After such a dismal series of days its’s refreshing to report good news. At my dad’s suggestion we found our way onto a small, regional bus that whisked us south to Jackson and out of the smoke. I can’t express in words how wonderful it felt to pedal on the bike path from Jackson to Teton Village Tuesday evening, winding through the meadows under blue sky while the sun cut shafts through the ridgeline to the west, gawking as the Tetons appeared, impossible huge and jagged. I’ve never seen mountains like these. What a blessing it was to actually be able to see them under clear skies. I hadn’t seen blue sky in about two weeks.
Morale soared. From a room at the Teton Village hostel that night we crafted a route on a whim. We would ride three days north — toward the area we’d fled — to West Yellowstone, MT by way of Idaho’s Teton Valley. Then we would loop back down through Yellowstone National Park and Grand Teton National Park to Jackson, where my dad will ultimately jet out. Then I would hitch or take a shuttle back up north to Yellowstone Lake, where I begin heading east toward South Dakota. As of writing we’ve completed half of that loop. We’re winding down in West Yellowstone after a long day of gravel riding.
Our route from Teton Village through Idaho to W. Yellowstone was crafted on Google Maps with a steady hand from the bartender at the Spur, a bar in Teton Village, as well as Zach at Fitzgeralds bike shop in Victor. Both offered indispensable input about routes off of the main highway — which is a death trap around Island Park and Yellowstone — that vary from pavement and smooth gravel to our favorite genre of path: sandy wash filled with boulders. We completed this section with no mechanical issues. I’ll detail the route below.
This section was the real deal. Good, long days of riding. Sweeping views of the Tetons from the backside. Encounters with hilarious, engaging, kind and resourceful people. Gorgeous camping. And a once-in-a-lifetime, unnerving brush with the most elusive of creatures — the mountain lion.
Cycling report
The ACA apparently maps a route through the Teton Valley as a TransAm variant. I haven’t studied it, as I don’t have that map. However: if that route puts you on Highway 20, don’t ride it between Ashton and Island Park. I crossed the 2,000 mile threshold on my tour today and this road stands out as perhaps the most dangerous I’ve ridden — and that was only for a few miles. We opted instead for Highway 32 to Ashton and then a variation of the Mesa Falls Scenic Byway, the rough Yellowstone Branch Trail and anonymous forest roads. I call it the “Google Map special” because, when you’re in this area network of forest roads and trail, oftentimes you can just trace your way out of there by staring at your blue dot on the app and tracking the various roads to an exit.
In this region, when you’re in the woods, you have to take measures to prevent interactions with grizzlies. Ride with bells on your bike. Yell or sing often. Grizzlies don’t want to see you. It’s when you sneak up on them that’s dangerous. We saw the mountain lion about two miles north of Bear Gulch on the Yellowstone Branch Trail.
If you’re going to south to north as we were, the route is obvious at first. Ride the paved, separated bike path from Teton Valley to Wilson and continue to the peak of Teton Pass. Join the main highway and ride into Victor. Thanks to Zach’s wisdom, we were able to continue on a paved bike path to Driggs. Highway 20 isn’t too bad here on the southern end of the Valley. Take it to Tetonia or cut west early to Cache. Camping around Tetonia is nonexistent, to my knowledge, so we popped into the Teton Peaks Resort. Jordan just bought the place and the vibe is awesome here. We camped next to the gazebo in plush grass for $20. The swath of turf has a perfect view of sunset on the Tetons. There’s a grill, horse shoes and frisbee golf.
From here the options are spicy. Traffic increases violently but a robust network of rough rails-to-trails path and country roads provide a safer, but slower option that would be best enjoyed with mountain bike tires or gravel setups.
It should be noted here that we’re rocking Schwalbe Marathon tires; mine are 26X1.75 and my dad’s are 28X1.5. We appreciate a good, gnarly gravel ride, but we’re rocking panniers that rattle to kingdom come. Obviously, we don’t have any suspension. At Tetonia we took a look at the Ashton-Tetonia trail, rode it to the junction with 20, and decided it was way too rough. Highway 32 offered a better option. The shoulder is slim but traffic was light or moderate. From Ashton we took the Mesa Falls Scenic Byway to Warm River Campground. Folks were warning us about the MFSB, including Zach, who is an expert. In my opinion it wasn’t that bad, but we opted instead for the Yellowstone Branch Trail.
It’s slow going in here for the first seven miles to Bear Gulch. In retrospect, however, those were the best conditions on the whole 50-mile Branch trail. It’s an ATV track and those guys come flying around corners. Don’t ride with headphones on, and ride it as much or as little as you want. The forest roads after Island Park offer excellent, smooth gravel detours to shave off many a mile. The last 13 miles are rough but offer some pristine views of a grassy river valley. Enjoy that.
All in all we did: 50+ miles from Teton Village to Tetonia; 70+ miles from Tetonia to the Island Park Dam, which has free, good dispersed camping on the reservoir; and then 25 hard miles to W. Yellowstone.
