Three hours up and 1/2 hours down.  That pretty much sums up my 16-mile ascent and 12-mile descent of the Going to the Sun Highway.  As for the mountain scenery that is considered to be among the most spectacular in the world, the scenery that draws hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, the scenery that Native Americans consider to be sacred, the scenery that has been known to reduce grown men to tears, the scenery that can render even the most eloquent individuals speechless, the scenery that evokes thoughts of paradise, the scenery that really puts into perspective man's tiny place in this world . . . well, I saw very little of it.

What I DID see was fog and/or rain the entire distance.  Only occasionally did the fog thin out enough to reveal quick glimpses of the majestic peaks and valleys that I knew were out there.   I must say, however, riding up into the foggy clouds did provide some interesting scenery of a different kind.

Several times I came across rocks in the road.  The rainfall had apparently loosened those rocks from the mountainsides and sent them tumbling down.  Some of them were pretty large--about the size of truck tires--and automobiles had to be pretty careful maneuvering around them.  At one point I heard a loud scraping sound coming from around the bend.  It turned out to be a huge snow plow removing debris from the road.

The rain worked its way inside my rain gear and soon my whole body, particularly my feet and hands, was very cold and wet.  I didn't even attempt to take my phone out to take pictures even once the entire day.  Go ahead, try to name one other person besides me who cycled this beautiful and amazing route and didn't take a single picture.  Can't do it, can you?  I guess that makes me one-of-a-kind.

At Logan Pass I used a restroom to squeeze all of the water out of my socks.  It was only 40-degrees (F) up there and, being off the bike, I started shivering pretty hard.  Inside of the restroom I think it was even less than 40-degrees.  So I went into the visitor center in an attempt to warm up.  I think it was only 41-degrees in there.  I believe the only heat in the building was provided by the fireplace.  I positioned myself right in front of the roaring fire and, with all the heat rising straight up the chimney,  the temperature couldn't have been more than 42-degrees, which isn't all that cold--unless you're soaking wet.  With all the shivering, the roomful of dry tourists staring at me, and the belief that I'd be better off generating my own heat while pedaling, I didn't stay at the visitor center for very long.

On the east side of Logan Pass (the Continental Divide) there was no fog.  But I STILL didn't see any scenery because I was too busy being SCARED SHITLESS!  Pouring rain obstructed my vision and, despite riding my brakes, I was speeding down the switchbacks almost uncontrollably.  It took all of the mental focus I possessed just to keep from flying off the edge of the 2,000 foot cliffs.  I certainly had no time for sightseeing.

A couple miles down, the Going to the Sun Road straightened out a little but remained very steep.  That's when I saw a sign that warned "Rough Road Next Nine Miles."  Son-of-a-YIKES!!!  I just barreled through all of the road construction, which, at the time, seemed safer than squeezing the brakes on random sections of gravel at that speed.  When the road leveled off, I was the most grateful man on earth.

On a nicer day, I would have savored the entire ride and I would have been especially thrilled by this long, fast downhill.  But in these hypothermic conditions and on this wet road, it was a different story altogether.

At the Rising Sun Campground I set up my tent as fast as I could, changed into my few remaining dry clothes, crawled into my sleeping bag, and was able to save my fingers and toes from having to be amputated.  (Alright, a bit of an exaggeration.)  I took a long nap as it continued to rain all afternoon.  A backpacker's freeze-dried meal was my supper.  Those things are mighty tasty in such circumstances.