Wednesday, May 23, 2012
When I started out yesterday, from the Stanton Creek campground, 27 miles west of the great Continental Divide, I had no inkling of just how hard the day would turn out to be.
I knew that riding over the Rocky Mountains would be a chore, after all I'd been at it hammer and tong for more than a day already and I still had a long way to go.
My plan was to crank over the top then coast down the east side of the Rockies to the little town of East Glacier where I would find a place to wild camp for the night.
For the first few hours everything went according to plan. I reached the Continental Divide at the top of the Rocky Mountains at 2:10 in the afternoon. It's not high as mountain passes go, only a little over 5000 feet above sea level, but a storm had been chasing me for the past day, and it caught up to me with a vengeance once I hit the summit.
Man, was it ever cold. The wind howled like a banshee and the rain came down in almost horizontal sheets. I lingered only long enough to snap a couple of pictures, then began the long west side descent.
With a stiff wind at my back, I sped along. The road was in good shape, the shoulder was wide, the weather was clearing and I let out a war whoop as my speedometer climbed past 30 miles an hour. "This is what bike touring is all about," I thought, "only a dozen fast miles to East Glacier... It's almost a shame that it'll be over so soon.." As it turned out, I didn't need to lament. Fortune had spun her wheel and she had much more mischief in store for me. Much more.
Yup, I was feeling on top of the world when I sped into East Glacier. I guess ignorance really is bliss. The sky was brightening and that wind at my back? Holy cow, it had picked up such strength that I had to ride my brakes to keep from traveling backward in time.
I looked around for likely wild camping spots; someplace off the road, a few trees to block me from the road and relatively flat ground. But this western Montana country is much different from the east side of the mountains. It's drier with less vegetation and very few trees. I guess they chop them down because they slow the wind that howls out of the mountains. Anyway, I spied no likely spots, just jack rabbits and sage brush, so I resigned to pay for a spot in a commercial facility in or near town.
But when I got to the heart of the little village and stopped in at a store to ask about it, the young Native American man at the counter just gave me a look. "Are you out of your mind, man, no one camps around here. That goddamn wind will turn a tent inside out."
I smiled a smug smile. "Thanks," I said, and thought, "okay, it's on! I'll wild camp after all. My tent is no average affair, it can stand up to anything nature can throw at it!"
I cruised out of town keeping my eyes peeled for a place that would meet my criteria. But as the miles rolled by and the country became even sparser, I began to worry. "Would I ever find a place to camp?" I didn't want to go much father, my legs were feeling heavy and my arms began to ache.
Soon I was entering the little town of Browning. It's a pretty sketchy place; lots of boarded-up buildings, trash blowing in the wind and wild dogs eyeing me with suspicion. I definitely wanted this burg far away in my rear view mirror before I set up for the night.
Problem was, I was beat. Man, all of a sudden it hit me. I was climbing a long hill out of town and my legs almost gave out on me. I made it a few miles more then spotted a side road that led off into some low hills. It wasn't much, I really wasn't out of side of the highway and I could see a couple of houses across the road... which meant they could see me too.
But I was too tired to go on. I broke out my tent and wrestling the wind, set it up on a little knoll. Now the wind was really rocking and rolling. I crawled inside, inflated my sleeping pad wiggled into my bag for some much-needed rest.
But it was not to be. Several big gusts came along and laid my tent flat. I mean flat. The walls were actually being pressed up against my face by this terrible plains wind.
I knew I'd made a mistake. I glanced at my watch; it was 6:30 in the evening, I had a couple of hours of sun left but not nearly enough time to make it to Cutbank 31 miles farther east.
"Well, I've got to do something," I thought. So with Grimm determination I packed up camp, loaded my bicycle and got back on the road. The same wind that had defeated my attempt at camping now pushed me along at speeds in excess of 20 mph. "I just might pull this off," I said. I'd been talking to myself for the past few hours; not a good sign.
But the wind kept up, the road was flat or slightly downhill and I sped along and unheard-of speeds. In no time at all I was 20 miles from Cutbank. Then 10 miles. Then five. Now I can see the little town off in the distance. I was going to make it! There's a steep hill that leads down to a river just outside of town and boy, I was really cooking. When I hit the bridge I must have been going well over 30. Suddenly I hit a big bump, and felt that heart sickening crunch that can only mean a flat tire.
I rolled to a stop at the side of the road. On the other side of the bridge a hill lead up to Cutbank. It was only 500 yards but in my exhausted state it looked like Mount Everest. As I struggled up the the grade I could see to the left a sign announcing the presence of the Super Eight Motel.
I stumbled in. Staggered up to the clerk. "Do you have a room?" I asked meekly.
The clerk looked me up and down. "Boy," he said, "you look like you've had a hard day."
"Not bad," I squeaked, "Now what about that room?"
I soaked in the tub for about an hour. Went to bed and slept the sleep of the pure at heart. I think today is going to be a short day.
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