This used to be much easier.
Back when mountain biking first came into being, there was really only
one kind of bike, and one kind of outfit to wear while riding it (heavy rigid
steel bike with fattish tires and stretchy roadie clothes, respectively). Nowadays, we have approximately eleventy billion
choices of mountain bikes and many different “kit” options to match. NSMB did an excellent job of breaking down
the basic rider types in this video, and the list is thus (Step 3, at 0:30):
Now, since nobody likes being categorized so impersonally, I
shall further streamline the process by presenting an efficient series of
questions to determine into what camp any given rider should be unceremoniously
shunted.
Of course, when a mountain biker is in his or her natural
environment (on the trail or in the trailhead parking lot) it is relatively
easy to determine what kind of rider they are and whether or not it is safe to
approach them as a kindred spirit. The
presence of fermented libations (aka beer), in particular, is an indication of
acceptable association in almost all cases.
Beer, tutus, happy faces: it is probably safe to approach this crew.
However, when you encounter someone in street clothes who
communicates, either directly or indirectly, that they ride a mountain bike, it
is necessary to resist the urge to immediately bond over the connection. (You
may rely on other cues to determine whether a cyclist is road-only. A whiff of embrocation, an air of smug
superiority, a doping charge, and a head injury from being hit by a texting
vehicle operator are all reliable warning signs.)
NOPE.
Since there is no succinct answer to “what kind of rider are
you?”, I have, through careful research, testing and observation, created a
short list of questions that will allow anyone to find out whether it is
appropriate to invite the person being questioned to go for a ride. As we all know, the consequences of mingling
with riders of incompatible disciplines and enthusiasm levels can be quite
dire, ranging from boredom and ruined Strava segments to sheer terror and
grievous bodily injury, so it is essential to use these questions before any
invitation is extended so that disaster may be avoided. 1. What kind of bike do you ride?
This question is actually somewhat
deceptive. The answer does not
automatically assign the subject to a given category. The most ideal answer, of course, is any bike
with 27.5” wheels with a minimum of 150mm of travel front and rear, because it
tells you the rider has adequate equipment for anything between an epic trail
ride or a day at the bike park. This person is also likely to be able to tell
you in detail about all the components on his or her bike and provide
recommendations on each. He or she is probably a wealth of information on the
area trails from whence he or she came.
The Santa Cruz Nomad (2014 and newer) is an excellent example of an acceptable answer.
If the answer is “I dunno, I think it’s a
Specialized”, then the questioning is done and you should not ride with this
person. Someone who can’t be bothered to know the model of the bike they ride
is also unlikely to wear a helmet less than 10 years old (if at all) or to
carry appropriate tools or sustenance on a ride. Or they will do things like this:
If the answer is some kind of downhill bike
with a production date within the last 4 years, this person will not be able to
join you on trail rides, but will mostly likely be able to show you all the fun
lines at the all the area lift-serviced bike parks.
If the answer is a specific kind of
hardtail 29er, it is tempting to write the person off as a Trail Fred (aka a
roadie who got talked into buying a mountain bike for cross-training), but
wait. I personally know a guy who
absolutely shreds on a hardtail 29er and crushes gnarly downhills. Therefore further questioning is required to
truly pin down a potential riding buddy.
2. What kind of shorts do you wear?
If the answer to this is “roadie shorts,”
and the answer to the previous question was “a hardtail 29er,” you are
done. This person thinks that climbs are
more fun than descents and will therefore be a major drag to ride with. Smile politely and tell them that you’re late
for your underwater basketweaving lesson or whatever, and GET THE HELL OUT OF
THERE!
If the answer is some equivalent of
“baggies,” you are in the clear.
This does not guarantee that this person is a
suitable riding companion, but it does mean that you won’t end up seeing their
asscrack, or the very clear outline of their junk, or waaaaay too much hairy
man-thigh.
Don't look too close. Just trust me that that's a clearly visible ass crack in the background
These two questions should significantly aid in identifying
those that will make good crew members, but if you are having trouble there are
a few more follow-up queries you can use:
3. What kind of socks do you wear?
Only acceptable answer: Awesome socks.
#grumpypurpleowlsocks
4. What is your favorite trail?
Acceptable answers: Doctor Park, Lithium,
Amasa/Ahab, The Whole Enchilada, Kennebec Pass, or a trail of similar excellence.
Badass ladyshred crew at the top of The Whole Enchilada
5.Do you dance party?
Acceptable answer: Of course. At every
possible opportunity. Preferably with glow sticks.
Photo by Eric Rasmussen
6. Safety what?
Acceptable answer: Third. After looking good and having fun.
