Day 103: Wilsall, MT to Lewis & Clark National Forest

July 24, 2011

It's another cold morning, but it's completely worth the shivering and frozen hands because it's Sunday and I have the highway all to myself. I see the sun rise over the mountains off to my right, and then watch as it spreads long shadows all across the plains. An airplane makes low passes over a nearby lake and I ride next to a herd of at least two dozen antelope. Cows stop and look at me as I pass, with ID tags dangling from both ears like a pair of earrings and mooing like I insulted their mothers.

I talk to the cows a lot, because there isn't anything but the long, straight road ahead to keep my attention. Sometimes I ask them questions, sometimes I moo and try to get them to talk back, and others I make strange noises and watch their reactions. In between I sing the same Regina Spektor song 20 times, adding as much soul and flavor and variation as I can before it finally loses all meaning. And then I just pedal, past the near-ghost town of Ringling and on to the north. It's a windless, beautiful morning and the riding is deeply satisfying.

I roll into White Sulphur Springs and past several creative but depressing anti-meth murals just after 10:00. I know that all of the day's easy riding is behind me and I plan accordingly. I grab breakfast in a cafe with taxidermied antelope, elk, and buffalo heads mounted on the walls above the front counter. At the table behind me sit a pair of young 20-something girls have, like, oh my god, some, like, stilted conversation about, like, weddings and things, you know what I mean? Totally. In the booth on the other side are a couple of young girls, ages two and three, who are really good at screaming and not listening and who remind me for the 125th time on this trip that I'm not ready to have kids for a long time.

I want a huge meal that will power me over the hills ahead, but I can't figure out exactly what that will be. Then my eyes fall to something called The Undecided. It brings together eggs and hashbrowns and cheese, throws sausage and ham and bacon on top, and adds four pieces of toast, because why the hell not?

It's 97 miles from Hot Sulphur Springs to Great Falls, the next town of any size. My map lists a few small towns in between, but I have no idea if they'll have any services, or if those services will be open when I roll through. I fill my panniers with enough granola bars, raisins, Milky Ways and Snickers to start a small store and top off all of my water bottles, just in case I don't come across supplies until tomorrow afternoon.

"Man, you must be tough," the middle-aged guy standing outside the store says. "I don't know how you guys do it."

"Very slowly, most of the time," I tell him.

He asks about where I'm from and where I'm headed and I'm happy to explain. Even though I've answered the same questions a hundred times since leaving Key West, I appreciate anyone who's interested in talking bikes or crazy adventures.

"Man, you must be something like point-eight percent body fat!" he says after I tell him how many miles I've come.

"Eh, not quite yet," I say with a grin. "These bags are filled with candy bars"

The guy he's traveling with walks out of the store a few minutes later.

"Look at this guy," the first man tells the second. "He's made of steel! Riding all the way from Florida to Washington!"

A few seconds later I get a big slap on the back and a couple of rounds of good lucks and have funs. Most people are impressed when they learn what I'm doing, but this guy's big eyes and wide smile and huge enthusiasm go way beyond. It makes me feel really good about what I'm accomplishing this summer.

I leave town with the bike more weighted down than ever, but ready to kick the shit out of the roads leading up to Kings Hill Summit, nearly 2,500 feet above. The climb starts out tough, but I'm strong and motivated, and in the groove, and ... what the hell? I come over a rise and see a yellow sign ahead, with a truck angling down a cheese wedge shape with a label below that reads "Hill." Damn. The quickest way to ruin an awesome descent is to put it in the middle of an hours-long climb. When I start going up I want to work my ass off, sweat and swear like I'm deranged, grind through it, and then cash in all my effort at once on one amazing downhill.

The afternoon turns beautiful as soon as I reach the tree line. Thick evergreens that remind me of home crop up on both sides of the road, alongside quietly descending streams, chirping birds, waving blades of tall grass, and the dozens of huge flies who buzz around me in a bug spray-induced halo. The roads twist gently up, mile after mile, and make me feel confident that I'll dominate the climb just like I did throughout Colorado and Wyoming, because I'm in such incredible shape that now I beat up mountains in my sleep.

Then I round a corner and see a steep grade taunting me.

Shit.

I know right away that it won't stop until it reaches the pass another 1,500 feet up. All I can do is put my head down and pedal steadily through what ends up being the hottest part of the day. Soon the breeze goes away completely and I slog through a sweat that won't stop. Whenever I tilt my head down even a little bit the drops run together and pour off my chin in a white and salty stream. Then my side starts to hurt, but I figure it's just the Mountain Dew working its magic and giving me strength. The highway winds its way north around a series of blind curves, which gives me half a dozen chances to think I'm at the top when I still have miles to go.

Eventually the real crest comes into view—it always does—and those familiar feelings of accomplishment and satisfaction wash over. They'll never, ever get old.

The ride down the other side screams for four miles and then settles into the kind of gradual descent where I cruise at 20 miles per hour without hardly pedaling at all. It makes everything in life good again. I coast into Neihart, which turns out to have one store, The Inconvenience Store, that's open for 15 more minutes. It's a small place with narrow aisles, unflattering lighting, and a weird mish-mash of food and drinks and household goods, but it's everything I need. Teenagers fly by on ATVs as I head to Bob's Bar a few doors away, where I lose a few hours drinking beer. Because I was ready to find absolutely nothing out here, all of the people and food and drinks seem so much sweeter.

With a little less light in the sky and a little stronger buzz I continue down along the curves of Belt Creek, past an ugly Forest Service campground. Not much farther on I turn off the highway, ride a few hundred feet down a dirt path, and find my home for the night, 20 feet from the fast-moving waters that churn white and green. Laying inside the tent I think about how I just had the kind of day that bike tourers wax poetic about for years afterward: Man, I watched the sun rise over the prairie, then I ate this giant and amazing breakfast, pounded over a steep mountain pass, flew down the other side, had a few beers in this quirky little town, and then camped by a rushing river as the sun set behind the walls of the canyon. It was so awesome.

The only proper way to cap it all off is to let the bubbles and gurgles and crashes of the river lull me to sleep as to cool night air slowly pours into the valley.

Done.

Today's ride: 91 miles (146 km)
Total: 5,285 miles (8,505 km)

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