suddenly, I had four hours to kill.  I was feeling pretty good, so amongst an absurdly crowded visitor’s center (they’d been turning away cars for lack of parking space) I tossed on my sneaks, grabbed my camera and a full bottle of water, and made my way out on the Garden Wall trail. 

It was spectacular…absolutely stunning…and not nearly as crowded as I thought it would be.  I came upon mountain goat families right from the start…as well as lots of ground squirrels, and quite possibly the worlds least timid marmot.  Seriously, the people who were behind me have a picture of me stepping over him!  The trail continued along the sides of a few different ridges, and gave way to some big views over the valley stretching to the south and west.  I could have continued on and on for days, but at the two-hour mark I had to flip around to get back on the bike.  5 miles out and 5 back…it wasn’t until I got back tot he parking lot that I considered how my body might feel about a high altitude hike in the middle of a 60 mile day.  Turns out it was the Achilles tendons that had the biggest complaints about my little foray away from the wheels.  But with a group of bighorn sheep awaiting me 3 feet off the road the moment I got back on the bike…all pains were forgotten.

The following 10 minutes were some of the greatest, most wonderfullest cycling moments of my life.  The descent (which is legendary in the world of bike travel) is about 16 miles of the most scenic 6% grade you can imagine.  I started it by popping out in front of a tour bus (just after the stretch of road work) that had stopped to look at a marmot, and was instantly on an empty road.  All traffic behind me was stopped up behind the bus, and it was so late in the day that very few cars were coming in from the west side.  Only at the start did I even need to feather my breaks…aside from that I simply coasted and swerved and smiled and smiled and smiled.  I didn’t even stop to take any pictures, I just soaked it all up.  At the loop (hairpin turn), I even had a little cheering crew who were waiting for the bus…all they had to do was turn around and see my flying by again, to more cheers and hollers.  I was absolutely ecstatic!

By the time I got back to flat-ish ground, I was coming down off a monster high…for a bit I even felt grumpy that I had to pedal to keep it at 15mph…psshha!  But the west side of the park is much more Washington-like, with a river cutting some deep channels through the rock as the road bobs along next to it.  Tall trees block out much of any other view you’d have…but it still felt enough like home that my funk dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. 

I pushed on, rounded Lake McDonald, and before I knew it I was rolling into Apgar at the west side of the park.  The biker/hiker spots are popular in the parks system, so for $5 I rolled on to set up camp…where I met a fellow two-wheeled traveler of almost 60 yrs of age!

I tossed my things together and pushed on into the thriving metropolis of Babb.  A stop at the diner for some eggs and seven cups of coffee, and I was bouncing along to St. Mary’s.  St. Mary’s is the ‘town’ on the east side of Glacier National Park that leads you right onto the world-famous Going to the Sun Road…cutting the park through from east to west.  I needed a “city” day…where I get all of those wonderful things like groceries, laundry, shower, computer, etc… before venturing on, and after texting with the wifey I found that she’d mailed me a care package to West Glacier, about 55 miles away.  It would take another day or two to arrive.

I would like to take this time to post a much-needed public thanking to the wonderful woman I’ve chosen to spend the rest of my life with.  She’s not only patient enough to deal with me going on these little excursions, but she really has to carry all of the weight back home while I’m gone…work regular hours, take care of the dog, the house, keep friends in the loop with how I’m doing, etc…  Amongst all of this she still goes out of her way to support me by putting together what I would later find to be the grand-daddy of all snack packages…complete with cute little notes from both her and the dog:)  But the real treat I was starting to realize was that basing my time on the arrival of said package would mean that I could/should/would…take a day off from more riding.  And for this gift I cannot possibly thank her enough!

So I got busy with the fine art of chillin’ out.  I leisurely rolled around the two blocks of town and got to know everything and everyone.  I slowly rolled through the park gates and got a biker-spot at the campground that’s less about 1/4 mile into the park (discounts galore for pedallin!).  I did my laundry and folded it…slowly.  I called family members and told them stories.  I showered for 18 minutes…eighteen…delightful…minutes.  About the only thing I couldn’t do slowly was be on a computer, as the only place that had availability charged $3 for 15 minutes. 

But when all was said and done…when everything was wrapped up with a pretty little bow…I ate.

