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Yellowstone’s beauty quickly fades as you leave town. A few Bison dot the road outside of the park’s safety as with a few campgrounds and hotels along Hebgen Lake. Making Yellowstone seem more like an oasis than a park. 

Back in full gear on my first day on the bike as I rode past another familiar mountain, Big Sky Montana. There wasn’t much to see of it from the valley but I’m sure the Snowboarding is great. Big Sky was always a place I’d imagine myself snowboarding in my youth. And now I was cycling past the peak before I had dropped in on its powder.

The Trans American Trail takes you on a nice downhill into Virginia City and Nevada City. Both preserved old west mining towns either shut down for the season or closed that particular day I blew through town. 

Town's like Nevada City are part of the charm of the Trans American Trail; you'll criss-cross through many historical West locations. Parts of the Oregon Trail, failed mining towns, and a section of the Louis & Clark Trail. It's out here, on my ride, I learned how Buffalo Bill got his name by way of hunting Buffalo and selling the meat to Soldiers. All that from an uninhabited historic pull-out. 

Another pass from Nevada City and I was on my way to the first days stop.

Chick’s Bar, Alder MT & Michael Keaton

A triple threat bar. Chick's is a restaurant, a handful of hotel rooms, and a makeshift campground. I snagged a room for less than $40. 

Breakfast at the restaurant was when I might have encountered Micheal Keaton. Meeting Micheal never happened, sadly. I just overheard the waitress talking about him. 

A few days prior he'd been in for breakfast. Yes—that’s right, Micheal Keaton was something of regular there when he was in town vacationing at his getaway home. So the waitress said.

If you're trying to get away from people Montana has thousands of miles of no one and a beautiful landscape to enjoy. Where his house was—Hmmm, I wonder. 

You can imagine I stuck around for longer than I needed in hopes he would come in. Then I had to fix a flat. Ugh. 

Over A Mountain and Into A Bear

Outside Dillon, MT there’s an arduous 14 mile (maybe more) climb over Badger Pass. Even worse, the wind always blew against me. At every turn the wind seemed to reroute itself, maximizing my struggle. 

Towards the top pine trees thickened along the peaks. And at the crest as I was winding left on my right a skulking Grizzly headed up the right side embankment. Roughly 25 yards to my right slightly front. 

Oh SHIT! But instinctually I already pulled out the bear mace and armed it—walking over my bike—hoping I wouldn't have to use it. Because that wind I mentioned earlier would be blowing a good bit of the Mace back into my face.

In case, you're thinking, "why didn't you just out ride the bear?" It's because it would have never worked. At my pace, uphill, against the wind with a bear that can run upwards of 30 MPH, my odds were better on standing ground. 

It just happened that this bear wanted to cross the road where I wanted to go. She wasn’t coming down for me. No cubs in sight. Good news for me. Possibly scaring her, that's not good for me. A bear might turn aggressive when scared. 

What to do now.

Calmly I called out to her. Hey, bear, bear, bear. Hey, Bear. Yes, I read that's what you should do. Let her know you’re not food. 

That started to work, and the bear turned back for the tree line. Bad news. She hit the barbed wire fence and to avoid crawling back through came barreling back towards me. 

UHHH. Unconsciously, I was more road central now, and I called out louder this time. HEY, BEAR BEAR BEAR. HEY. At the same time she was closing in, a semi-truck and two cars rounded the turn and blew their horns—at the bear or me, I don't know—scaring the bear into a triple take before rushing back and through the barbed wire fence. 

Slightly shaken and electrified by the encounter, I was alone on the mountain top again. Back to a windy downhill, where you’d think you, I would be going down faster than I came up. No, no such luck in this wind.

Jackson, Montana. Population 24. 

I cruised down Big Hole Pass, just before Jackson, for a moody Valley ride at sunset into Jackson, MT. 

