Two Wheels on my Wagon

by Paul Howard

  Even if its main attractions were to remain elusive, passing this close to Yellowstone was a highlight of the trip. It needed little introduction: it was the world’s first national park; it was estimated to contain half of the world’s active hydrothermal features, including 300 geysers; it had recently been worthy of its own BBC documentary, complete with an awed voiceover in hushed, reverential tones. Fittingly, an impromptu, David Attenborough-style commentary came into my head.

  ‘Here, now, is a strange species, not believed to be native to Yellowstone but one of the few remaining large, nomadic creatures to still roam across the whole of the continent. The cyclist. Long thought to be related to humans, the antipathy evident in some of their interactions with us, particularly with motorists, has led scientists to conclude that they are in fact a completely separate species. But no one knows for sure where they have come from, nor even where they are going.’

  In the short term our aspirations were no greater than to reach Flagg Ranch for lunch. We weren’t sure what to expect when we got there, Flagg Ranch having assumed a far greater importance on the Tour Divide route map than its size appeared to justify, but we felt confident of a hot meal and warm welcome. We received the hot meal at least, though at a price far beyond anything paid on the trip so far. The welcome was less convivial.

  This seemed to have a lot to do with the fact Flagg Ranch was nothing more than a glorified service station designed to exploit the myriad tourists passing through. With miles of nothing in all directions, and a prime location on US Highway 89, the main route between the two big national park honeypots, the simple economics of supply and demand determined that prices would be elevated. Why it was necessary to be quite so disdainful of impecunious cyclists was less obvious, unless we were perceived as a deterrent to more lucrative custom. Or maybe it was the constant, mosquito-induced itching in my nether regions which Lycra did a very poor job of disguising.

  After eating our fill, the descent from the sublime beauty and tranquillity of the morning to the ridiculous omnipresence and incompetence of motorhome-driving holiday-makers was soon completed. It was then exacerbated by roadworks. As a result, we had to deal not only with the inevitable post-prandial torpor but also blazing sunshine and a mile-and-a-half-long queue of cars and trucks.

  At the front of the queue was a man holding a ‘stop/go’ sign. He had just turned it to ‘stop’. With frustration at progress already slowed by squeezing past static traffic and discomfort in the heat growing in equal measure, I tried to sneak past and keep riding along the section of the road that was cordoned off; of course, no work was actually being undertaken. It was to no avail.

  ‘Hey, you can’t ride through yet.’

  Worse was to follow.

  ‘You’ve got to put your bikes in the pilot car. We’re not insured to let cyclists ride through the roadwork zone.’

  Ignorant of the concept of a pilot car, I was uncertain what to expect. It turned out to be a woman in a small, beaten-up pick-up whose job was to drive ahead of each wave of cars, a modern equivalent of the man with the red flag in the early days of motoring. She clearly had little experience of accommodating cyclists, certainly not those as laden as we were.

  ‘I guess we’ll have to put your bikes in the back, but I can’t do more than two at a time,’ she suggested.

  Per and I being the two closest, we inelegantly hauled our bikes onto the back of the truck and tried in vain to make them secure. The irony of this being the greatest threat to their and our well-being was not lost on us; nor was it lost on our driver.

  ‘I don’t have insurance that covers damage to bikes on my truck,’ she said, rather pointedly.

  Had we realised we were uninsured either way it would have been preferable to take our chances on the road, but it was now too late. I couldn’t help but contrast our current fate with the distinctly laissez-faire approach of Montana, where cycling down motorways and riding motorbikes without helmets was not only allowed but de rigueur. This, on the other hand, seemed symptomatic of the pettifogging bureaucracy that suggests the US is doomed to be a failed experiment in individual freedom: a rampant fear of central government, but a similar phobia of placing sufficient trust in personal responsibility to avoid regulatory micro-management. Except in Montana, perhaps.

  After three miles of sporadic road-mending activity we were allowed to disembark. The flood of cars behind us had dissipated, and the next few miles were blissfully car-free, on our side of the road at least. Then the next wave came, and so it continued for the next 30 miles, the longest paved section of the ride so far.