The Bad Frog Cantina…also known as Kip’s beergarden…also known as $1 PBR’s (these were the three handmade signs you followed to find the place)…was the lucky winner.  I sat on a picnic table and journalled and ate and drank for a little more than four hours. 

Now, St. Mary’s is on reservation land…so there are certain liberties that exist there that you do not find in most other towns.  Dogs can roam around with the freedom of being near-human, without collars or tags.  People can smoke anywhere they pretty much please.  Trash cans seem optional for many of the properties, and occasionally a bit of mid-day intoxication is perfectly normal…not on my end, mind you.  Though I was working steadily through one cold Pabst every 20 minutes or so, my vitality seemed to have a negating effect on the alcohol.  It may as well had been soda pop.  Some of the local folks seemed to be in far more of a festive mood, shall we say, than usual.  I became good friends with a handful of them…like Bob Coyote, and the 22yr old bartender who had the unmistakable air of someone who could be one of my students (something that passes as obviously having a generous lack of parental guidance/presence in their lives, and a tendency to make poor decisions regarding people…namely men).  We all marvelled at a young blue healer who strutted around like he owned the place, and they filled me with stories about the area, the passes, the people.  After a few hours, Jessie came flying through town at break neck speed in his little white sedan with the cops in hot pursuit.  Everyone laughed about it as the vehicles flew past us at 50 mph on a 200 yard long dirt road.  We didn’t have to go around back to hear the cars door flying open, and Jessie hauling ass into the woods on foot.  “He’s gone rabbit now, they ain’t gonna catch him until he chooses to come back!”  It was one of the most entertaining evenings of my life.

Finally, at just about 8:30, I had to take leave of the place and people.  I abandoned my post at the picnic table and left the bartender, Bob and Ed to hold the fort down.  I slowly meandered back to camp…watched some trout ignore flies coming down a stream behind my camp…then quietly went to bed, excited for what the following day would bring.

So back on the bike I hopped and off into the baking sun I rolled.  Rolling hills suddenly started to gain some altitude, and I was surprised to summit one of them and find some real live trees again.  As the miles added on, so did the climbing…all the way to the turn off for Waterton, the international lakes region that rests  of Glacier Nat’l Park…just above the border.  I had to peel off in the other direction for Mountain Man Pass and the border crossing.  As soon as I made my move, the first true hill of the pass laid itself before me in all it’s resplendent glory.  Sometimes these little morale busters can give me a bit of a physical reaction.  In this case…with about 65 miles behind me…I felt like I was getting kicked in the stones.

I genuinely do enjoy pedalling up mountains.  I have absolutely no idea why this is…I just do.  I was completely exhausted…and let’s face it, the solid two pounds of ice cream I had floating in my belly was just the cherry on top of my crap-food-fuel day.  However the scenery was changing so quickly that my mood began to lighten up, regardless of the pain.  I was cresting into fields of aspens, and that magical sound they make in the breeze was helping me forget the fact that I was running out of daylight.

 On occasional stops I noticed the lakes and plains behind me, and it finally dawned on me that on that morning I had roughly started at the same altitude I was now climbing into.  The day had taken me East and down about 2,000 feet…then south to fight a nasty headwind…and now back up into the mountains again.  Kind of strange to see it all physically laid out like that.

Shortly before reaching the border, I came upon a campground and took the opportunity to rid myself of all the fruits and veggies that they would frown upon.  I managed to find the only campsite with a wicked fire ant problem, and spent the better part of ten minutes convulsively jerking around and flipping the little bastards off of my food. 

And then it was showtime at the border.  Agent/officer Brantley was all business as expected.  My jokes only seemed to make his humor go further south.  Again, I had to be honest about the bear spray…which apparently is classified as a weapon of some sort.  He actually seemed annoyed and surprised by the fact that I was carrying it.  I looked around as if to imply “this IS bear country right?  Isn’t that what the sign 300 meters back says?” and he started on about bringing concealed weapons into the US.  I just pointed to my trailer, which had the spray bungeed to the top of it and asked if that really counted as being concealed.  After much frowning and silly questions to try and throw me off (like asking me what kind of text-book I teach Math out of?!?!?!?), he finally granted me passage into my country of origin.  Whoooopee!  Not only that, but once he made the decision his attitude pulled a 180 and he started asking me all sorts of questions about my trip.  This time it was my turn to be a punk, so I gave him a few one-word answers and rolled off.