Photo by Yann Ropars
So there you have it.
No longer fear that you will waste a perfectly good Saturday riding in a
place or at a pace that does not make you deliriously happy! Unending two-wheeled joy is yours: go and get
it!
Obviously, this treatise is meant to be purely entertaining
and not at all judgmental. I support all bicycle-based pursuits and I’m happy to ride
with anyone who wants themselves and everybody else to have a great time on a
bike. The more cyclists we’ve got out
there, regardless of equipment, the better it is for the whole of
humanity. #getrowdie!
1. A guy shot a llama because he thought it was an
elk
During Mike’s first week at the Kurtz
clinic in Belgrade, there were several visits from drug reps. The reps mostly just brought lunch for all of
the employees, but one of them came with lunch and a bonus: news that a hunter
in Bozeman shot a llama, put an elk tag on it, and rolled up to an elk check
station with it, causing considerable consternation for the DoW staff working
there. I very much hope they rescinded
his hunting privileges. For life.
If it helps, here is a head to head
comparison of the four-legged fuzzy creatures in question:
Elk.
Llama.
And here's a couple of llamas having sex, because why not:
Ha!
People in this part of the country are
legitimately gun crazy. It was
practically impossible to go hiking or XC skiing anywhere without hearing
gunshots or seeing spend shells scattered on the ground. During one hike with the dogs, Mike actually
heard shots whizzing over his head and arrived at the parking lot to find a guy
blasting into some trees right in front of the trail. We were also seriously concerned about
Paddington’s safety, since she looks about as much like a coyote or wolf as a
llama looks like an elk, so all of her time outside was spent in a
high-visibility coat (to her immense displeasure and embarrassment).
We weren’t as concerned about Ellie, although
she could conceivably be mistaken for a beaver, or perhaps an especially chubby
grouse.
2. The trailer’s water heater exploded
When we arrived in Bozeman, the high
temperature was a balmy 30ish degrees.
There was a brief snowfall, then a prolonged wind storm, more snow, and
then the temperature dropped to zero during the day. The pipes in the bathroom froze, but the
kitchen faucet kept working, so it wasn’t the end of the world. Then one
morning as we were preparing breakfast, there was a sudden and concussive thud
from under the oven, which I imagine sounded much like a whale giving herself a
head slap when her whale dad tells a terrible whale knock-knock joke. The thud
was immediately followed by the sound of running water getting into places it
shouldn’t. We frantically searched for
the source, and discovered that the 6-gallon water heater tank had frozen, expanded, and burst at the weld.
Up to this point, I think we had been
dealing with the trials of trailer life in Bozeman pretty heroically: the KOA
showers that lacked adequate pressure, heat, and a pleasantly non-sulfurous smell;
the wind storm that rocked the trailer for several nights, which is less
relaxing than it sounds; the bone-cracking cold that cost us a hundred bucks in
propane for heating in the course of two weeks; the constant humidity from the
exhalations of four organisms, which froze menacingly on the window frames
despite the constant running of the dehumidifier; and our faintly worrisome
neighbor, whose camper-toting pickup arrived in its spot on the flatbed tow
truck and whose occupant seemingly only emerged late at night to add more empty
beer cases to the growing pile beside. The water heater’s callous betrayal of
our trust, however, seemed to be the last straw.
Mike’s preceptor had offered his guest
house to us when we first arrived, but I initially didn’t want to deal with the
hassle of moving all our crap from trailer to house and back again, then having
to clean the place once we were out. But
the siren call of a hot shower and sunlight coming through the windows was too
strong, so we tucked our tails between our legs, vacated our space at the KOA,
and bailed.
3. We moved into the Kurtzes’ guest house
The guest house was built around the turn
of the 19th century and then updated with the modern amenities by
the Kurtzes after they bought the property around 20 years ago. It’s probably only around 800 sq ft, but it
felt like a mansion. Ellie’s favorite
part about it, we assume, was the heater, which kept things much toastier than
she had been putting up with. We think
Paddington appreciated the two queen beds in the upstairs area, which meant she
could have a whole bed to herself, while keeping an eye on us, her hopelessly
wayward human charges.
The coziness of the house was enhanced by
its being chock full of tchotchkes.
Every available surface, vertical and horizontal, looked like several
garage sales had been blasted into the house with a cannon.
The property was guarded by a ferocious
attack dog, a basset hound known as Sally Ann, who was always apoplectically
excited to see us. She liked to follow us around on P & E’s bathroom
excursions, but I felt bad that she had to heave herself around so
energetically to keep up with her longer-legged (and lower percentage body fat)
canine compatriots.