  Relief was provided by expanding views to our right of the eastern, more photographed flank of the Tetons. Seen reflected in the calm waters of Jackson Lake under a cloudless sky, they were spectacular indeed. They were also the most ‘mountain-like’ of all the mountains encountered in the past thousand or so miles, at least to the eyes of a European brought up on Alpine vistas. They had sharp edges befitting their imposing stature – up to nearly 14,000 feet at Grand Teton – as well as permanent snow and glaciers. They also had the distinction of rising a clear 7,000 feet above the valley below them, with nothing in between.

  This notable difference from all that had preceded them, even the serried ranks of snow-clad peaks in Canada, was due to their considerable youth, having only been thrust upwards in the past ten million years or so. Much of the rest of the Rockies is 70 million years old, and the topography of even the highest peaks has been modified and softened by prolonged exposure to weathering and erosion. Indeed, thus far, the only common thread that had run through the journey was the diversity of the mountains encountered. The Rockies, it appeared, were far from the homogenous chain envisaged in childhood hours spent poring over maps and dreaming of adventure.

  The sun continued to beat down. Even on the valley floor we were more than 7,000 feet above sea level, but there was no respite from the heat and the still, claustrophobic air. The sun’s rays seemed to be intensified by the bleached concrete of the road. Per and I stopped to wait for Trevor and Stephen. Once reunited, we continued our eastward progress.

  Eventually we came to a junction with a quieter road, and were greatly relieved to be directed down it. We were even happier to find, soon afterwards, an unheralded café on our left. The decision to stop for cooling refreshments was unspoken but unanimous. It was also inspired.

  The Buffalo Valley Café was as charming and welcoming as Flagg Ranch had been cold and soulless. We set up camp on the veranda, then went inside to peruse the menu. We passed under a handmade sign:

  ‘Cowboys! Scrape __it from boots before entering.’

  It was clear what __it was.

  ‘You’ve got to have a body fat test before you can order anything here,’ said a typically well-built cowboy propping up the bar on his day off.

  We explained our route and told him that we could eat with the best of them. He seemed reassured by our credentials. A minute later, however, he came out to the veranda to inspect us further. He was, it transpired, retired rather than resting, having been thrown from a horse once too often and broken his neck. He nevertheless sported the most immaculate pair of lilac cowboy boots. This was cowboy bling.

  He also wore a T-shirt emblazoned with a slogan that was hard to decipher due to the lumberjack shirt that partially obscured it.

  ‘This Vietnam Vet is heavily . . . ated.’

  Was ‘decorated’ the missing word? An unfolding of the arms revealed the truth.

  ‘This Vietnam Vet is heavily medicated for your protection.’

  That was all right then.

  The somewhat eccentric cross-examination continued while we waited for our order to arrive. We had been persuaded to ask for ‘ice-cream shakes’, a somewhat unconventional nourishment for elite endurance athletes (was it possible they hadn’t recognised us for what we clearly were?). No sooner had we ordered four, in coffee-caramel flavour, however, than it became apparent the café had run out of ice cream.
Not that this was a deterrent. A golf-cart trip to the neighbours later and they were on their way. When they finally arrived, in foot-high glasses, they were well worth the wait. All they had to do now was fuel us up the last climb of the day.

  Togwotee Pass represented another crossing of the Continental Divide as well as a new high-point. Eighteen miles of climbing would take us from 7,000 feet to more than 9,500 feet. Fortunately, a large chunk of the climb was on metalled roads. But first, we had to climb steeply through rough country at the bottom of the pass. The intensity of the sun had begun to wane – it was now after 5 p.m. – but was more than compensated for by the effort required. Occasional trail-engulfing puddles served as a reminder of the rain of previous days, but in the main the route was dry.

  Gradually, after more than an hour, the gradient eased and the main road was rejoined. The last nine miles were easy by comparison and the road largely traffic-free. At the top we reconvened and admired the view. At 9,658 feet we were above the treeline, among meadows. Close to hand were buttresses of ancient sedimentary rocks rising well above 10,000 feet. Further afield, the Tetons were still visible behind us, silhouetted against the lowering sun.