No joke, this town is tiny. A population so small I was lucky to ride in on a Friday night. Everything is closed Tuesday-Thursday otherwise. 

I camped out back of Jackson Hot Springs Lodge for $10 and ate inside next to a couple having an Anniversary dinner. I enjoyed their company and his laugh more than the food. I went out of my way to try and make him laugh. The food was excellent.

I'll give you two reasons to stop here. Number One: The steam swirled glassy water of the hot springs pool. Up until I got here, I thought all hot springs smelled like rotten eggs. Maybe I've been living under a rock but, this hot spring was pure fresh water. The concrete pool is huge even though I might describe the outdoor area as rundown charming and I watched the steam roll around for hours. 

Number Two: The lodge is huge, fitted with giant taxidermied beasts. The bar to taxidermy ratio is spectacular. Whether it was the time of year or just a slow night, the people to bar ratio was perfect. Enough to get a conversation going but not so many that you had to squeeze through a crowd for a drink. 

At night, I could here two wolf packs howling from their territorial bounds. Possibly reason three to visit—Atmosphere. 

More Delicious Country Fried Steak in Wisdom, MT

I skipped breakfast at the Jackson Hot Springs so I wouldn’t have to wait the extra hour for them to start serving and to try somewhere new. Wisdom, MT took about an hour to get to as well. 

I’ve mentioned this before, and I’ll mention it again—chicken fried steak get better the further west you go. This meal also summed up how much food I’ve been consuming. A full chicken fried steak meal—chicken, home fries, and two pancakes—and I added a double order of Texas-sized French Toast. I left nothing to clean. 

Chief Joseph Pass

The ride up over Chief Joseph from the east to west is surprisingly smooth. You have little elevation gain headed over from the east. It's all downhill from there and almost all the way into Missoula, MT.  

Avoiding the ride up from the west is one point for riding east to west instead of west to east. Unfortunately, instead of finding the cause of my slow leak, I refilled the tire with air every half-hour or so. 

If you have the time and are riding over Chief Joseph Pass, there’s a trail at the top of the pass. I didn’t have a chance to hike it, but it looked beautiful. 

A Sore Ass, A Slow Leak From Hell, and Just Shy of Missoula MT

I’ve been on the factory saddle for almost 4,000 miles at this point and until recently it hasn’t bothered me that much. Here and there the seat adjustments I did make seemed to work, but always temporary relief. I also cannot find the cause of my tire leak. Not a fast way of riding. 

Eventually, I stopped in Hamilton, MT, just shy of Missoula. I rebooted with a burger and beer from Higher Ground Brewery. Good beers, typical brewery fair.

After shlepping into a Super 8 for the night, I scoured my tire for the cause of the slow leak without luck. A bucket of ice from the lobby helped cool my buttocks. 

Missoula, MT A Small City Worth Visiting

A very sore ride into Missoula was manageable by the short distance to town. There’s a decent bike path that takes you into the city as well. A close to finished trail looked like it would take you all the way into the city as well.

I stayed with a cycling host in Missoula. I didn’t see much of him of my gracious host. But he was real laid back type without the traditional hippy look. I laid out on his couch, did some laundry, and walked around town. 

Missoula is situated in a valley surrounded by a river on two sides. Famously where Louis & Clark successfully crossed after warned not to go there. A hot spot for Native American attacks, not so much a dangerous river. I found the town small village quaint with larger city amenities. Chill. And bike friendly. Not surprising since Adventure Cycling is HQ'd there. 

No building in town topped three or four stories. Maybe more, but the relatively low height of everything added to the small town feel in a bigger city footprint. Granted my view of a big city has skewed over the last 57 days.  

If you ride into Missoula make a stop at the Adventure Cycling HQ. I did, and got my photo taken for the visiting cyclist gallery. Touring cyclist can use their lounge for free and eat their ice cream and juice for free. They hadn’t seen any touring cyclists for a while so the selection was minimal. 