I very much hope that she gets dressed in a
hot dog costume for Halloween.
The house was also conveniently close to a
less-popular trailhead on the west side of the Bridger mountains, Truman Gulch,
where we had several very pleasant hikes.
Except for one, when…
4. We almost got smushed by falling trees
I’ll never forget the terror!
When we started, it was a totally normal
winter day for Montana: cold, cloudy, light winds. We hiked up a mile or two, then on our way
back I stopped to take some photos of the dogs launching over a fallen log,
which they seemed to be getting a kick out of.
Suddenly, it got much darker around us, a huge wall of wind came up the
gulch, and the spindly dead trees on the north-facing side of the gulch, which
we were on, started falling like dominoes.
So naturally, we started running for our lives, although every time we
heard the sound of a tree coming down nearby we had to pause and figure out
which way it was going to go. After thirty seconds of this I had a brain wave
and started bushwhacking across the ravine to the north side of the gulch,
which had fewer, and much sturdier-looking, trees. Mike and the dogs followed my lead, and we
could slow our pace to watch the other side flail and fall like bowling pins. Eventually, the wind exhausted itself and we
crossed back to the trail, where we noticed that the air smelled distinctly
pine-ier due to all of the recently splintered logs.
Despite the fact that Truman Gulch tried to
squish us, we returned there a few days later.
There had been a snowfall of a few inches, and we could clearly see the
tracks of two bikes (one fat, one regular) on the trail. The fun thing about snow is that you can see
what the people who were there before you got up to. In this case, one of them had a run-in with
gravity, and left a ‘bike angel’ in the deeper snow just off the trail:
Been there, done that.
5. I got a new phone
Because the one thing that makes a
smartphone still a phone, and not just a toy, stopped working on my deeply,
enthusiastically detested Motorola Droid.
Don’t get one. Ever.
But, being on a budget, I didn’t want to
spend any extra money. My free choices
were a Samsung Galaxy S5 and an LG 6. I
read a million reviews, which were completely unhelpful because the phones are
so similar, and ultimately went with the Galaxy because it was marginally less
enormous.
It also has a pretty badass camera, and I
immediately started playing around with it, and applying the photo effects:
(Selective focus)
(Sepia effect)
(Cartoon effect)
6. We went to an ice climbing competition
This sounds much more exciting than it
actually was. The competition was at the
fairgrounds near the Walmart, which, being deficient in waterfalls or anything
else that could turn into a wall of ice, necessitated the employment of a tall
scaffolding with angled sheets of plywood bearing strategically placed climbing
holds. The climbers had crampons and ice
axes, as well as 4 or 5 minutes (depending on gender) to get as far as they
could up the rakishly angled surfaces to the top hold, some 3 stories above the
frozen ground.
We had taken the dogs with us, and
Paddington quickly took advantage of the freezing metal bleachers to cool
herself off:
Ellie, on the other hand, required a lap to
sit on to keep from shivering.
The technique of the climbers was
incredible, and the grace and power was easy to appreciate even at a distance
and a viewing perspective that made the overhang of the plywood difficult to
perceive. I was struck by how all the female competitors were uniformly tiny, even
in their bulky winter gear. If only I
had grown up somewhere colder! I’m made for that sport!
7. A big snowstorm finally arrived…just in time for
us to get back on the road
There is some really excellent downhill
skiing just half an hour from our location in Belgrade, and a couple of days
after our arrival, I took a quick trip down to Pocatello to retrieve our skis
from the storage unit, because we assumed that Montana might have some usable
snow. Crazy, I know.
NOPE! No snow when we got there, then too
cold to snow, then too warm to snow.
Then three days before we planned to leave, it dumped.
Of course.
It turned our 10-hour drive back to Denver
(according to Google maps) into a 24-hour ordeal, with about 4 hours of doing a tentative 30mph and a prolonged nap at a rest stop just south of Casper while we waited
for the blasted cross wind to give us a break. But we made it! Being back with family and
friends for a couple weeks was heaven, and we also took the opportunity to make
some modifications to increase the trailer’s comfort quotient in preparation
for the next destination: that purported Mecca of mountain biking, Hurricane
UT.
Holy crap it was a relief to get out of Walla Walla. That place is more of an armpit than Pocatello, and that is saying something!
You know what, that was mean. Pocatello is fine, it just needs waaaaay more breweries to be somewhere I'd want to stay long-term.