Encounters
We trudged into the Safeway in Dillon, MT Tuesday at 6 a.m. to buy coffee. The smoke was thick, same as it had been for ten days. Inside we stood in line at the little Starbucks kiosk behind a troupe of wildland firefighters. Hotshots, actually, all groggy and bearded. In the bathroom I asked one of them where they were shipping out to and he told me some fire I’d never heard of. There are so many.
The bus pulled into the Safeway parking lot, as promised, near 6:45. It was actually a large Mercedes van towing the trailer they’d also promised for our bikes and gear. The outside, in flowery script, read “SALT LAKE EXPRESS.” Inside the cab was surprisingly clean and warm, and the two other people on the bus didn’t speak much, which I appreciated, as it was early in the morning. One was a chicano kid from Texas who said he was headed for Jackson for a long and well-paying construction project. He was eager to see the mountains. I was excited for him. Jason, our bus driver, had two chihuahuas tucked into a blanket on the passenger seat. One glared at me for much of the ride. Mid-ride, Jason abruptly pulled the van over on a scenic overlook of a broad, grassy wash. Ecstatic, he pointed out four moose down there.
We had a long layover in Idaho Falls, ID. I ran several errands. The air was markedly cleaner. But our good mood was short-lived.
The second van arrived in the afternoon heat at the Sinclair gas station. There she was, towering next to us, waiting to step on the bus. Tall, six-foot-one perhaps, clad in a sickly aura of stale cigarette smoke, a black Champion tee covered in animal hair, stained sweatpants and pink flip-flops. The first time I heard her cough it sounded like her esophagus was in danger of leaping from her mouth, a geyser of biohazardous detritus.
The bus was the same size — another Mercedes van. We sat in the middle row; she sat in the back aisle, not two feet from the back of my neck. For two hours we endured this woman’s relentless hacking. Wet, foul. I imagine you would approximate the din if you attempted to strangle a goose. No one else spoke on the bus. We rode in complete wordlessness and enjoyed the rare moments of silence between her expulsions. Once I heard her spit into a napkin behind me and I shuddered. Toward the end of her fits she would involuntarily moan and I could hear her swallow the sludge.
I turned my music up and up and up and saw my dad was as well. Nothing would drown it out. Outside the scene became idyllic. The van tracked the Snake River into the Rockies and indigo storm clouds gathered and battered the road in a cleansing downpour.
At some point in the ride I looked to my right. There it was. Her foot propped up on the seat next to me. I won’t describe the foot. All you have to know is that it brushed the side of my water bottle as it lay bouncing on the seat. I snatched the bottle and fantasized about yelling at her but decided against it to preserve the uneasy peace in the van.
“Are we ever going to stop for a bathroom break?” she announced in her swollen, bullfrog voice, no more than 15 minutes from Jackson. The driver, who looked like Bill Gates, soon announced we would indeed stop. Everyone else grumbled. He pulled into a gas station and we wandered out like refugees in the rain. The woman hurried under the roof of the travel center and lit a cigarette. Everyone watched her with shared loathing.
***
The double-track trail was rough. ATVs and dirt bikes had scoured deep troughs of sand in each of the tracks, which stretched through alternating scenes of arid forest or open range where the cattle blocked the road and eyed us dumbly. Sometimes my dad and I could ride side-to-side in the tracks but more often one of us was far ahead of the other, each concentrating on navigating the endless terrain of sand pits and boulders. Each in our own little world. The weather was perfect and we were far from any paved road.
Silently, no more than fifty feet in front of me, the mountain lion jumped across the entire track. Broad, muscular. It paused momentarily and glanced at me and slunk into the woods, out of sight. My heart threatened to pop like a balloon. I stopped immediately and pulled my bear spray from its holster on my handlebars.
I couldn’t see it. I didn’t know exactly where it was but I knew it was somewhere in front of me near the track.
I began shouting to my dad. I kept my eyes where the lion likely was.
“Get off your bike.”
He couldn’t hear me.
“Get off your bike. There’s a mountain lion right here.”
He rolled to a stop in the sand and slowly stepped over the frame. He stooped and produced his bear spray.
“Ring your bell, start yelling.”
We bellowed, finding strength in our voices. The little ding of the bike bell reverberated far into the woods. Only after we clamored for ten seconds did I glimpse the lion’s hips as it sauntered away. It slipped past the trees in the sparse undergrowth and out of sight. A beast.
I knew we needed to stay vigilant. Mountain lions enjoy stalking prey. It was out of the question to pedal away from there quickly as I knew as well that mountain lions savor a chase. We continued our bellowing. We made threats to the mountain lion. We walked our bikes slowly, watching our six, for a mile.
“You don’t want none of this,” I shouted into the woods, waving my bear spray. “I will spray the absolute fuck out of you.”
My heart rate resembled that of a healthy person after some time. I kept watching the road behind me — not an easy task in the trough.
When the fear wore off I felt blessed that the mountain lion showed itself to me and let us pass.
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