Day 33 - Into the Silver Valley

Leaving Superior:

Pastor Wade was up when I roused around 6:30am, when the light started to pour through the windows. I grabbed my clothes out of the dry that had been graciously run by Wade and Suzy and started the process of packing everything up again.

Afterwards I joined Wade for a time in the sitting room and we discussed the road and weather ahead. We were both reasonably sure that the rains were over, but that wind might be an issue, as it had been for so many miles.

Eventually Suzy joined us and we talked for a bit before I said my final goodbyes and left out of the house, grabbed my bike and rode onwards. Somewhere in this processes I never got a picture of Wade or Suzy and it would hit me when I was multiple miles out of town, making it too difficult to turn back around. Honestly I think with a deep understanding within my bones that I was “almost” done was giving me this negligent drive to push onward. I started to ignore sounds the bike was making saying “I’ll sort that out in Couer d’Alene” or just ride it out, striving to make time rather than worrying to center a brake or a wheel for yet another lost half hour, hour or longer of troubleshooting. I feel like it’s that negligent drive forward that pushed me hard enough to forget to tend to the people of the journey with the sort of attention and intention they deserve.

Pulling out onto the frontage road — old hwy 10, my long time friend—I noted the low hanging clouds and laden air.

As before, the frontage road took a more circuitous, but flatter route through the low floodplains, while interstate 90 cut across hills and bluffs, making the flatter but longer ribbon of asphalt considerably more appealing. That and I needed to conserve energy because the second tallest pass, and perhaps the greatest climb I had yet to see was ahead of me, albeit a slower more gradual incline than Bozeman or Pipestone pass.

I can genuinely say I was enjoying this cool morning ride through the changing landscape. I was greeted by stands of pines with clear understory which I had yet to see. These gave occasional glimpses of the surrounding mountains.

And then suddenly I would burst from these copses of trees and be presented with a full vista of the mountains and river track.

Along the river I would frequently spot birds of prey, scanning or resting, waiting for the moment to launch and strike unsuspecting prey — or perhaps just avoid the harassments of moking birds and redwing blackbirds as they harried them like fighter jets buzzing an enemy bomber.

I had not seen an osprey in some miles, but now I was seeing actual eagles. First what I think is a golden eagle,and then a bald eagle similarly waiting patiently for their moment.

I was driving towards St. Regis, a the base of the pass, and the town in which the river took a sudden jog away from my path. It was a pleasant ride over good pavement in cool weather, and only around twenty miles. So by 10am I was in St. Regis. It was clearly a tourist location, with galleries and cabins, likely a viable stopping point for those hoping to enjoy the fecund valley at the base of the mountain.

I ate a more robust breakfast than the toast and peanut butter spread I had enjoyed back at Pastor Wade’s home. I knew I would need a reserve of energy for the next turn. So I hunkered in a local casino / breakfast joint. Because casinos are in everything in Montana.

I sat for a while editing pictures and allowing my bike to charge up to near full before leaving out.

The next step was to meet up with The Route of the Olympian…

A brief mile long jaunt a long some stunning forest land, part of the Lolo national forest, was what separated me from the next track upwards.

The Route of the Olympian is a near 40 mile gravel track, converted from old rail lines, turned into a multi use trail. It offered a slow incline up the mountain and also a change of pace from I-90, the only other continuous track over the pass.

So I turned onto this route and shot a quick reel for Facebook friends and pedalled onwards. The initial parts of the road was well graded and crushed gravel. It reminded me of the dirt paths I had left behind in North Dakota. Well kept and easy riding.

Until it wasn’t.

Here I stood before the turn off onto a very different feeling section of the trail. It would turn into two deep ruts created by four-wheelers. I started to question if this as the best way forwards…

Down the track a cyclist with panniers was blocking my way, but quickly moved his bike. He looked absolutely exhausted and harried by his journey so far. Kevin had been riding from New York, and was working out some bad kinks in his back which he said were due to taking a rest day on a soft mattress. He had done parts of the northern tier and wasn’t following an established trail, much like me, but rather wending his way through the area in whatever way made sense.

We discussed the trail ahead and services and I wished him well and headed on. Again that neglectful drive pushing me to give him less of my intention than he deserved. After pulling away I felt badly about it, but I continued forwards.

When I met Kevin the track opened back up and turned into the expected wide road, but the state of that road was dreadful. Washboard ruts, large gravel, and extremely hard to see divots in the surface made riding along both slow and rattling. I genuinely didn’t know if I could continue much further on this surface.

There were occasional bursts from the trees that would give a sense of context to where I was. Always following the stream track upwards.

I kept on, hoping the state of the road would improve. In the distance I spotted a group of riders fiddling over a single bike. Clearly someone was having an equipment issue. So as I neared I called out “Do you need tools?”

They said “If you have a 15mm socket, that would be amazing.”

I replied that I had a 15mm wrench and pulled it out for them to use. Though this didn’t serve their exact needs they were somewhat in awe of the depth of equipment I was carrying. I joked that if they needed a crank puller, I had one of those too.