I primarily stopped in to purchase a new Brooke’s B17 Saddle! The best in touring cycling seats because the hard leather brakes into the shape of your butt. They do take about 200 miles to break in. No problem there; I still have around a thousand miles to go. 

My second primary stop in Missoula was at one of the many bicycle shops in town. Finally, someone solved my slow leak nightmare. My mechanic found a tiny piece of glass stuck in the tire. It's back to smooth riding to Idaho. ⬪

The morning road was invisible when I pedaled off from Signal Mountain. Unobstructed views of the Tetons never opened up. But I couldn't resist the foggy road. 

As the fog lifted here and there from the road wound up illuminated peaks and down hazier valleys. Black ravens at from a fresh deer carcass. AKA bear food. I kept riding and flicked the bear bell I fashioned to the handle bars for peace of mind.  

The south entrance of Yellowstone National Park queued for about fifteen to twenty cars out of nowhere only to find out the Grand Tetons park entrance incorrectly charges cyclists for the two-park pass—a known issue gone unfixed—so I shelled out an extra five to ride in. She did assure me that there’s always a spot for cyclists in the campgrounds. Whatever did that mean?   Immediately you’ll notice how narrow the two-lane road in Yellowstone becomes. Noticeably unfit for the modern luxury camper that made up most of the passing traffic. But by mid-afternoon, the traffic was surprising sparse—an advantage of the end of season crowds. 

Not wasting a moment, I stopped at the first pull-out with a path leading to a waterfall. A pristine spot all to myself—a little suspicious—with a few dozen signs every 50 feet. A trail map, perhaps? Yes! One that indicated an area closed for bear activity, a few feet deeper I read it again, the area I’m standing? Yup. I snapped a few bad shots in haste as I hiked back out.

The Yellowstone forests turn to little pinewood trees, like a Christmas village. The side effects of the 1988 forest fire. The south entrance road winds up canyon cliffs following the river that created it. The aged two-lane passage enhances the park's rugged feel. Almost untouched by time. I'm Jules Verne on my way to earth's core.

The road forks at West Thumb of the Yellowstone Lakes. Left to Old Faithful, the right to the Lamar Valley and Canyon. Along the way to Yellowstone's most famous geyser is a series of semi-steep climbs over one continental divide after another. There’s no lack of eye candy en route even after the novelty of continental divides wear off.  

On my first ascent, I crossed paths with a cycling couple more daring than myself. Their voyage started in Canada and was bound for Argentina. 

I’m blown away by that trip. And yet, I’ve run into several cyclist taking the challenge. It's comforting to know you're not the only one out there.  

Where's the most likely place to see wildlife they say? The road. From the off-ramp into Old Faithful, a parked SUV with half dozen iPhone's sticking out the windows wasn't my first clue that a Buffalo would be standing next to me. A dopey behemoth of an animal. A fantastic moment on a bike, as well. With unkempt hair and unwashed skin, I felt just like the roaming beast. 

I stood cautiously aside the bison. A perfect photographic position, and yet, the was no desire to partake in the paparazzi. A moment best left unblock by a camera lens. 

Even in shoulder season Old Faithful Lodge—including all the lodges around it—were fully booked; so I rode 14 miles to Madison campground. Uncomplicated riding all downhill from Old Faithful to the campground. With the sun on its way down, it was a welcomed the quick ride. 

All kinds of fresh and old bear artillery scattered the road. If you've never seen bear scat before, like I had, it's unmistakeable once you do. Considering you’re most likely to glimpse a bear as you’re driving down the road, I had good reason to use a little pep in my pedal.  

Hiker/Biker Deal in Yellowstone

At Madison Campground, I found a long line to a full campground, but a slap-happy campground clerk answered the mysterious statement earlier, “There's always a place for cyclists in the campground.” There’s always a place for you. That is the Hiker/Biker deal.

My clerk offered (stoked) offered a free cup of coffee in the morning from the back office. I just had to knock after 8 AM.

