Day 28 - An unexpected journey to Whitehall

Reader, I’m going to be up front — There are a lot of photos in this post, and it takes a considerable amount of time editing, exporting, and uploading them. I very much treat this like a job. Your experience is just as important to me as memorializing the actual events, thoughts and experiences I have on the road. Often times I have to edit and write the next day, as it is with this post, because of the considerable time commitment. Don’t pity me, I enjoy it.

I know some of you have expressed a desire for some of the photos you see here in printed format, and so when I get the headspace to do so I will offer them all up for print in the highest quality. I’m also considering sending prints of their choosing to anyone who has donated to helping me get across.

Honestly though, some days I feel like I’m simply shouting into the void, and this is an exercise simply to placate my own ego. I hope not, and I hope you truly do get something—whatever that may be—from my experience and posts. Anyway…

Leaving Bozeman:

I had an early breakfast with Patricia and Fred at their condo, Fred made me some eggs, Patricia made sure I had anything else I could want — almost like an Italian mother, trying to feed me as much as I could stomach. In spite of her genuine gracious offers, I had to refuse many as they would burden me with too much on my stomach, or extra weight that would only duplicate my load out. They were kind beyond measure, and that sticks to me even now.

Leaving their condo meant getting the bike out of their parking area. So both of them came with me down to load out and take final pictures and say goodbyes. After a quick top off of air from Fred’s compressor I was on my way.

The old frontage road out of Bozeman was now a defacto second business artery and route to the airport. In other words it was busy. For the most part this was fine. There was either a shoulder or a dedicated bike lane over much of its length. This paired with the fact that I had a stiff tailwind and was making 22mph across the tarmac.

Fred had said the Airport was 12 miles away, and I made it in nearly 30 minutes. In another 30 minutes I was in Belgrade, a small town in the exurbs of Bozeman.

I stopped near an old grain elevator and called my wife to wish her a happy birthday, and have her open the packages that had arrived the prior day under the pretense they were equipment I would need when I got back. She thought I would forget. I did not.

We said our goodbyes and I breezed down the road, through other small towns along the old frontage road.

The mountains loomed on every side. Some more like buttes with flat tops, others with the inklings of snowpack.

The valley was opening up southward and closing to my right, in the North. Gradually I was making my way to meet the buttes on that side.

In every direction, farmlands sprawled across the open spaces, leaving only the steep hills devoid of crop or pastureland. The Gallitin valley is both breathtaking and at the same time gives off the aura that if you do not respect it, it would kill you. Either through dehydration, or exposure, or some other lonely and insignificant calamity. I had the very pressing sense that minding my water intake was wise. And so I drank frequently, even when I didn’t feel like I needed it.

The miles between Belgrade and Manhattan, the next small town over, saw another shift in geology. Gone were the sloped buttes with scrubby brush sides, now there were violently upthrust seams of intrusive granite, the product of millions of years of unfathomable forces. Ribbons of rock, bursting like teeth from the gums of the Earth.

I turned a bend, and then another, struggling over the hills and ravines that cut across this new, rocky landscape. Eventually making it to Manhattan, a postage stamp town that only hosted a defunct grain silo and little else.

In a blink it was gone and I was off again over parched, undulating prairie.

In a few miles I entered Three Forks, a town built on the headwaters of the Missouri river, where the Jefferson, Madison, and Gallatin rivers all have a confluence that forms the Missouri, which then winds its way northwards towards Canada, crosses the breadth of Montana and then descends through North Dakota where I encountered it before.

Three Forks was a genuine little gem of a town. I had thriving businesses and restaurants and a pleasant vibe. I found the local cafe that served breakfast and pie, and had my fill while blogging the prior day’s adventures as the bike charged outside.

After a while I felt like I was preventing tables from being turned over at the cafe, and so at around noon I left the cafe, and as I did I spotted a couple of skydivers coming down outside of town.

With more work to do, and needing to give the bike more time to charge for the next 33 mile leg, I went to a coffee shop where I ordered a monumental coffee with four shots.

At around 1pm I left out after stopping by the bathroom.

Look, I’m going to be frank, planning… uh… the release of solids is an important concern when the next leg of your journey is 33 miles without towns or services. So I tried. Yet my body decided not yet.

There were miles to cover and time was wasting. So I mounted the bike after blogging and made about three miles out of town.

Then it struck. What, you say? Oh, you fundamentally know what I mean when I say The Gurgle. Our mortal enemy when we are more than 50ft from any bathroom. Yes that gurgle. The high pitched whine from deep within followed by a quick succession of glugs that say “The shit, is literally about to hit the fan, bucko”

My mind was racing — Do I go back? Is that a waste of energy? Would I even make it? What if I just go in the woods close by? How do I even clean up what will certainly be an unfortunate scene?