Funny thing about passes…not all of them just lead you up then down.  For example…Mountain Man Border crossing was supposed to be at the top of the pass (according to people I’d spoken with on the way up)…but the truth of the matter is that it does peak out a little bit…then it drops…then back up…then down…then way up…then kind of down…then, well you get the picture.  If one was to drive the road very quickly it might possibly feel like a roller coaster.  However, as the countryside immediately turned into farm/ranch land…and the road alternated between gravel and chunky pavement…hasty travel would be ill-advised.  I had to bob and weave around plenty of cows, and for the first time in my life I finally saw the literal action of an animal getting the shit scared out of it…only much to my dismay it was I who was doing the scaring at around 35mph, and the poor cow’s serious case of mud-butt covered so much of the road that avoiding the carnage was out of the question.  I made a mental note that fenders might be in store in my future as I closed my mouth, sped through crime scene and held my breath.

By this point in the day the sun was hugging the horizon.  I had some amazing mountains popping up in front of me and to my right, but the light was starting to fade quickly.  The cows seemed to be multiplying in the road, and I was starting to believe that I would spending the night in a pasture, waiting for the border patrol to shake me awake in the middle of the night and make me move on.  And just when this conclusion seemed inevitable, I finally hit the actual top of the hill. 

The following twenty minutes of my life were some of the scarier ones I’d care to forget.  My vision was waning in the lack of light, the road was full of holes and cracks…but at least the cattle were thinning out.  By the time I reached the end of the road, and the point where I had originally thought I’d be turning to head further south…I was spent…as were my breaks.

I can’t explain how happy I was to find four guys hanging their stuff out to dry in front of a little cabin by the intersection.  One of them looked at me and just nodded his head “I’m sure you can just camp over there in that field.”  I could hardly express my joy.  I took notice that three of them were adjusting tarps and sleeping bags, while one was laying on his back holding his stomach.  I asked what was going on and his buddy said they’d just finished a six day hike in the park…then found the cabin and went to eat at a steak house…where their friend had eaten enough for all of them.  The poor fella raised his hand and said he was “this” far from dying of pure pleasure.  His friend simply nodded and added “don’t tell his wife that”.  Hilarious.

I slowly rolled over to the field…met a great guy named Larry from Nebraska, vacationing with his family and staying in another cabin…then set up the tent…gave a call to Erin…noticed that I had just rolled over the 100 mile point for the day…and promptly passed the hell out.

I rushed off to the Stone’s Throw Cafe (well worth the trip if you’re ever in the area) to fuel up, and finished (once again) drying my things out in the sunlight across the street at the base of the local ski hill.  my plan had been to head east a bit and look for a route that would bring me into the east side of Glacier Park so I could ride the famous “Going to the Sun Road” westbound…which I’d been told repeatedly was the way to do it on a bicycle.

I was picking through more maps that looked like place mats when I finally just said ‘screw it…I’ll go east until I can go south.’  I lit out of town with what gradually became a booming tailwind.  The elevation dropped dramatically, as did the vegetation and the surrounding mountains.  I was shocked to see thirty miles pass underneath me in the course of under two hours…and before I could even guess as to what my next step should be…I was in the tree-less, arid countryside on the outskirts of Pincher’s Creek.  Beauty could be found in the far off rolling hills and the giant windmills that dotted the horizon…but you’d really have to be looking hard for it..especially after dropping out of such amazingly scenic countryside as there had been up on the pass.  On the way down I had noticed a few sections where the rivers had cut deep valleys in the hillsides, giving enough windbreak for trees to fill in the gaps.  The trees provided shade and protection and more fertile ground…and you could practically smell the trout down in those cuts.  I remembered that this was a place my brother and his wife had once visited (though maybe slightly north of there) and he had shared stories about the fish lurking down there where the rockies melt into the plains.  It will be nice to revisit the area some day with Erin and Baker, the Westy and some free time.

But even that area was now far behind me as I puttered into Pincher’s Creek.  I took a slightly southern turn and felt my once friendly tailwind try to toss me sideways under a passing semi.  It was almost noon…it was 90 degrees…there was no shade outside of the awning in front of the Walmart (which comprised half of the square footage of ‘town’)…and I had no idea where I was going.  It was once of those borderline scary moments in these trips when I start to wonder if I’d made some sort of mistake by coming this direction.