It cost $5 for a cyclist site. The hiker/biker camping isn't a regular campsite either. Behind the camp office lays a small quarantined area with three fire pits and two bear boxes; more of a group spot. Regular sights had pull-ins for cars and RVs and filled up on a first come first serve basis.

Camping in the Cold Weather

I shared a sizable area with one other cyclist. After the standard questions and gear check, we got a regular conversation going. 

My new friend was stout with the happy-go-lucky attitude you could expect from someone without a plan. He rode with minimal equipment (compared to my set up), and may have been more stoked about adventure cycling than me. 

I made a fire after sunset hoping it would continue to stay warm by my tent while my new friend seemed confident in keeping warm at night; a stable tent and heavier set figure that according to him would keep him plenty warm. 

Cut to: Early Morning. I’m freezing with all my layers on, and I wake to hear my friend 6 feet away swearing F@!%K it is cold! 

I laughed and twisted in for more warmth. 

Day 52

I scraped off the morning ice off of my gear and pumped my fists for warmth before grabbing a cheeky cup of coffee from the camp office. Cheeky because the clerk, not wanting other guests to know, turned the exchange into an event that felt like a first-time drug deal out of the camp office's back door. 

The coffee did little good to warm or wake me up. The fly fishers were out well before me and most, if any, tourists without problems. 

I exited out the west entrance. Not as many frills this way, but dumps you right into the town of West Yellowstone, Montana. Serving as a hotel lot and eatery for Yellowstone tourists.

There're two rental car locations in West Yellowstone if you’re looking to cover ground in Yellowstone in short order; which I sought to do. I wouldn’t have seen much given my time-frame to spend there if I hadn’t otherwise. 

Even late in the season the were crowds surrounding the parks most famous geysers. Old Faithful to note—cool, but not spectacular. See some of the best thermal activity by trail. The Grand Prismatic Spring is one of these features. Otherwise, it'll just look like you're walking up to steamy water. 

Wildlife trumps cars inside the park boundaries. It’s not unusual to come across a bison related traffic jam for two reasons. One: everyone wants to stop for a photo. Two: their massive dazed beasts if you want to get around you’ll have to wait for her to make the first move. 

For my money, the drive around Mammoth to Canyon had the best views with the fewest people. But I was in the shoulder season and didn’t go on any of the other roads. Lamar Valley supposedly offers the best views of wolves. 

My ride started in a thick mist of fog after a substantial breakfast of Chicken Fried Steak—a new favorite dish of mine—and coffeeDubois. Today’s ascent was a boggy twenty-five-mile climb over Togwotee Pass. Nothing to it except for the weather. It wasn't raining but it was wet with a dense fog hiding the trees and near mountain tops. Some might call it bad weather, it held me in a trance riding across the damp ribbon of asphalt. 

Everything saturated in dark browns, hunter greens, red, and purple. Few cars whizzed by to my relief. It was a calm and quiet world outside. And aside from bumping into a bear, possibly, or a mountain lion I didn’t have a care in the world. I was even excited by the possibility to see some wildlife. On a day like this, most animals aren’t out on the hunt, and I never ended up seeing any. 

As I progressed up, the weather cooled and sank into my hands. The mist intensified into something that looked more like a drizzle but fell softly onto the ground. The energy I exerted kept me warm without breaking into a sweat, so I didn’t mind the cold air. The end of the tourist season showed as well. 

The few diners and campgrounds that dot the way were closed or empty. I stopped at one of the stores to use the facilities, and two-thirds of the shop was gated down leaving a section of tourist tchotchkes and a depleted supply of food available for sale. Even though I already knew how far from the pass I was, I still asked the clerk, an icebreaker to figure out some local knowledge. Nothing came of it other than learning about some other cyclist passing through a couple of days before and relief knowing they haven’t seen a grizzly bear in a few weeks. 