Within 3 hours of Mike seeing the last patient on the last day of his rotation, we were back on the road towards Bozeman. The trailer was not quite winterized yet, and we didn't want our water tanks or pipes freezing in the chilly air of Montana, so we stopped off in Coeur d'Alene for a few days to explore and stay (relatively) warm. However, we had both had a rather tiring day, so we only made it to a rest area a few miles west of CDA before stopping to sleep for the night. It was still better than staying one more nanosecond in Walla Walla.
I do not know how I ever functioned in life without Google maps. To find a place to put the trailer while wandering around on Saturday, I zoomed in on the satellite map and found a parking area with big trailer-size pull-through spots south of downtown, and thence we proceeded on Saturday morning in search of breakfast and internets.
The parking area was next to the City Hall and library, and also serviced a large park with a fenced doggie play spot, brightly colored playground and picnic pavilion, all within spitting distance of Lake Coeur d'Alene to the south. It was really quite lovely, and we walked the dogs around for a few minutes, taking in the wonderful non-inversioned air of not-Walla Walla.
Hm, we thought to ourselves. There's something about this place.
After breakfast at Bakery by the Lake (recommend) Mike went to the library to continue interneting and I went for a shopping spree at Costco, because we hadn't had access to one in W^2 and the dogs had been out of their Costco-brand chow for a solid 3 days. (Not that they were terribly broken up about it -- their backup food is white rice and boiled hamburger, which they adore.) What does it say about me that I feel deprived by not being able to shop for economy packs of folding chairs at a giant wholesale store for a couple of weeks? 'Murica!
Then it was off to the nearest bike shop to ask about area trails. I went in to Coeur d'Alene Bike Co. to find a super cute flannel-and-beanie-clad blond girl at the front counter, and proceeded to speak in standard mountain-biker lingo, with many "sick"s and "epic"s and "rad"s, presently gleaning much good beta.
Super Cute Shop Girl asked, in order to determine what trails to recommend, if I was an advanced rider, and I replied, rather equivocally, that I liked to think so. What is that about? Why can't I just say yes, I am solidly in the 'advanced' category? I mean, I'm not really up to huge drops or gap jumps just yet, but I've ridden some decent gnar. Note to self: own it next time.
Since I had a good feeling about the shop, I also mentioned that I didn't notice any bike-related jewelry on display, and perhaps they would be interested in carrying some, more specifically, mine. She said the owner would probably be interested, but he had just gone out for lunch and I should come back after 1 or so.
Roger that.
Back to the trailer to figure out where to put all of the 10-pack family-size Nutella jars I had gotten from Costco.
Mike returned from facebooking studying at the
library, and we took the pups for an explore around the Tubbs Hill hiking area,
which has a trail that runs along the lake with excellent views of the
surrounding hills. It was a glorious
day, if a tad chilly, and at the first opportunity Paddington got into the
water to cool off. Ellie, after some plying with a sufficiently large tree
branch thrown into the water at a reasonable distance, also swam for a
bit. Although we had finally gotten her
to jump/stumble off of a dock on a pond in Pocatello last summer, we were sadly
unable to convince her to launch into the water off one of the many boulders on
the shore, which would have been wonderfully entertaining and not a little
harrowing. We made it to a miniature peninsula and chased each other around on
the beach briefly, took the obligatory “us” selfie, and then decided that we
had accomplished enough exercise to reward ourselves with beer.
But first: back to the bike shop to do some schmoozing and
selling.
Success! The owner,
Chris, was indeed interested in the earrings, and took twelve pairs on
commission.
Bam!
We chatted with him and TJ
and Syd (Super Cute Shop Girl) for a solid hour, learned more about biking
around CDA, played with Syd’s puppy Beemer, and commiserated about the
unsuitability of Cannondale lefty forks. When we asked about places to take the
trailer for camping, Chris told us to just park it in the lot behind the shop,
which we did almost immediately. (When
you’re a gypsy, you learn to take every opportunity like this. I sometimes
wonder how serious people are when they offer space or showers or whatever, and
whether they are surprised when I take them up on it. Let this be a lesson to
all: don’t offer unless you mean it.)
Jewelry hawking and accommodations thus accomplished and
established, respectively, it was actually now time for beer and food. There
were several breweries quite nearby, but we were charmed by the name of Daft
Badger brewing, and went there first. It
was quite busy, as befits a Saturday evening, and when we sat on two of the few
open stools the gentleman next to us asked us if he could get us something,
adding that he was the owner of the establishment. Once again, we jumped on an
unsolicited offer like Ellie pounces on unfortunate rodents (clumsily, and
without regard for personal safety or decorum).