I psyched myself up and ran into a gas station where for some unknown reason I refused to actually purchase a map.  Instead I actually grabbed one, laid it on the floor and started writing down notes in my journal.  I promised the guy behind the counter that I’d buy some beef jerky from him…but he still glared at me until I left the store.  I checked my math with the time and figured that I still had another 50 miles to the border…and that there was next to nothing between here and there.  I rushed to the A&W for some fuel, but the place was packed.  It was then that I saw my destiny.  The Walmart had a McDonald’s inside…in all it’s air conditioned glory…and it was there that I would find the cheapest fuel in town…never mind the fact that I hadn’t eaten in a McDonald’s in over 8 years.

But who would have thunk it?  For under $4 I as able to assemble enough food to counter my caloric intake for almost three days.  I sat at a bar/table and stuffed myself while staring straight into the check-out lines…examining what everyone was purchasing and how they reacted to the total price.  It was then that I noticed how huge groups of people were wearing the same odd, full-body outfits…and the clothes seemed strangely home-made…the hairstyles were very….Holy Crap…I was relishing in a Mormom Walmart!  What a score!  Oh if only I had days to sit and study what life was like for the tattooed check-out clerk who had to ring up ream after ream of fabric..and case after case of clear glass jars…all for prices so low that my long-bearded friends could hardly contain their excitement.  But alas…to all god things…

…and for crying out loud, I was supposed to be rushing!  i tore out of the place, sent a text to Erin giving her my plan, and attacked the road with vim and vigor.  there was an immediate climb…followed by another…another…and yet another.  My choice of nourishment proved to make me rather sluggish in the now 95 degree heat of a shadeless plain that was starting to give me little oasis hallucinations.  I kept climbing…kept pushing…and kept looking dreaming of ice cream and shade.

After 20 miles or so I came across the “town” (re: one building) or Twin Butte.  It is with a happy heart that I report that this one building is a restaurant/bar/info center (with a Senor Frogs theme) that serves…you guessed it…ice cream…and hey have a shaded patio.  not only that…but the kind high school gals running the place were able to produce not one but two maps that peeled off large stacks of paper…to be used as place mats when needed!

I ordered (no kidding) a keg cup of ice cream…and they filled every square millimeter of it.  It was so hot outside that it basically became a milkshake as I looked over the baking plain.  I had another 20-30 miles to go before the border..and I was starting to wonder whether I would be able to make it…or whether I even wanted to.

But it was late, and some storms were coming in…so off everyone went to sleep.  At six in the morning I was ripped from sleep by a thunder clap so loud that it made my ears ring…that’ll get your blood pumping early!  I was out of the tent and throwing things into my dry bag in seconds.  John and Shirley went into action and popped out of their tent in full rain gear.  They worked quickly in tandem as I started prying them with questions.  Turns out that they’d quit their jobs in 1991 after saving all their pennies (and not having kids) and taken off to bike around the world for two an a half years.  Since then they had taken many other trips…including biking the GDMBR from border to border in 1999.  The Canadian portion didn’t exist back then, so they were making sure to add it into this trip.

Within half an hour, two rainstorms had rolled through over us while they ate and packed up.  Then, with a quick “good luck”, they were chugging up the hill.  I was left in the site by myself as another quick shower built up on the surrounding hills…my jaw agape…wondering what in the hell it was I was complaining about the day before.  I shook my head in amazement and rolled out.

The going was pretty fast, but the storms were really brewing in th highlands as I was dropping away to the south.  After a couple of hours of hard riding, a big shower finally caught up with me and soaked me to the bone.  It was a good drenching…I couldn’t have been more wet if I was underwater…and the spray of dirt and gravel left a bold streak up my back, over my helmet, and down my face.  The rain dissipated just as I was coming into the town of Elkford…who was lucky enough to have avoided any rain at all.

I rolled into town like I was the lead float in a crap-parade.

I found a hose at a gas station..one of the few structures in town…and pretty much showered with my clothes and helmet on in the parking lot.  The rig was in crap-tastic condition as well, and had ceased to brake or shift efficiently.  I spent some time getting it back into working order, then purchased and ate two large packages of beef jerky, then hauled ass straight out of town.