Further up, the weather changed drastically. The dense mist turned to thick globs of wet snow and for an hour, it came down with bits of ice. There was no sun and the fog clung to the earth all around me. At the top of Togwotee Pass, trees were covered with thin sheets of ice. No snow or ice stuck to the ground. I made a quick stop to photograph the area. It was beautifully still with crisp air, but now the cold clung to tight to me. 

Downhill I stopped at more frequent intervals to enjoy the view. I had no idea where the Tetons were, and that didn’t keep me from trying to photograph every mountain top that strained to reveal itself from the fog. What a disappointment if the fog never revealed the Tetons today. I could stop where ever I wanted to photograph. The slower pace of a bike and even the slimmest of berm used as a pull-out. I caught views you would miss in a car—even if you wanted to stop—you couldn’t. 

The downside to all this downhill was the freezing temperature. No longer generating heat from pedaling my body cooled. Mostly my extremities. Hands and toes. Some controlled braking didn’t seem to help either. Three layers of gloves and two thick pairs of socks didn’t help. It started to crush my spirit. If the weather stayed cold like this the rest of my ride I wouldn’t handle—not with my gear. Then something amazing happened. The further down and across the pass I went the warmer it got. Further still, the sunnier it became. Weather from one side of the pass completely changed on the other. 

Thick pine forest’s covered large swaths of land. You see the miles of forest covering the roadside to the Grand Teton National Park; national forest surrounds the national park. It’s immediately clear why the area has a national forest designation. 

From the entrance of the national park (a fifteen dollar entry fee for seven days on a bike) to Signal Mountain Lodge took about forty-five minutes. The view from here is worth it. Positioned opposite of the Teton range on the lake. 

Signal Mountain Lodge offered camping and a place to eat with some craft beers from the area. I took my time to eat and then headed down to the water to watch the sunset. 

Signal Mountain would close at the end of the week, and it showed. I was the only soul sitting out on an empty boat dock for hours. Until that last hour of sunlight started to fade did anyone else show up. Spoiling what could have been a perfect moment of reflection. Eight or more amateur photographers, myself included, and three large groups of foreign tourists snapped off pics and selfies in bombastic fashion. I endured through until the color faded from the sunset. 

I'm at the underbelly of the Grand Teton National Park, and it would have been preferable to take a rest day in the park, but my butt can use a break from the saddle—my buttcheeks are black and blue. It's cold and rainy outside as well, providing an additional excuse to stay out of the saddle. 

I'm eager to get into the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park. The ride in will mark my first visit to these National Parks, and it's a trip I've aimed to make since I was a boy. I hope to take my time through the parks and additional rest days inside. Until some research today, I hadn't accounted for park closures that could affect staying inside the parks. Most of the campgrounds and lodges throughout the Tetons and Yellowstone closed for the season except for a few main areas that close at the end of this week. So it's out by the end of the week for me.

The crisp air feels good outside, and I'm contemplating my second highest climb to Togwotee pass, a twenty-five-mile climb to 9,658 feet.   How cold will it get up there if there's chilly weather at this altitude? I'll find out tomorrow for sure, but I'm hoping this fog clears out by then. 

I took the bags off my bike and headed two miles into town for lunch. Dubois is a small town mostly made up of shops and hotels for tourists in the high season. Little of anything opened before 10 AM and closed around dinner time. 

I stopped in the Cowboy Diner for lunch along with everyone else in town. Waiting didn't take long, and I sat in a booth for four by myself. Now, I've talked about how much I eat and how hungry I am all the time, I tried explaining this to my busy waitress who sold me on a complete meal—burger, fries, two sides, and pie a la mode. I ate all of it shy of licking the plates clean. When she proudly asked if I was full—from a meal that filled the hungriest mouths—she wasn't too proud to shoot a tacit disapproval to my response, “It's a start!” What can I say … I could have eaten two of those meals.