They are a riding group of friends and family that call themselves “The Pale Riders” — Clearly a self referential pun on their undermelanated complexions.

They were a buoying presence in an increasingly hard day. Their well wishes and positive spirit, and the knowledge that the trail did get better ahead gave me considerable hope for the day.

I exchanged info with their defacto leader, Bill, and we went our separate ways after taking some pictures.

As expected from what they had told me, the trail got worse for a bit, and then got better. There were more beautiful views along the river track, and my spirits were rising as the track improved.

Then I rounded a bend and all of a sudden conditions changed in a way I could never expect.

That’s not snow. It’s some sort of chemical pellet. I think it’s some kind of salt, but I can’t be certain. For whatever reason it had been spread across the trail, and there were trucks wetting this pellet mix down, making the track covered with this sticky mud slurry. It was dreadful. Not only was it harder to bike through it was making me and my equipment filthy. That and I was dodging trucks that took the entire pathway spreading this.

Even so I continued for multiple miles with a growing sense that It just wasn't going to get better and that I needed to move to I-90.

Checking my map there was a tiny blip of a town ahead right at the point at which the trail started to take on a more significant incline. I had already resolved that this was going to be a stopping point because it had a restaurant where I could charge.

Then conditions deteriated further. I met a grader on the trail, scraping up the gravel mix, leaving behind a soft, fine soil that my tires were sinking into making going forwards unbelievably difficult. It was made most poignant when I stumbled near the edge of a rocky ledge in this terrible mix.

My bail out was ahead. But upon looking at it in real life I almost panicked. What appeared on the map as a looping section of the trail that went down perhaps 150ft to the river level turned into a washed out, mess that in no way could I reasonably ride down. Strewn with large rocks, deeply rutted, and sloping downwards with a vertigo inducing grade, I opted to “walk” the bike down. Though this turned mostly into me struggling to keep myself from falling and the bike from rolling away down the path.

Forgive me for not taking a picture of this section, as I had a death grip on the handlebars. But eventually I was down.

The repurposed rail bridge I had just passed over loomed above, the horrible loop behind, and asphalt ahead.

Throughout the day I had considered that this tiny speck, which included a restaurant and motel might need to be my stop. I investigated the motel / general store and quickly determined that even if I wanted to stay there was no room for me.

I followed the road to a small restaurant / casino where I found a plug and started to charge up the bike. While eating I finished a blog post while a woman sat for hours playing keno across from me, ocasionally pulling yet another $20 bill from her purse. Her walker set in front of her, and she seemed to be struggling breathe.

It was genuinely one of the most depressing things I’ve observed on my trip. I was glad to depart from that place into the afternoon heat.

I pulled towards I-90 only to find a common sight.

Fine. Great. I’m not going back on that trail, but the only path forward is about to potentially end in front of me, or at least demand that I do something really dangerous.

Luckily this road closure only affected one side and I found myself on the construction side, where it was simply packed gravel, awaiting the pouring of concrete to finish the surface.

Someone told me I shouldn’t be there and I ignored him. My safety was more important than getting on the side with zero shoulder.

This construction continued all the way up to the summit.

Along the 10 mile ride up I heard honks and shouting to my left. I looked over to see two trucks carrying familiar faces of people hanging out the windows, cheering me on. The Pale Riders were making their way back up the mountain.

As I sit here now, days later, I’m tearing up thinking about how that singular act was unbelievably important to me. I was hot, exhausted, and dreading the steepest part. After this moment I was pulled back from my growing resentments and recognized again, “You chose this.” And again a smile broke across my face.

I made it to the top, weary but positive, now in Idaho.

Another pass meant another figurative run down the trenches of the Deathstar — dodging the detritus left by exploded tires at 35 to 45 miles per hour while trucks zoomed by at twice that speed not 8 feet away.

Yes the scenery was amazing, but I had no concern to take pictures because to do so would take far too much of my attention in a situation where I needed all of it.

To slow myself down I would stand fully up in the pedals, using my body like a wind brake, helping to keep my speed under 35.

I pulled off on a runaway truck ramp and took a few pictures of the scenery, but the vantage point was not great.

Finally at the base of the pass there was a small community with a gas station that I turned off into and onto the old frontage road again. This quickly lead to the paved Coeur d’Alene trail, and I coasted downwards.

With the waning sunlight I felt like I might make it into town by 6:30. However in my ride down the mountain I had taken on punctures in my back tire and it was quickly deflating. I thought I might be able to make it fully down the mountain and into Wallace, three miles ahead, but fate disagreed.

I found myself doing yet another onerous patch on the back wheel. And since my larger pump had broken, this process was made even more difficult because I had to use the low volume of the pink pump to fully inflate the tire.

Eventually though, at around 7pm I was done and rode onwards.

Sweating and bedraggled, I pulled into Wallace. What my mother described as “the silver capitol of the world” seemed far more like yet another commercialized tourist trap. Admittedly in beautiful surrounds, but to me just a place to rest.

I ate dinner and checked into an overpriced motel. Two more days and I would be done.