Great Divide Mountain Bike Route Update #6

Lincoln, MT

This posting is the audience participation part of our program.

The Danny Express is headin' to Canada. And it's moving like one of them new fangled high-speed bullet trains they got in Paris and Tokyo and other cities and stuff.

Beautiful Lincoln, Montana. Famous for being the home of Ted Kaczynski and, well, not much else.

My voyage here from the fine metropolis of Rawlins has been wild (2 snaps and a circle).

Oh where to begin.

Ah, yes. After Macgyvering my lower back together with ibuproferin, short lengths of wire fencing and blue electrical tape, I proceded through the Great Divide Basin of Wyoming. A parched and barren landscape, this desert provided me encounters with roaming wild horses, thousands of antelope, and vast amounts of nothingness. Oh, and 30 mile/hr headwinds. Let me tell you, my back really appreciated it. The second afternoon of this madness, as I was crawling downhill at 7 miles/hr, I finally did what I should have done 4 weeks ago. I cried.

Yes the wind in Wyoming is the stuff of legend. Like in New Mexico it comes blasting out of the West every afternoon like a Greek god on Viagra. Unlike in New Mexico, I was not heading East.

Shit.

After 2 days of riding through the desert winds, I reached the small town of Boulder, WY. Spread on the open range, a gas station pretty much sums up the place. It was late and I needed a place to camp, and it looked like it might be a tricky affair, as it all seemed like private land with no forests to sneak into. As I come to the edge of town, I spot a sign pointing up a small hill to the town cemetary. Now, regardless of what you may think of cemetaries, they make great places to camp. Flat, quiet, grassy; over the years I have camped in cemetaries more than once. Perfect, I thought. So I roll on up the hill 1/4 mile to the gates of the town folks' final resting place. As I approach, I think....great, this place is classic. Green and shady in an otherwise brown and exposed part of the universe, good camping indeed.

But hmmmmm, something seems familiar. I've been here before, I think to myself. Could it be? Is it possible? Past life? Past death? Gotta know!! So I roll down the hill to the road and continue on to see if other spots come back to me. Well, I don't get another 1/4 mile down the road when, sure as the nose on my face (no comments from anyone), I spot it. The campground.

Eleven years ago, I rode a bike from Oregon to New Jersey. Turns out I passed through this very town and popped into this campground to see about camping for the night. They didn't allow tents (?), so I continued up the road until I saw the cemetary sign....and....well.... you know the rest of the story. So I have not once, but twice, camped in the Boulder, Wyoming cemetary. 1998 and 2009.

Apparently the campground still does not allow tents. Recreational vehicles only. Seriously!? Now allow me to explain something to you. Tooling around the pavement at 60 miles/hr in a wheeled land yacht is driving, not camping. Likewise, pulling one of those traveling, temperature-controlled b&b's into one of these many roadside stables for the night is parking, not camping. To camp, one needs, at most, a tent (and maybe a cemetary). Just wanted to clarify that for everyone.

So here is your 1st oportunity for audience participation. Post a comment with a bad joke about camping in a cemetary. Worst joke wins my bike shorts when I'm finished (ewwwww!). I'll start it off (see comments). C'mon, this is gonna be fun.

So, now that that's over with, I can tell you about Pinedale, Wyoming. Down the road from Boulder and at the foot of Wyoming's incredible Wind River Range, Pinedale is an old western cow-town that is slowly transforming into an eco-tourist destination. Like others along the divide, this town is engaged in an identity crisis with itself, but seems to be searching it's soul and, with lots of therapy, pulling through. After doing my shopping, mailing, emailing, etc, I stumbled into a brewpub (I rest my case!) to get some lunch before riding off that afternoon. A strapping cowboy comes in and sets down next to me at the bar. Turns out he's a horse shoer. That's right folks, he puts shoes on horses for a living. We chatted about shoeing horses, long distance mountain bike touring, cows and deraileurs...you know, everything we had in common. As I got up to leave I had this strange feeling I was Jake Gyllenhaal for a moment. hmmmm.