Last night I stopped at the bike shop and scheduled a tune first thing in the morning. The setback seemed worth it to make sure I wouldn't ruin the drive train. Pulling one-hundred pounds has stretched the chain almost past its lifetime. Replacing the chain felt right since there was a constant squeak in the chain coupled with a slight chop while shifting. Otherwise, it didn't hurt to check everything else out. 

Dubois was, a seemingly doable, seventy-five miles from Lander. The weather looked like it could chuck it down and I rode with rain ahead of me and behind in full rain gear even though I never got rained on. So, even with a late start, expected uphill climbs, rain, cold temperatures I just never expected the wind. Sure the Wind River Mountain Range should have given that away, but Seventy-five miles felt more like one hundred fifty.  

A whole day with menacing clouds preparing for a downpour is depressing. Cycling in cheap (Wal-Mart) rain pants produced a river of sweat that chilled my bones if I stopped for too long. Could I maybe get hypothermia? I trudged on to stay warm and beat the fading sun. 

As the sun set, I could hardly enjoy the views. It was cold, getting dark, and I had no idea how far from Dubois I was. I felt more like a whiney eight-year-old moaning about how bored I was. The only thing I wanted now was a bed—any bed would have done. At the edge of the Wind River Indian reservation came a sign marking twenty miles to Dubois; the last twenty always seem the hardest. Maybe because I know the end should be coming, but in the end I was swearing at every dark bend when I couldn't see Dubois.

I rode past sunset and through that twilight hour when a spec of light still wraps around the earth with a hazy glow. Then the pitch black night took over and navigation by headlamp became the only way to see. The road had a wide should with few cars passing in the night. Every ten minutes or so I tempted to throw up my thumb for a lift. If Dubois doesn't appear around the corner, I thought, I'll do it. A car would pass, and I watched their headlights, looking for signs of a town or bends in the road until they faded into the darkness. 

At last a row of string lights revealed lodging. Albeit dimly lit, I was undeterred at the closed appearance, and I scoured the locked door for a phone number or bell. I had read every sign on the door before I discovered their key box. The owners left keys to available rooms next to the door, and there were three choices, just pay in the morning. I scooped up the cheapest option and walked the soggy lot in search of the room.

For 123 miles, only two services existed between Rawlins and Landers. A convenient store and a bar. I had a large breakfast, so my convenient store stop consisted of a bag of potato chips and an ice cream sandwich. I skipped the bar to eat rations—cliff bars and spicy jerky— after an eastbound cyclist gave a bad review of it. Food wasn't top of mind at this point either.

About 49 miles from Landers I started to go weak. I craved food other than rations; I had plenty of those, but there I was dreaming about food. A parade of French fries, burgers, ice cream, and cold soda looped in my head. I envisioned restaurants in Lander's and the meals they served. So many dishes to think up and none of them were here. 

I couldn't tell when this craving started; it just hit me like a brick. Thoughts of thick steaks pulled me away from the arid landscape. Ribbons of silky road wound around red rock and past sections of the Oregon Trail. At the Sweetwater rest stop, I drank cold fountain water and read about the ice slough around the bend. Pioneers on the Oregon Trail would dig up ice to put their water jugs for the luxury of ice water. And what a luxury indeed; I would refill my bottles with cold water, and it would soon turn luke warm. 

I continued dreaming of fizzy soda cold enough to get freeze brain. Then I would follow up with soft serve ice. Yes, I could barely think of anything else. Every turn and passing hill I passed without sight of Lander took me deeper into my food fantasy.   

As fast food signs appeared, I thought 6 miles ahead … that's a half hour away. Traffic picked up, I envied their speed. Every hill revealed more road and another hill; I was delirious for a meal. This imaginary meal dangled just out of reach—a Taco John sign, three miles, (what is a Taco John!?)—McDonald's “Just Ahead!”—JUST AHEAD! That doesn't mean anything on a bike. “Just Ahead” could be fifteen minutes, an hour, or more? I needed some exact details. 