  We congratulated ourselves on the progress made, and looked forward to the imminence of our overnight accommodation.

  ‘The lodge is less than 5 miles away and it’s all downhill. We should be there in 20 minutes, by half past eight hopefully,’ I said.

  My description was accurate, but my ETA was out by an hour. I had overlooked the most pertinent section of the route description:

  ‘It is impassable when wet.’

  The western side of the mountain had had sufficient time to dry; the eastern slope clearly had not. No sooner had we left the main road and returned to the darkening woods than it became impossible to cycle. We were up to our axles in mud. Worse, the mud was compounded by remnant snow patches several feet deep and several hundred yards long.

  I reacted with unconcealed rage, charging into each obstacle in a fury of cursing and shouting. I stumbled and bludgeoned my way forward. It was not an edifying spectacle, but it was the only alternative to sitting down at the side of the track and crying.

  Further behind, and once again handicapped by his sore knee, Per had apparently adopted the same philosophy, only with more colourful language.

  ‘Ride. Stop. Fall over. Swear loudly in Swedish. Repeat,’ was his subsequent description.

  I asked what was the appropriate Swedish swear word for the occasion.

  ‘Fan!’

  The feeling with which Per said it rendered a request for translation irrelevant.

  Not surprisingly, it was in a slightly harassed state that we arrived at our intended accommodation for the night. Stephen and I were there first, and we decided to ignore the sign on the gate that read ‘Reservations Only’. After all, there was nothing on the map to suggest Brooks Lake Lodge was any different from all the other suggested overnight stops we had already encountered.

  This changed when we asked a girl drinking beer on a porch outside one of the log cabins if we could stay for the night.

  ‘Well, the answer’s no if you haven’t reserved in advance,’ she said apologetically.

  Covered in mud and grime and barely able to talk coherently, we didn’t need to explain that we hadn’t booked.

  ‘I guess I could go and ask the boss, but I’m pretty sure he’ll say no.’

  It was a chance we were prepared to take. The sun had long since set, and the clear sky meant temperatures had plummeted. With the warming effect of the adrenalin of our latest escapade now having worn off, the prospect of a night under canvas with inadequate insulation was less than appealing.

  ‘Hi, I’m Adam, how can I help?’ said the boss, not looking particularly intent on being helpful.

  I began to plead for somewhere to stay for the night.

  ‘Even a barn we could pitch our tents in would be great . . .’ I trailed off.

  Adam appeared pensive.

  ‘I think we’ve got a couple of rooms that housekeeping hasn’t yet cleaned up, let me go and see.’

  He disappeared. We fretted. He returned.

  ‘Yep, you can have the rooms if you don’t mind sharing them between you.’

  Mind? We were delighted. In spite of our filthy state, we were shown in through a magnificent, timbered living room with vast open fireplace to two of the plushest bedrooms I’d had the pleasure to see.

  ‘Er, perhaps I should just ask how much it will cost,’ I whispered to Stephen.

  He nodded.

  ‘Oh, you’re not really supposed to stay but you seem like nice guys, so just leave twenty bucks for housekeeping,’ said Adam.

  Our joy knew no bounds. Per and Trevor arrived and could scarcely disguise their astonishment.

  ‘I thought he was gonna be a real hard ass when he first came out, but Paul’s English accent did the trick,’ said Stephen.

  In fact, it seemed Adam had little need of external motivation to be hospitable. He just needed the lodge to be empty of paying guests – those who paid more than $300 per night for exclusive access to its services, that is. Looking at the state of us, it was not an unreasonable viewpoint.

  ‘Would you guys like something to eat? The chef is off duty, but I’ve got plenty of stuff in the fridge.’

  We didn’t need asking twice. Cold meat, salads, bread and glasses of milk appeared and then rapidly disappeared. The pièce de résistance was birthday cake.

  ‘Go on, eat as much as you can. It’ll only get thrown away otherwise. The person whose birthday it was has gone.’

  Ours, it appeared, had come early.