Sparwood was only an hour or two off, and by the time I saw that big beautiful truck (seriously…search for it now and don’t come back to this page until you’ve seen it posing as the General Lee), I was mostly dry again.  I ran into Eric at the visitor’s center…on a tour from Edmonton to Jasper, then the same route as I…but he was continuing on the new Canadian route (which takes you through the upper Flathead Valley…the Serengeti of the US…with the highest concentration of grizzly bears outside of Alaska.  Eeeek).  Eric had been out for a while, and had also ridden the GDMBR in 2003…just without the Canadian section.  We joked about the aches and pains of being just a few years older and doing this…and compared tales from some of the more infamous sections of trail.

After a bit I ran over to a gas station and once again had to hose the gear down from mud.  Rinse, repeat…an it was time to fill the furnace once again.  I walked into an A&W, grabbed a value meal, and without thinking inhaled everything but the wrapping in under three minutes.  I some-what came to when it was over and noticed that people were staring.  I felt like I should say something…but the moment passed…I just hung my head and walked out.

Over at the library for some computer time, Eric strolled in and mentioned some clouds of impending doom that were rolling up the valley.  We got booted from the library and rolled to a cafe while the town got soaked.  30 minutes of story swapping (and he had some good ones…like getting mugged by two kids in Tecate for a pannier)…and the storm had passed.  our routes overlapped for the next 7 miles, so we set out in tandem.

I think that we both put more effort in the push than we normally would have solo…but when you’re riding a short stint with someone else who has over ten thousand miles of touring under their belt you certainly don’t want to underwhelm them.  When we got his turn we actually joked about our hubris and took another picture or two before he set off into the wilderness.  When his trip is over he starts his PhD program in stream/salmon conservation at Berkley (yeah, clearly he’s a moron, right?)…so he was really looking to enjoy the next stretch.

I, on the other hand, continued up hwy 6 to the Crow’s Nest Pass.  My math kept seeming off on the mileage, but what could I do?  Even with the right conversion from kilometers to miles, my little computer was still telling me that I wasn’t doing enough.  I decided to ignore it and continue the push.

The actual summit of Crow’s Nest Pass was a bit underwhelming.  Well, let me rephrase that…the surrounding mountains are spectacular, and the dark blue sky was starting to get ribbons of storm clouds and haze…which made them look down-right angry…but the actual climb and summit were shockingly quick.  I crested a small hill by a lake and noticed a sign announcing that I was there at the top.

Well I took his to mean that I was some sort of super-duper rock-star, capable of leaping buildings in a single bound.  I continued on slowly and took so many pictures that I could practically make a flip-book of the place…foolishly ignoring the maelstrom that was winding up behind me.

The valley/pass area of Crow’s Nest Pass is actually a long saddle that holds three or four towns.  It slowly descends from the peak and follows rivers and streams (swarming with trout) gently down the east side of the Albertan Rockies.  I knew that there was a campground in the town of Blairmore (maybe 10 miles ahead) and figured that I had already clocked about 70 miles on the day…when I turned around to take yet another picture.  I was confused for a minute as to how someone David Copperfield had slipped in behind me and made a handful of 8,000ft peaks disappear.  If only was double jointed enough to kick myself in the rear as hard as I deserved to be kicked.

It was a futile cause, but I still beat a mean streak through the valley.  even with 30mph winds at my back I was still overtaken by the storm in the first couple of miles.  Rain, wind, lightning, thunder…damn near hellfire and brimstone…beat away over head an behind me.  I just laid the hammer down and talked  smack to myself as I flew into the Lost Lemon campground in Blairmore.  I was dismayed to find that it was the type of place where they fence and gate up a small area, charge you $23 for a 10 ft wide spot sandwiched between all the others, and expect you to ignore the less flattering sounds that might come from the people sleeping just a couple of feet away from you…separated by nothing more than super thin tent walls.  But, they had a warm shower and judging by my involuntary shaking spasms, I knew that I had no other choice.

Fortunately, my neighbors ending up being nice people, and my shoes some-what dried off over night in the bathroom.  Outside of that it was one of the less-fantastic camping experiences of my life.