Day 100: Gallatin National Forest to Ennis, MT

July 21, 2011

I wake up a couple of times during the night to the sound of wolves howling beneath the full moon—some a few miles off the the east and others a couple of miles to the west. The forest around me stays quiet and perfectly still all night and I sleep better than I have in at least a week. If the bears came around they must have decided to go after something better-smelling and with more meat on its bones.

I'm awake at 5:00 with the first bits of light leaking into the sky and the temperature in the mid-30s. I bundle up in two shirts, a rain jacket, rain pants, and gloves—almost all of the clothing I have—but as soon as I start riding my fingers and toes and nose feel as if they've iced over and will fall off if they bump into anything solid.

My reward is an incredible morning. I spot a thick bank of fog when I look into my mirror, but in front of me I see steam rising off of slow-moving creeks as the sun crests the horizon. Soft and wavy grass grows yellow-green and knee-high and extends out to Lake Hebgen, which sits flat calm and deep blue. The metal of the barriers along the road's edge pops and creaks as it expands in the heat. Behind all of it mountains rise smoothly until they reach their peak, when rocky ledges and small patches of snow take over. It's the stuff of postcards, brochures, and magazine spreads, and it's a more beautiful and rewarding place to ride than anywhere I traveled in Yellowstone. It's a great morning to be alive and riding through Western Montana.

After a power breakfast of pancakes that rank only behind those from Jeffrey City in size I push on toward Quake Lake. Unlike everything else around me, the life span of Quake Lake is measured in dozens of years instead of millions. On August 17, 1959, a magnitude 7.5 earthquake hit the area and caused the south flank of Sheep Mountain to break loose and fly toward the ground at more than a hundred miles per hour. The resulting mass of rock and dirt dammed the Madison River in an instant and within a month the lake began to take its current shape. As I look out from an overlook I see dead trees rise out of the greenish-brown water like skeletons. In the distance, the quarter-mile-wide section of Sheep Mountain that slid into the valley below stands brown instead of green.

Past the lake I follow the curves of the Madison River as it descends slowly but steadily to the north. Along the way I see dozens of fly fishermen, some standing nuts-deep in the freezing water, but most sitting in boats that coast gently downstream and are carefully steered away from rocks using oars instead of engines. The hills on the east side of the valley roll gently and are covered in grass and sagebrush, while those on the west are thick with dark green pine trees. It's huge and beautiful and I love it, so much so that I start to curse and yell out of joy because it's all so impressive and wonderful. To make my life even better, both the wind and the elevation work in my favor. The breeze blows 15 to 20 miles per hour straight from behind, and the 40 miles between Quake Lake and Ennis drop me almost 2,000 feet. I'm so happy to be alive and crossing America on a bike.

It also seems to be a great day to sing indie rock songs in the same style as a middle-aged Japanese businessman doing English-language karaoke, because I do that, too.

In the early afternoon I reach Ennis, home of the 1982 Class C state football champion Mustangs and the Rocky Mountain Antler Museum, and a place where the streets on the west half of town aren't paved, like something I'd expect to find in Alaska or the Yukon Territory. As I ride down the main drag, past its fly fishing outfitters, gift shops, and real estate brokerages I get the feeling that I won't meet anyone interesting or curious or even a bit nuts during my time here, just like most of the places I've passed through lately.

Soon after I figure out the reason why: no one's from here. Most every town I've visited since Central Colorado lives and dies by tourism, which changes the type of people I tend to meet, and not in the direction I want. I decide that if the character of the places won't reveal itself to me that I'll have to start seeking it out myself. It's a good time for it, because tomorrow I leave the comfort of the TransAm behind for the last time as I head north toward Glacier National Park. It'll be a return to the more unpredictable kind of traveling that I love so much.

An old school bus painted white and turned into a Mexican restaurant is parked at the entrance to the campground, a place that's mostly a gravel parking lot with a few patches of grass and half a dozen trees on each side. I set up alongside the ACA group and yet another touring biker from the Netherlands and spend the evening hanging out with B.J., Becky, Glen, Phil, and Peter, drinking slushies, eating buttered Bisquick pancakes with my hands, and taking in a few last shots of socializing before I ride out of town in the morning all by myself.

Today's ride: 70 miles (113 km)
Total: 5,096 miles (8,201 km)

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