Reader, let me be clear, what I’m about to share with you is true.

As these questions swam like angry tuny within my brain, I spotted a small white object on the side of the road…

A pristine roll of toilet paper. Placed there by some divine action. Unexplainable. Providence.

Reader, when have you ever seen a perfect roll of toilet paper just hanging out on the side of the road? Never. That’s when.

But let’s be clear: While the urge was urgent, I now had acquired a solid backup plan. Though relief in the woods was less than idea. I hoped against hope that any human structure might pop up… a gas station… a park.

I rounded the next bend an there it was, on the outest outskirts of town. A memorial park in honor of a fallen officer. A police car stood on a pedestal, lights eternally flashing. Behind it a building my soul somehow knew was relief.

But, reader, I am no fool. If a divine force puts a roll of toilet paper in your hand and then points you at a latrine, you take the blessed paper with you…

And that I did. Behold, an empty dispenser.

Now you could use logic and say “Probably somebody stole the roll and threw it out a window to mess with poor passersby in desperate need.” Yes, that’s possible. But I need you to understand the level of coincidence here… It’s genuinely absurd.

I decided after prayerful repose and thanks to a loving God that it would be remiss of me to not leave the divine artifact for the next unfortunate soul. After all, God instructed the Jews in the desert not to collect more than a day’s ration of Mana or it would rot as a way of trusting in his providence. It seemed right to leave it, and so I did.

After around 5 miles I departed the I-90 corridor and took a southern road that avoided an unnecessary and strenuous climb. Fred and Patricia had agreed the night before that this route was also quite beautiful.

After making the Southern turn I spotted a figure down the road coming towards me. Clearly a rider with bags on their bike. So I pulled over to the other side of the road and conversed with the rider.

His name is Merlin — Named after the bird, not the wizard — and he had just biked up from Yellowstone park, which if I were to fully follow this road I would eventually reach. He started his tour at a friends house and is headed out East. I cant recall exactly where, I believe he's headed back home to Ohio.

We exchanged some information about services and weather and went on our way. It’s always pleasant to meet another tourist, but there’s an implicit understanding we’re on the move. So we moved.

The day had turned both hot and bright, topping 88 degrees at this point. I was making sure to drink significant amounts of water to try and keep up with the loss.

The road south moved across gentle hills with the Dogherty mountain always to the right of me. I was retracing the route of one of two of the Lewis and Clark parties that took this way back from the coast.

Eventually the tight spacing between the Jefferson River and the sheer cliffs of the Dogherty mountain started to broaden, opening to desolate prairie that looked baked and dead beneath looming, distant peaks.

After nearly an hour of exhaustingly hot riding, I reached the junction with MT-2, the road I would take towards Whitehall, and the road that would pass through a spectacular gorge that passed by caves that are named for Lewis and Clark, yet none of them ever actually saw.

This turn onto MT-2 proved even more desolate. The only human habitation or structures were an incomprehensible bridge in the middle of nowhere. I got the impression this was some sort of local venue for racing or concerts as they had a significant number of portapotties and what looked like grass space for parking with some enclosed area for events. Regardless, it was certainly unusual to see an intact bridge truss sitting out here of all places.

It also marked the only significant climb I would have to overcome, and a slog up a 300ft tall hill. But this was preferable to the I-90 route that would have required a much steeper and longer climb.

After 8 more grueling, but beautiful miles I finally made it to the Lewis and Clark caverns National Park building, where the attendant helped me find an outlet for my bike while I took a rest on one of their couches and dozed after downing about a liter of water.

After about an hour of additional charge I set out again.

It was this section of the detour that made it all worth the prior difficulties. The walls of the gorge closed in with sides rising thousands of feet above. The river to my left, having cut through these giants.

Every new bend showed its own spectacular character. At times stacked, dark, basaltic rock. Other sections bands of silvery granite, and still others scrubby sand, the product of millions of years of erosion.

It is at once humbling and deeply soul feeding to stand at the feet of such giants. It is a stark reminder of the grandeur of the natural, and the smallness of the self.

After a few more miles and a few more bends, the road straightened and the gorge opened up back into the Jefferson valley, and signs of civilization quickly popped into view.

I rejoined the frontage road next to I-90 and as I entered Whitehall I spotted an Osprey resting on its nest. So I pulled over to take a photo, but it launched itself into the air, only to circle and land again. I have a feeling it is a juvenile, not yet strong enough for sustained flight, but that my presence was enough of a stressor for it to make a shortlived attempt.

A mile more and I was at the safety of the motel I was to stay at for the night. Tired, sweaty, and baked after 66 beautiful miles through the Gallatin and Jefferson Valleys.