... and three improbable events, AKA miracles.
What are the odds that I would bike to Red Meadows Lake to encounter someone who was ready and anxious to hear about making choices in her life?
How did I feel when I reached the border, having ridden my bike approximately 1200 miles over the course of 31 days?
JK
I left Whitefish a bit after 7 AM Monday morning and started the long slog to North Fork road. The wind was calm all day, a great gift from the weather gods who had been "head winding" me for most of this trip. In the calm, still morning a thick fog shrouded the northern end of Whitefish Lake, but the rest of the lake surface was free of that low lying cloud. Very peaceful and somehow mysterious at the same time ...
Around 9 AM the sun finally rose above the nearby mountains and the gloom of "valley riding" was replaced with the golden warmth of the sun. The road itself, like so many of the roads I had encountered in the Swan Valley, was carved through the forest so I only got occasional views of the mountains on either side of the dense forest that hemmed in the road when I reached a clearing. When I got those views, I was reminded of Bob Ross's landscapes: stark, knife edged, sedimentary mountains, evergreens spreading below tree line, valleys and parks tinged autumn orange below.
BTW, it only took me a month to realize that I much prefer biking in sunshine rather than in the shadows ...
Improbable Event I
Remember Marshall, "THE Marshal", who had cut me a break on the cost of my camp site a few days ago at Wayfarer's State Park? Well, I uncharacteristically stopped at an intersection to check on how far it was to the pass when I heard a car coming up the road. I decided to wait for it to pass, but it turned out to be a half dozen ATVs.
You'll never guess who was in that brat pack of geezers on all terrain wheels? THE Marshal!!!!
Turns out that they always ride on Tuesdays and on this Tuesday, they opted to head up this road to look at some fire damage. If that's not unlikely enough, if I had ridden past that intersection, I would never have encountered THE Marshal: they turned left, I went straight. So unlikely that I would have met him again ... but I, unbeknownst to me, I was waiting for him.
The final push to pass before Red Meadow Lake wasn't too technically difficult, just long. Man, I'm tired of climbing hills! But, as is always the case, the downhill was a blast.
Improbable Event II
As a reward for the climbing, I decided to stop and eat lunch at Red Meadows Lake. A beautiful, alpine blue-green, achingly pure, clear water mountain lake, flanked by a mountain slope exploding with orange and red shrubs. Well worth the climb.
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| Red Meadows Lake http://www.struck.us/BikePics/ |
Well, you'll never guess who was there? Tina Seeley, from Pensacola, (I didn't know her, either) who was trying to make a big decision about her life: should she move back to Montana? We talked quite a bit about The Line (see previous post on this topic) and I felt that she knew what she should do (The Line ... move back to Montana) but was afraid to do it (not riding the line). I will never know what she decided, but I think our conversation might have nudged her to return to Montana.
What are the odds that I would bike to Red Meadows Lake to encounter someone who was ready and anxious to hear about making choices in her life?
The rest of the downhill to North Fork Road was a blast with the proviso that I was constantly afraid that I would have a high speed encounter with a bear. To prevent this from happening, I sang "Rocky Mountain High, Colorado" at the top of my voice, complementing my recently discovered John Denver persona. Don't know if the bears didn't like the screeching or they just weren't in the vicinity, but I didn't see any bears on that swift decent.
Why can't the downhills last longer than the uphills?
When I hit North Fork Road, I had to decide to either go 5 miles off route to Polebridge (which meant 5 extra miles in the morning to get back on route) or continue on to Tuchuck Campground (just like "Two Buck Chuck" but without the two ...). It was sunny, I only had 5 hours of seat time and Tuchuck was "on route". So I turned north (remember that Canada is north of the US), rather than south, and headed to Tuchuck.
Man, talk about a bad Line ... this road may have been one of the worst on the trip (save the worst for last?). It seemed as if the builders of the road took sharp stones and impregnated them into the road, sharp points pointing skyward. Very difficult to ride as each time my tires hit one of the sharp edges, I slowed down. Now imagine doing a 1000' climb on that surface ...
