Well, that escalated quickly.
The fire season ignited around us and for the last four days we rode through some of the worst air quality on the continent. Until yesterday evening I had not seen blue sky for over a week, and the growing smoke stole any possibility of starlight from us just hours later.
This entire stretch would have been mind-blowing had we been able to truly enjoy it. Instead we have merely been able to make out the towering grey peaks and their glaciers and the impossibly broad, grassy plains threaded with rivers. What I’ve seen so far is more of a shadow of the natural wonder of this place, a representation of it.
I’ll spare you from reading a point-by-point account of which fires we skirted near which town. The sustained challenge is that the smoke outlook is pretty hopeless at this point. Everything will reliably only become worse. We’ve been toying with the idea of renting a car or finding a shuttle, but given our remote location in a hotel room in Dillon, Montana, that’s a challenge. We’re planning to reassess our situation in the morning. The air quality is allegedly better at Yellowstone, and we’re three days from there.
The air quality has rarely touched officially “hazardous” levels on the federal monitor. When the smoke was at its worst we decided to hitchhike and were immediately picked up. This was yesterday. Eric jumped out of his white Ford 150, situated us in the bed of his truck and handed us ice-cold beers. We’re keeping a very close eye on the fires via InciWeb when we have service and by word-of-mouth when we don’t.
Of course, the bigger picture is bleak. It’s difficult not to question the future of the West and grieve for these heartbreakingly beautiful spaces, these gems, that burn year after year. We’re all grieving each summer. I’ve talked to a menagerie of Forest Service managers, rangers and firefighters about this reality. No one has the answer other than concerted climate action and forest stewardship. I myself am becoming very interested in wildland firefighting after spending time with several folks during the work. It’s becoming more difficult to sit around and complain about the fires every summer.
There have been many fine moments to this otherwise depressing and grueling series of days — I’ll chronicle some transcendent moments below. Yet this is a low point in the trip.
It’s difficult to admit this in writing. I’m feeling most bummed for my dad, who flew from a separate continent with the promise of riding 500 miles across pristine terrain and national parks. Instead we’re riding with masks on and, when we crest a hill, we look into the valleys choked with smoke and shake our heads. We’ve come to an understanding. I’m accepting that he’s still happy to be here and I’m staying strong. I’m blessed to have him here with me. His attitude has carried us so far through some major challenges. And he’s really kicking ass on the bike through tough terrain.
I’ll write briefly below about the ACA’s Skalkaho Pass reroute skirting Wisdom and the 20,000-acre Trail Creek Fire. Then I have some great stories from the last four days.
Cycling
The ACA is simply the best travel resource out there. They offered two routes around Wisdom and Highway 43, which is closed intermittently at the time of writing due to the Trail Creek Fire. The fire managers said today this fire will probably burn all summer.
If you’re new to the West or the northern Rockies, make sure you bring either a bear canister or a dry bag and some paracord to hang your food. It’s a chore to hang your grub but it’s less of a chore than having a grizzly bear tear your face off. A grizzly just killed a bike tourist in a small town near Helena. She hadn’t stored her food away from her tent.
Hamilton, MT is a cool town and even in the smoke we could tell that the Bitterroot Valley is mind-blowing. There’s great cafes and restaurants in the small downtown. The Revalli County Museum has a solid mix of natural history and Nez Perce-era war history. We took a nap during the afternoon in Kiwanis Park. It’s a top-tier park of plush grass that bounds the Bitterroot River and a vast wilderness beyond. Our camping options were limited — the ACA recommends the county fairgrounds, which totally suck — so we stealth-camped in the parched river-bed. I figured correctly that hell would freeze over before a flash flood swept down the river in this hellish climate. No one bothered us.
We opted for the Skalkaho Pass detour to Anaconda. For the first 15 miles the road is just perfect: no traffic, a babbling brook. After a gate the yellow line disappeared. And, as promised, the road soon became gravel. If you appreciate gravel riding you’ll enjoy this. If you don’t, you’ll be miserable. It’s a long climb and a long descent on a very rough road. We rode to Flint Creek Campground that night. The camp-host told us that, separately, a bull moose and a mama moose and her calf frequent the area. We didn’t see ‘em.
The next day we rode to Anaconda. If I harbored any expectations about this town, Anaconda would have far exceeded them. The town, like Hamilton, is within the territorial domain of 19th-century copper king Marcus Daly, and his investments are still impressive. Anaconda was built to accommodate the copper smelting mine that looms, huge and menacing, from a prominence outside town. This town also has a hostel, but we didn’t stay here. If you pass through, hit Donivan’s for a meal and oggle at the copper ceiling and sink into a crimson-leather booth. The food is great. The library and county courthouse are architectural wonders.