The day started with some food in Encampment just up the hill from the campground I pitched tent at. It was at the little coffee shop slash antique mall with an eclectic style. It was here a hostess illuminated the wind situation in Wyoming for me. As it turned out Rawlins, today's ride, has the highest average wind in the state. The joke being, if the wind ever stopped blowing everyone would fall over.  

I spouted out my destinations hopelessly looking for areas where the wind might vanish. I didn't receive a satisfactory answer, but she gave me some pointers about a few of the other towns. When I left, I think she was more concerned about my ride through Wyoming than I am.

There's not much to do about the wind, anyhow, but put her low gear and pedal. And as I took off it looked like rain would be more trouble than the wind. In the end, neither were of consequence. The wind blew a breezy ten miles per hour while the diffuse sky chucked rain down off in the distance. 

Wyoming reminds me of Kansas; a mostly flat landscape of monotonous desert-like earth. No trees, just an assemblage of shrubbery. Mountain peaks jut out, dappling the landscape, at random intervals and are the only relief from the repetitious terrain. It's as if someone filled in all the valleys with sand leaving only a view jagged summits pointing out. It's preferable to Kansas but after a few hours it's not much better than Kansas.  

Riding down I-80 was the most exhilarating part of the day. A fourteen mile stretch of interstate highway composed mostly of freight semis. Fedex, UPS, and USPS whizzed by a dozen times. Now, I know what you're thinking—You rode on the interstate!?—I did. Once you get used to traffic going by at 75 MPH, it's pretty luxurious. The shoulder is big enough for another semi and is divided by a rumble strip, a kind of built-in safety feature. I rode far right of the traffic and never ran into issues. 

Okay, so it's “safe” to ride on this section of interstate, you're thinking, but cyclists aren't allowed on dum dum. Here's where the west gets a little tricky. States like Wyoming don't have a lot of roads going through them, connecting cities, county roads, etc., so if there's no road running parallel with the freeway you're free to use. Of course, you should check with that state's DOT before cycling on any freeways. But no one pulled me over or came close to making roadkill out of me; success on both fronts. Several drivers even waived from across four lanes of traffic on the other side of the interstate. Or were they yelling at me to get off? Well, one person gave a thumbs up!

Remember back in Kansas when I talked about getting bitch-slapped by the wind? Well, I thought the wind was over but the wind isn't over me. Today just proved that. 

The day didn't start out windy. The sky was bright full of cumulus clouds as I went over another continental divide. In the valley, some sprinkles dampened my clothes, but there wasn't any threat to an all-out-down-pour. I had made it to the last town in Colorado before Wyoming, ate a decent Rueben Sandwich, and thought: Meh, why not keep moving?

I rolled through some hills that felt a little more sluggish than usual. The chain felt like it needed some oil or the tire needed air. Then I came into a valley; I could feel the intense wind blowing from no particular direction. It tempted me to sail back from where I came. That's just not how I do things, though. I pushed on and started to regret that decision. 

At the edge of the valley, I sighted the long climb I would need to make it out. The wind blew hard, but I managed my way there and up the otherwise demure incline. Some deep purple foliage and mustard yellows dotted the climb. At least the view made it enjoyable.

Down the other side, I coasted like molasses against the wind; surely the wind couldn't get worse right? Wrong. It proceeded to pick up long before I made it to the Wyoming border. I walked up a few hills—yes, legit hills this time—berated myself for continuing and waited for the miles to melt away. What a slog, pedaling downhill just to make it downhill—the most demoralizing experience on a bike.

A large storm dominated the western mountain ridge in Wyoming. Weather at this scale belongs at a distance while on a bicycle, and I didn't have the energy to ride through a rainstorm. The storm stayed in my favor, staying at bay along the mountain line. But the wind never broke. And I expected the town at every turn that wishful thinking proved futile.