... when I finally reached Tuchuck around 5 PM, I was very tired and very relieved. I had picked Tuchuck as my destination since it was an official Forest Service campground and there would be others camping there to share in fighting off any bears. When I arrived, no one was there, but it was relatively early. I set up the tent, ate dinner (1/2 a delicious Safeway deli meat sandwich with extra horseradish sauce and a Snickers bar), brushed my teeth, did my journal and ...
NO ONE ELSE SHOWED UP! I WAS ALL ALONE IN GRIZZLY BEAR COUNTRY!!!!
In an impolite word: F!
The campsite had bear boxes and I dutifully put my panniers and dry bag into the boxes. I thought, ironically, that this protected my bags but didn't protect me. But I was really, really tired from the 8 hours of "seat time" on the bike, so I laid down in the tent and I was out like a light!
When I awoke a few hours later, it was dead silent and the first quarter moon was shooting slivers of ghostly white light through the campsite. Looking through the towering pines around my site I could see my last spectacular canopy of stars and the Milky Way. Very magical ...
But as soon as I got back in the tent, the Keller worry gene kicked in and I started fretting about bears. Damn! I should have started a fire! Should I go to the campsite across the campground, get the firewood I had seen there and try to start a fire in the dark or would it be better just to remain in the tent if there are bears about? Maybe I should sleep in the bathroom? Should I pick out a tree to climb?
Ultimately, my rational self (bear attacks are soooo rare!) settled the Keller worry gene side and I finally got to sleep. I was surprised when the alarm went off at 6:30 AM on my last day of riding and I was actually still asleep!
Cold, cold, cold. There was frost on my bike seat and the tops of the water bottles were frozen! Time for the heavy gloves ...
I still had another 1000' of climbing on sh*tty road before reaching the Whitefish Divide. I prefer to ride up rather than down in the morning as riding up warms me up, riding down makes me even colder. The sh*tty road followed up one valley and, when I reached the end of that valley, I thought I was done climbing, but, no, the route called out a turn on another sh*tty road, still heading up.
Have I mentioned that I'm tired of climbing?
Finally, I reached my very last pass, Whitefish Divide, and started a fast decent on that terrible road surface. I sang all about it in the hope that bears would hear my vocal complaints about the road and stay off it.
Then, some 8 miles from the highway, a gift from the road building gods: a 1 lane, paved road, going downhill! WOW!!!! After riding on that terrible road, I was effortlessly flying downhill. Bears be damned, I am turning it loose!
Brakes? We don't need no stinkin' brakes.
When I reached the highway, I turned towards the border on highway 93 and continued to enjoy the asphalt, the sunshine on the plains, the lack of wind. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that I failed to notice that I had ridden 1/2 mile beyond the next turn. Damn! I had to go back which burned precious seat time!
Still, turning back allowed me to talk to a tech (on the road I was supposed to take) who was helping to bring fiber optic Internet to rural Montana. I don't have fiber optic in urban Thornton! A massive backhoe was compacting the soil after the installation. The cab was in the left lane, the arm of the backhoe arched across the right lane. The operator stopped, waved me on, but didn't move the massive arm: I was riding under the arch of dangerously powerful, hydraulic equipment.
Maybe I should have stayed on the highway?
I finally reached Eureka (I don't make these things up) and stopped in at the library which was located on Dewey Street (I don't make these things up). I was going to eat lunch at a restaurant in town, then bike boldly to the border, but I was anxious to reach my final goal so I headed north on an empty stomach.
About 10 miles, asphalt, no wind, but ... one ... last ... hill ...
... then downhill to the border crossing. The interesting thing was the road I was on skirted the border and, if I wanted to forego the drama of potentially dealing with US Customs, I could have stopped, walked 10', crossed a normal farm fence and made it to Canada.
But that's not where the official ACA route went so I followed the route to the US/Canada Border.
As I stood under the border sign, without a selfie stick, I tried to get people passing north to stop and take THE picture, proving that I had made it (no proof, though, that I had actually biked there ...).
No one stopped ... thanks!
But the cars were backing up at Canadian customs so I walked over to the last car, explained my plight and they gladly walked back with me to take the photo I sent out earlier.