We hitchhiked to Divide Campground on Highway 43 after encountering unnavigable smoke on Highway 569. It’s a gorgeous camp. From there, it’s an easy 40 miles to Dillon — if the wind isn’t destroying you.
All in all, this region is beyond beautiful in good conditions. One driver honked at us but dozens others waved or cheered us on.
Blatherings
It hasn’t all sucked.
My dad and I frequented Iron Horse Bar & Grill in Missoula. When we left one night, two women watched us unlock our bikes. They cat-called us. “Damn,” one shouted. “It’s a good day to be a bike seat.”
***
We rode for perhaps five hours on deep ruts over Skalkaho Pass. Suddenly the road turned to pavement and the yellow line reappeared, and the forest opened into a cool, grassy valley bounded by indigo peaks. It looked like I’d always imagined it. Montana.
The sky above us was at first pale, brown and shapeless with the smoke. We chugged up a cruel climb we had not anticipated, and when we crested, ground squirrels barked at each other, and down the valley black angus cattle dotted the irrigated fields. “That’s a big cloud,” dad shouted to me. I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw a darkness amassing. The wind howled in our ears and we swept down the valley from the precipice. The sky boomed and lighting split the sky. We tore across the open valley, giving it everything we had. I eyed some dilapidated shacks in the fields as possible shelters if the heavens opened.
Fifteen minutes later we cheered and rolled down the pot-holed gravel road to the campsite. The wind whipped up and we struggled to pitch our tents. It began pouring. I rejoiced.
A man ran across the road and began helping us. My dad shouted his thanks to him and the man raised his hands.
“I’m deaf,” he said. “I can’t hear you.”
He crouched in the gale and helped my dad steady his tarp, already slick with rain, and hammer in his stakes.
He walked back several more times that evening to check in on us. We stood speaking to him clearly and gesturing somewhat — neither of us know sign language. His smile was infectious. He wasn’t from around here either and camped across the road with his friend. In the morning, he walked over and offered to take our trash bag for us because there wasn’t a can at the camp. And then he took out his phone and stood typing for a moment. He passed the device to me. “My name is Barbee,” it read. “What are your names?” I began to type and he stopped me. “You can speak into it,” he said. I did and the text appeared in bold white letters. He took his phone back, read it and smiled. “I hope that someone else helps you on your journey,” he said.
***
We earned some relief from the smoke in Anaconda. This was short-lived. About 15 miles out of town, heading south, we cycled against a headwind and the mid-afternoon heat. A sloping valley closed around us and the haze intensified. We knew the source: the Trail Creek fire was just west of us in the next mountain range over. The smoke burned our eyes and we coughed. Traveling through this, we knew, was simply beyond the pale. I shouted to my dad that I’d try to get us a ride as we crawled up the ascending mountain pass.
The first truck I signaled pulled over. A short, barrel-chested man hopped out. He wore a long sleeve tattoo of a dripping thin blue line flag, a blue shirt that read “K-9” and suspenders. A German Shepard barked ferociously inside the cab. We learned later he’s a retired K9 cop.
Eric is a “trail angel” for Continental Divide Trail hikers. That’s the central through-hike from Canada to Mexico through the Rockies. Trail Angels pick up hikers and hook them up with rides to towns and places to stay. I’d heard they’re generous people. Eric blew us away.
He told us he would happily give us a ride thirty miles if we were comfortable riding in the bed of his truck; I happen to love riding in truck beds and we happily accepted. As we hauled our crap up he produced two ice-cold beers. I felt I could die a happy man.
We watched the long-awaited Big Hole pass by at 60 miles per hour. It’s a strange natural feature: a never-ending grassland, an interminable wild space, at the very peak of the Rockies. The smoke intensified and the wind howled, and when we turned east on Highway 43 we gleaned blue sky ahead. We drank our beers and cheered, elated.
Five minutes later, we were crestfallen. A helicopter hovered above the Big Hole River, It lowered itself deliberately to capture a bucket of water. “Look!” my dad shouted.
To the west, the Trail Creek Fire smoldered the entire horizon.
We passed through the smoke, grim, and I drank some whiskey. Eric later pulled into a campground underneath blue skies and we hopped out. And when we thanked him profusely, he flat-out denied any compensation.
“Do you take donations?” I asked him.
“Absolutely not,” he said.
***
I’ve become addicted to Starbursts.
***
I’m collecting karmic debt at an unprecedented rate. I’m eager to pay it all back, and more, when I’m off two wheels.
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