After I composed myself, I peddled 50 miles up into the Wind River Range. Now, I've mentioned that this was a wet year in the Rockies, right? Help me out here, what likes rain? Trees and plants? Yes. Umbrella manufacturers? Yes, yes....good. TV meteorologists? Perhaps. Let's see...what else? Ah, of course......mosquitoes. You see, unfortunately, unlike my ex-lovers in Portland, rain makes mosquitos want to get all romantic with each other. Those tender moments produce vast millions of baby mosquitoes with one mission: to drive Daniel to total and complete insanity.

I had been utterly harrassed by mosquitos every day since northern New Mexico. But let me tell you, nothing prepared me for the onslaught I faced in the Wyoming forests. I have been humbled by the little blood-suckers.

Which brings me to a completely different subject. What does Daniel do while peddling for 12 hours/day to entertain himself (don't get smart). Besides attempting not to get lost, pondering lunch, keeping an eye out for predators and thinking too much about too little, I tend to bide my time with a song or 2 in my head. The voices in my head and I have become fabulous with the three part harmonies. Our favorite tunes you ask? Well, most popular has been "In The Navy" by the Villiage People (exclusively for easy downhills), "Take This Job and Shove It" (ascents), and the theme song from "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" (for pavement). But, alas, I'm bored.

Here is your 2nd oportunity for audience participation. Think Elton John Concert here, swaying and clapping over your heads. Seriously. I need new ideas for songs to get stuck in my head for days on end. Post a comment with your suggestions. Sound fun? Yeah. OK, some exclusions. Absolutely no Fleetwood Mac. Please no TV theme songs. Nothing French or Slavic. Oh, and no Peter Frampton. Definately no Frampton. God, I hate Frampton. Forget about it.

Alright, I love Frampton. But just post one or 2 and don't tell anyone how I feel. Cool.

From the Winds, I peddled through the cold and wet area of Togwotee in central Wyoming and somehow managed to severely dehydrate myself. How is it that I get through the most arid desert stretches of the entire country and keep myself adequately, if not well hydrated, and totally lose it in the cold/wet area? By the time I got to the Tetons, I was in pretty bad shape. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say, I'll be drinking lots of agua from here on.

Which brings me to Montana (after a brief ride of mixed enjoyment through Idaho, which involved my 1st, and hopefully last, crash). I camped on the border of Idaho and Montana last Thursday night, and to celebrate my arrival, decided to do a 100 mile day in Montana. So the stats of Friday's ride: distance: 103.3 miles, average speed: 11.3 mph, 2 passes, 65 miles of light headwinds (this is not good, for those confused), 8700 calories eaten (no confusion there). Boom!

A couple days later I came upon a section of the trail known as the hardest of the entire route. It drops (or rises depending on which direction you're headed) straight down (or up) the West ridge of Mt Fleecer in Southern Montana. I was coming from the South, so was expected to ascend this thing.

As I approach, I swing around the forested corner humming "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..." Then I saw the climb on the open slope and started singing "No f-ing way, no f-ing way....". Now I've climbed and decended lots of steep trails in the last month, but this one is totally absurd, and therefore worth special mention. Only the most skilled (and fearless) mountain bikers even try to ride down this slope. Not only have I never heard of a cyclist riding up it, I have not heard of one pushing their bike up without first taking off all their gear, thereby going up twice.

After walking about a third of the way up with the gear on my bike, I realized it's futility and shed my panniers. Two trips and three liters of water later, me, the bike and my gear were finally, if not safely at the top of the 1/2 mile climb.

Now hauling a bicycle up a steep hill is what East-coast Jews call schlepping. Let me tell you a little about schlepping. Jews don't schlep. We hire non-Jews to schlep for us. This is a fact. So somewhere under the earth in Northern New Jersey, my grandparents spent several hours rolling around wondering what the hell I was doing up here. I swear I heard them thinking "...we survived pogrums in Eastern Europe, 2 world wars, the Great Depression, mortgaged the kosher butcher business to send your parents to grad school, and you schlep bicycles up mountains in Montana?" Then they say "oy" and go back to what they were doing.

Sorry Grandma and Grandpa. I love you.

So the good news is that the few hundred miles I've ridden in Montana has featured better trails, more incredible scenery and tons more fun than the 1st 2o00 miles combined. Yes, Montana has been a gem. I cruised through the town of Butte, and yesterday hauled butt (not butte) 80 miles over 4 alpine passes and killer trail into Lincoln. As I approached Lincoln, I was following a super steep and technical trail downhill for a few miles. It featured tons of rocks and roots and creek crossings. And big puddles spanning the width of the trail. I managed to avoid all the puddles (I am paranoid about the mud).