  CHAPTER 17

  DOWN THE GREEN RIVER

  DAY 14

  It might have been a reaction to the previous morning’s tardiness, or it might have been so as not to abuse Adam’s hospitality; either way, we started early. Just after 5.30 a.m., in fact. Within less than a minute, we had begun to regret being so bold.

  It was freezing, by far the coldest morning of the ride thus far. We were all wearing every layer of clothing we possessed, though it seemed to make little difference. To make matters worse, the day’s riding began with a 15-mile descent. Of course, this would normally have been a cause for celebration, not consternation. But then, equally normally, there would not be the imminent danger of losing all – and I mean all – appendages to frostbite.

  We were in a classic Catch-22. The faster we went, the more the discomfort increased; the slower we went, the longer it lasted. Stephen seized the initiative and plumped firmly for a swift end to our suffering. He had the added benefit of being able to keep at least his hands warm by cycling downhill non-handed on a laden bike at 40 miles an hour. I was not entirely confident this wouldn’t bring an end to our current brand of suffering by creating another – a mess of limbs and bike wheels on the road in front of me – but it was a spectacular sight.

  At the end of the descent we resisted the mild temptation to continue nine miles to the bright lights and certain coffee of Dubois (pronounced Do-Boys, of course). Instead, we turned right on the prescribed route towards Union Pass. Having just lost nearly 2,500 feet in altitude in 15 miles, we had now to regain it in less than 10 miles. With a 2-mile downhill section in the middle, that effectively meant two 4-mile climbs at a gradient of nearly 10 per cent, as steep and prolonged as anything we had encountered thus far. At least it would keep us warm.

  Not that such a relative luxury deterred us from dreaming of breakfast at a café marked on our maps in between the two sections of climbing. It promised more than just psychological succour. Last night’s meal at Brooks Lake Lodge had been far better than nothing, but it was considerably less than we could have eaten. Having also used some of our dwindling food supplies for a pre-departure snack, we were beginning to run a bit low. Most of the climb was spent silently salivating and collectively speculating.

  ‘I fancy pancakes,’ said Trevor, after waiting for the rest of us at the top
.

  ‘I’ll take anything as long as they have some coffee to keep me awake.’

  Two minutes later, after a short descent, we spotted the café we had been fantasising about. It was closed. Not just for an hour or two, but indefinitely.

  ‘Due to a death in the family,’ read a handwritten sign on the door.

  In the circumstances it was hard to feel bitter, but I tried my best. Now there was no guarantee of any services until the town of Pinedale, 80 miles away. There was the possibility of a café after 50 miles, but our faith in its continued existence was waning. We consumed more of our meagre stockpile in the weak morning sun, then set off again. There was little else we could do.

  The next climb was as gruelling as the first, without the carrot of a café at the top. Still, our growing appetites matched and even heightened the growing sense of isolation. We were high, exposed and alone. It was thrilling and, without the smothering trees of Montana and with two weeks’ worth of habituation, not too intimidating.

  After the top, the terrain eased. We were in a broad saddle, right on top of the Continental Divide, the wetlands around us destined to feed rivers running to both Atlantic and Pacific oceans. We rode peacefully, almost reverentially, through wild, open pastures. In fact, our eventual arrival at the 9,210-foot Union Pass had the peculiar distinction of being at the end of a gradual, 5-mile descent from our earlier high-point.

  The pass marks the meeting point of three mountain ranges, hence its name. To the north is the Absaroka range. To the west are the Gros Ventre Mountains, which merit a less flattering translation from the French than the breasts of the Tetons: fat stomach, or big belly if you prefer the vernacular. Finally, to the south and east, and our near companions for the next 150 miles, is the Wind River Range. This includes the highest point in the whole of Wyoming – Gannett Peak, 13,804 feet high and a whole 33 feet above the biggest bosom itself, Grand Teton – yet its presence seemed far more muted than its more celebrated neighbour. Instead of a photogenic arête bereft of foothills, the Wind Rivers, almost as broad as they are long, keep their mystique a more closely guarded secret. It felt a privilege to be experiencing them, even if only tangentially.