Thursday, July 21st
After stopping in Dillon and deciding to cycle with Henrik up to Missolou we were faced with a moderate challenge for the next two days: cover 180 miles, including three mountain passes, and make it to the adventure cycling office (in Missolou) before 5pm on Friday.
Henrik needed to buy a map for the next section of his route hence the rush to the office before it closed for the weekend. I was also keen to get there early so we could enjoy some food and drinks in the evening.
That was the plan. I’m not a competitive cyclist but I do enjoy a challenge and was more than happy to sign up for a slightly ridiculous two days of cycling after a few which were more laid back.
The aim today was to at least reach Wisdom, a town 70 miles from Dillon and beyond two out of three of the climbs, though that would still leave us with 120 miles the following day. We decided to just see how things went.
We left the campsite at around 7.30, said goodbye to Jeff who we’d camped with, and picked up doughnuts and coffee before leaving town.
So began the first stretch of the day, a climb over Badger Pass.
I didn’t see much of Dillon, only enough to see that it was a lot bigger and more developed than the smaller old gold rush ghost towns of the last day or so. Instead of authentic Victorian charm and wooden sidewalks, it had a Subway.
The climb over badger pass took around 20 miles. Henrik was a lot faster than me. He had less stuff, and the stuff he did have was carried in a neat array of compartments, bags, and pockets which attached strategically to different areas of the bike, rather than using panniers. I liked this approach and really it made a lot of sense, everything was in the right place.
We met at the top of the climb to swig some water and take in the view. It was still the western desert landscape of the last few days, scrubby bushes, scattered cattle and the occasional gate or fence marking a ranch entrance.
Thea descent took us swiftly along to the second climb – the big hole pass. A slightly higher climb, and much the same terrain. By now the heat was the real problem. I could feel my hair clumped together with salt. My clothes stuck to me until a gust of wind from a passing truck would sometimes lift them from my body. I was lagging.
With the second pass cleared it was mostly downhill to Jackson. After a steep descent a cross wind swept in making the last few hills harder than they should have been and we both arrived in the town needing a long break – 50 miles in before lunch.
There wasn’t a lot to chose from in the town. No gas station, but a hot spring resort, a hotel offering rooms to cyclists, a gift shop and a cafe.
We picked some seats in the shade of the porch of the cafe and drank from huge tumblers full of ice water. A Bassat hound wandered the wooden decking.
I ordered the fish and chip basket, washed down with two cups of coffee. I often overlook lunch these days. Breakfast and dinner I’m definitely prepared for, but lunch often gets lost inbetween a blur of snacks and the passing of the day. It was nice to sit down and enjoy a good meal.
As we ate another cyclist took a seat. A slick, Lycra clad guy, who told us about Oliver – a cyclist he’d just passed who had cycled the Transamerica route when it was first assembled, back in 1976. He was cycling it again this year, on its 40th anniversary. He was 82. As I paid inside and left the bar he arrived, struggling in the heat like the rest of us, but otherwise fairing well. Me and Henrik cycled off after saying hello and wondering if we’d be doing this again in 40 years time.
A quick 18 miles with a tailwind downhill took us to Wisdom, originally a place we were thinking of staying but it was clearly far too early in the day to stop yet.
We’d passed a number of cyclists on the way here, all heading east. It was impossible to stop and talk to everyone though at the very least you’d shout a few words from your side of the road.
Wisdom was a little more functioning than Jackson, though the clear support for Trump and guns made me think the name was a little inaccurate at this time. We picked up some supplies from the grocery store and sat at a picnic bench in the shade with a motorcyclist, touring like us, but covering a lot more ground in a lot less time.
In the past month or so he’d left his home in Vancouver, gone down the California coast, across Nevada on the route 50, and was now, slightly reluctantly it seemed, winding his way back home. I was about to ask why he was doing this trip, but then I remembered how I didn’t really like having to justify myself when the reasons for doing something like this are fairly self evident, so I just left it to my imagination as he waved himself off back on the road.
Full of sugar from ice cream and Coke and on a slight high from the mileage we had already covered we set off again. One more pass to clear. We had three options. Camp just before it, camp after it, or camp on top of it – the slick guy at the cafe in Jackson said there was a highway rest area at the top that some cyclists used to crash at. This was the most appealing to me, leaving the big downhill for first thing in the morning.
Another 17 miles passed and I found Henrik outside the first campground. My energy had dropped a few miles in, but had picked up again soon after entering the national forest area we were now in. We were amongst trees again. The temperature felt cooler, and I felt a second wave of energy. We decided to press on for the top.
We cycled together for a while, chatting, the first time we’d kept a similar pace that day, along the now tree lined, smooth top roads. A deer drank at the side of the road and the desert landscape we’d adjusted to had given way to something more serene.
This climb was different. Rather than a long drawn out thing over many miles, this one was over in two or three much shorter but much steeper miles. I preferred them that way.
Henrik disappeared around one of the corners as the road curved upwards. I followed at my own pace and within 20 minutes reached the summit – Chief Joseph Pass – 7251ft. A bow tie shaped sign declared the elevation and the continental divide.
I’m not certain but I this means we’ve climbed over the Rockies. All I know Is tomorrow is all downhill.
The road dropped for a mile emerging at a junction. To my right, Montana, and to my left, Idaho. Two large signs mark the state entrances. I go to the Idaho side and enter the state for a few seconds near the sign.
The rest station is squarely in the middle, I’m not sure which state it belongs to if any. It’s been a good day, 94 miles, leaving exactly the same distance to Missoula tomorrow, but downhill. We decide to camp at the rest area.
It’s essentially a car park with toilets and picnic benches, but is surprisingly peaceful. Deer roam between the trees and chipmunks frolic in the grass as we cook some food. A few cars pull in but no one seems to mind we’re here, in fact one car pulls up and two woman approach with a fresh box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and invite us to take two each. They’d driven from some small town all the way to Missoula to get them. I’ve rarely experienced random acts of generosity like this outside of this bike ride.
The area might have bears in but none of the bins are bear proof, and a driver we ask seems to think it’s rare up here.
We decide to string up our food anyway, and crudely decide a way thread ropes through a gap on the roof of the picnic shelter, and hoist our bags up to the rafters. I will miss this kind of simple problem solving and survival once this ride is over.
Tomorrow: Another long day, but almost entirely downhill to Missoloua, perhaps were being over optimistic. Alarm set for 5am.
Map