Except the last one. Yes, friends, I decided, to blow right through the middle of the last puddle. Can you see where this one's going yet? It was really big (8ft wide by 15ft long), and would have been tricky to get around. I gathered speed and.....splash.....oh shit. Of all the puddles I could have gone through, I decided to take on Lake Erie. The thing was like a foot deep. With another 6 inches of mud underneath that. My bike made it to exactly the middle, where it completely stopped. It then began to sink. I hop off, sink up to my shins in muck, and wrestle my poor vehicle out of the goo. Like I said, between the water and mud, it must have been 1.5 feet deep. For those of you who haven't seen a bicycle lately, that would make the muck line over my wheel hubs, bottom bracket, brakes, deraileurs, chain and cassette. In other words, I submerged both myself and pretty much every sensitive part of my bike in a muddy broth.

Let me tell you, I looked really good when I walked into the grocery store here in Lincoln 12 miles later. "Hi, my name is Daniel Kaczynski. Do you carry envelopes and zip locks?"

Anyway, Lincoln is also home to my friends Jerry and Jane, who put me up 9 years ago while hiking the Divide Trail. And again, just like old times, I was able to stay at their home. Much better than a cemetary.

And now this little engine is movin' on North.

Oh, and don't call me Danny.

Great Divide Mountain Bike Route Update #5

Rawlins, WY

This posting is dedicated to Baby Jesus.

Rawlings. Say it with me now. Raw-lins. Heavy on the Raw, less so on the lins. A place where, like their domestic pick-up trucks, the men of this town are large and loud (and a touch rusty). Yes lovely Rawlins, Wyoming. Wyoming. Yep. Uh Huh. Ok, enough.

Like water for chocolate. I always wanted to use that line somewhere, and now seems as appropriate a place as any. Hikers and bikers often need both to survive. Le eau et le chocolate (heh heh heh). I never did see the movie, which I'm guessing is not about hikers and bikers. Ok, really enough.

Since last we touched, so to speak, I have traveled hither and yon (what the *&#^%& is yon?), northbound through the conceited state of Colorado (say it with me now. Caw-leh-raaaaah-do, not Caw-leh-rahhhhhh-do). Like Oregonians, folks from Colorado believe they have died and gone to heaven. Unlike Oregonians, they are wrong. Sorry.

To summarize.

My 1st few days riding North from Del Norte were reasonably uneventful. Long wisping climbs along aspen-filled mountain passes, followed by smooth rolling descents through sage brush and meadowlark-graced valleys. Epic cycling featuring stunning scenery and wonderfully constructed trails and roads. Easy living. Ah them's the days.

And on the third day, I got lost. Shit. There I was, rolling along, following my guide-maps to the T. Everything seemed ok as I made camp for the night on an abandoned jeep road in an aspen grove (fabulous sunset to boot....again, I adore that saying...to boot....I haven't the foggiest idea what it really means, but I like it). Woke up the next morning and continued riding another 10 miles or so......wait a minute.....hold on.....why am I heading East? The sun does rise in the East, last I checked. Time to break out the trusty compass. East it is. Oooops. I should have been heading North.

Now, I had a pretty good sense of how I went wrong and what road I was on. What I didn't know was exactly where I lost the route and how far I'd have to backtrack to reconnect. Seeing as I was on a very remote dirt road in central Colorado with basically zero traffic, I did what hikers always do when lost and in need of assistance. I dug a hole, pulled the old shorts down to the ankles, and squatted. No sooner do I expose my untanned parts, than, sure as baby j, over the next hill comes a back hoe a rumblin' down the road. Hot dog (no pun intended).

After reclothing myself and approaching the back hoe, I was informed by the friendly operator that, indeed, I was where I thought I was. He gave me directions to reconnect with the route a ways up, instead of backtracking. It saved me 10 miles or so, but did cost me an extra bit of climbing. So instead of 60 miles and 4000 ft of climbing that day, I landed up doing 85 miles and over 6000 ft. Jeez Loise.