That's when the border altercation began ...
As the friendly photographers were milling around, a Canadian customs agent came out of the building and yelled at everyone to get back in their cars. I can only interpret this to mean that by international conventions no one is allowed to walk in the DMZ between the official border and a customs inspection station.
Me? Since I hadn't been cleared by Canadian customs (but had been on Canadian soil since I had to walk north to convince those people to take my picture), I just turned south and headed back on the two lane road I had arrived on. As I'm biking, I see a US Customs agent pop out of the US customs building, bring a pair of binoculars to his eyes and look me over as if I were an enemy combatant.
Clearly a terrorist threat, he yelled at me to stop proceeding and ordered me to come over to the customs building! Now!
Whatever, dude ...
He demanded my passport (fair enough), but then wanted proof that I hadn't been in Canada. Kinda hard to prove a negative, but I had shown him the picture of me at the border which inspired him to ask to see the last 10 pictures I had taken. Unbelievably, I had taken a picture of "the last hill", simply a steep hill on asphalt Airport Road. When I explained what that was, he said, unbelievably again,
"I recognize that road ... you can go."
WHA?????
As I was packing up, he told me that the reason he had called me over was he thought I was trying to duck paying duty on goods I might have brought in from Canada.
Later, I talked to two other people who suggested that the US Custom Agents at the Roosville crossing were (paraphrasing here) d*cks.
Improbable Event III
I was going to ride back to Eureka (10 miles) then hitch a ride further south, but I thought I'd eat my other 1/2 of the delicious Safeway deli meat sandwich with extra horseradish sauce and hitch hike while doing so. I allowed 1/2 hour and, if someone didn't pick me up, I would ride to Eureka.
Only needed 10 minutes ...
... Maureen reluctantly stopped and ultimately took me to Glacier International Airport where I had reserved a car to drive down to Helena. But first we talked about a wide range of topics, including, of course, The Line, and she took me to her home in Whitefish where we had a beer and had a good discussion of politics with her husband, Terry. Maureen and Terry are Canadians who can work remotely and, coincidentally (too many coincidences on this trip????), they are mountain bikers!
I invited myself to join them on a ride in the future and they gladly agreed. Reminded me of Mark and Susan from Tennessee at the Mobley Entertainment Center.
I also met their dog, The Dude. He enjoyed being petted and I was calmed by doing the petting.
After beers Maureen drove me to the airport, following part of the route I had ridden just two days earlier. She dropped me at the gate and I strolled into the Avis office to get my one way car to Helena.
Thanks, Maureen, for starting me off on my way home.
Thanks, Maureen, for starting me off on my way home.
The drive back to Helena was surreal in that I traveled south, traversing a lot of the ground I had just biked north. Particularly stunning was driving The Swan Valley. While it took me 1 1/2 days to bike it, it seemed to take FOREVER to drive it. It was almost shocking to realize that I had covered all that ground and that was just a small portion of the total trip.
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| Swan Valley |
The icing on the cake was when I drove into Helena on US 12, the road I took after the rains cleared in Helena, the same road that Ron and Jean live on who stored my bags at the Holland Lake campground. When I rode that highway out of town I never thought that I'd be driving on it in the opposite direction.
I opted to try the Howard Johnson's across the street from the Super 8. Costs $10 extra per night, but it's nicer, quieter, they have a bacteria laced hot tub and don't forget the Longhorn Casino with drinks and hot slots.
I am not sure what my next move will be and I'm not going to worry about it tonight. Update to follow tomorrow on my plans to get back to Thornton.
OK. The elephant in the room:
How did I feel when I reached the border, having ridden my bike approximately 1200 miles over the course of 31 days?
Frankly, I was too busy trying to get THE picture then dealing with Customs then hitching. About a couple miles BEFORE arriving I felt very emotional, but I promised myself I wouldn't cry while biking and I didn't. Over the coming days I'm sure the immensity of what I've done will hit me.
I'm very grateful to verify that I did not see a single bear on my trip. If only I had known that during all those camping nights that I worried about it ...
I hope all is going well for you and your loved ones.
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