Along the way I passed through the settlement of Hartsel, Colorado, where the tap water tastes and smells like yesterday's egg salad (extra mayo). No lie, it truly does. Landed up camping at over 11,000 ft for the 1st (and probably last) time. I was tempted to push 100 miles since the last 15 were downhill, but that would have landed me in Breckenridge after dark, and I didn't really feel like spending half my annual income on a hotel room.



Breckenridge. Say it with me now. Breck-en-ridge. Swedish for "rich people on a hill". Yes indeed, I landed up there just in time for breakfast, looking AND smelling quite desirable. I pulled up to a pedestrain square with fancy brickwork and benches and proceded to count the people (24). Then I counted the black Range Rovers (31). Yes, Mabel, it's true, there are more black Range Rovers in Breckenridge than people. How they do it is a miracle, praise b-jeez.

Now I should mention that as I travel through the towns and villages of the Rocky Mountains, I try to support the local economies as best I can. I frequent their breakfast joints and mecantiles to do my part in bringing much needed revenue to hard-scrabble towns. So I thought to myself, I'm gonna buy me a Breckenridge t-shirt. However, the only t-shirts I could find cost between $75-$150. As I will wear no t-shirt that costs less than $200, I reluctantly had to move on to the little outpost of Vail, where I easily satisfied my hankerin' and brought revenue to a village struggling to survive.

After a dozen miles negotiating a labyrinth of bike paths out of Breckenridge, I arrived at the hamlet of Silverthorne. Don't say it with me. Seriously, do not. It's true that if there were a Swedish translation for Silverthorne, it would be "outlet mall on a hill". Nuff said.

Now the fun begins. Did I mention that this is the wettest June on record for much of Colorado? For most of the areas I have been riding, the average rainfall is 1-1.5 inches in June. This year.....5 inches! You can take the boy outta Portland, but....well you know. So, being from the Northwest (amen, brother), precipitation doesn't bother me so much. You get wet, you dry off. Big deal.

However, we've discussed what the rain does to some of the dirt roads I'm riding. Sure as baby jesus is looking after each of us, the downpour to end all downpours (we're talking Noah and the animal pairs here, lady) blessed me exactly 2.37 miles from a stretch of road that, shall we say, doesn't fare so well in the rain. I managed to ride about 15 miles through the soft poo until it became totally impossible to peddle in. So somewhere in the 5 miles that I was sliding around on foot, hurling my beloved bike through the muck like a cowboy wrangles steer, I managed to pull a muscle in my lower back.


It's pretty bad. How bad you ask? (come on, at least pretend to care). Well, I can bend over about 1/8 of an inch from upright. This predicament makes both cycling and sexual relationships a bit difficult, of course. Luckily, me and baby j are both celibate on this journey. Unlike our favorite baby lord, I am cycling (he prefers to walk...er toddle).

Which brings me back to Rawlins, Wyoming. I'm on medical leave, so to speak, in this sparkling metropolis of art and haute cuisine. I shouldn't complain. There are motels, a pharmacy and a library. But complaining is so fulfilling. There is a Thai restaurant that I can't bring myself to try. And a Pizza Hut.

Did I mention that I've been here before? No? Pardon moi. Oiu, my dear, 9 years ago I thru-hiked the Continental Divide Trail from Mexico to Canada, which is kinda like what I'm doing now, but on foot along hiking trails. Rawlins will forever remain in the deepest crevices of my gastro-intestinal memory as the place for the epic Trans-Atlantic Pizza Hut Gluttony. You see, after hiking alone through the states of New Mexico and Colorado, I met a few other hikers in Wyoming. Among them were 2 American women, and a Brit and Australian man. Rawlins was the 1st town we came to, filthy and starving. So, naturally, we decided to dine at the local Pizza Hut, and partake in the lunch buffet (you know where this is going, don't you). Somehow, in a fit of nationalistic pride, we decided to have a pizza eating contest. It was the Yanks vs. the Queensmen. I'll leave out the gory details, but suffice it to say, I took home the gold, baby. 21 slices later and no vomiting, god bless the USA.

In a curious lapse of reason, mixed with a touch of nostalgia and massochism, I revisited the Pizza Hut lunch buffet yesterday. Not even close to the record this time. My gullet and I are no longer olympic material I guess. Probably better off in the long run.

OK, gotta go. Lots to do here in Rawlins. Send your love to my spine.

Daniel and b.j.