I found myself
assuming that this was meant to be an opening for socializing, and with great
effort tamped down my natural shyness and conversational awkwardness and
pretended to be a normal human being who can talk normally to other normal
human beings.
The owner and his wife (Darryl and Val) were extremely cool,
terribly nice, and wildly informative about the population, activities and
merits of CDA. We learned that the cost
of living is fairly low, the outside opportunities are endless, the ski/DH bike
areas are close and world-class, the winters are manageable and the beer is
right up there. It got to the point
where I had to ask: what’s the catch?
The catch, Darryl said, is that the town is still very very
conservative. “Narrow-minded,” he said.
Ah. Well, that’s nothing we didn’t already live with in
Pocatello.
But, it stands to reason that as CDA attracts more under-30
folks looking for adventure and less expensive housing, it will naturally turn
a little more purple. At least that’s what I like to think.
Anyway, the beer was good and the food was great at Daft
Badger, and I certainly recommend it to all.
It was only 8pm at this point, but since it had gotten dark
at 4 it felt much later, and we made a stop at Slate Creek brewing for a couple
tasters before going back to the trailer and crashing out early like the party
animals we are.
Unfortunately for us in that particular situation, but not
necessarily in general, downtown CDA apparently has a bit of a nightlife, and
also apparently most of the participants in that nightlife like to take a
shortcut through the parking lot of the bike shop to the bar on the other
side. The lot is ostensibly surrounded
by chain-link fence on 3 sides, but we observed the following morning that
there is a large gap at one corner through which people avoid going an extra 20
feet to the intersection and around the shop building. Starting at 10pm and continuing until 3am,
loud voices permeated the supposedly insulated walls of our so-called
winterized trailer as though the owners of said voices were right in there with
us. At one point we heard, very clearly,
some apparently amorous male declare “I just want to snort cocaine and fuck fat
bitches.”
Indeed.
In the morning, detritus of the previous night was scattered
over the parking lot in the form of a Styrofoam container, deposited improbably
under the very middle of the trailer, and bits of burrito everywhere else,
which Paddington kept trying to scoop up as we walked her to and from the park
by the lake.
The nice weather of the day before had, sadly, not
continued, and a gusty rain greeted us.
The plan had been to go riding, but here’s the thing about living in a
camper: nothing ever dries in here.
Ever. It’s a hermetically sealed box of four respiring and perspiring
organisms with no air flow. So, if we
were to go out riding in the rain and bring our nasty damp selves back inside,
we might as well throw our clothing in the trash because it wouldn’t by dry
again until Christmas.
Also, I’m a big wimp about being wet and cold. So, instead,
we took the dogs for a hike on the Canfield Mountain trail system, which was
supposed to have good riding. Like total jerks, we hiked up the down-only flow
trail, but as there were no vehicles at the trailhead with the means to
transport a bike, we figured it was pretty safe. The trail was cool, and the
dirt was impressively non-sticky after a day of rain, which we were told is the
norm for the area (and also helped by a very dry summer).
The following day’s weather was the same, which meant
another hike, this time at Beauty Creek.
When we arrived, we must have just
missed a departing hunter, because right there next to the trailhead sign was a
pile of very fresh deer guts. Miraculously, we found the pile before the dogs
did, which meant we could prevent them from rolling ecstatically in it as they
most surely would have done otherwise. We spent a moment dispassionately identifying the organs in the heap, then began to make our way up the winding trail.
Right away we discovered that the trail would be really
excellent for mountain biking. It had lots of little technical rock features
and tricky moves, and the scenery was absolutely gorgeous. The sign at the
bottom said the top of Mount Coeur d’Alene was 8 miles away, which would make
for a decently burly out-and-back ride. We will definitely have to go back
there at some point.
That evening, we met Mike’s classmate Fallon at Mad Bomber
brewery and got to hear about some of the misadventures of the other ISU PA
students. Let’s just say, for all of my complaining about Walla Walla, the
clinical year has not been a cakewalk for most of these folks.
Finally, the next day, the sun broke through the clouds and
riding was back on the menu. At least it
was for Mike, because it was still too cold for me to voluntarily freeze my
hands off. I hiked the dogs around again
while he did a quick 1.5 hour loop at Canfield, ending on the flow trail we had
explored the first time. The verdict: thumbs up, even if it is easy to get lost
up there. On our way back to the trailer, we picked up a six pack of beer to take inside the shop as thanks for letting us stay in the lot. TJ was the only one there, but Beemer the puppy was also in attendance, so we got to play with him while we chatted with TJ. Another employee stopped by to pick up a paycheck, and the other owner, Alex, also came in briefly on some errand, so they joined us for a beer as well and we had a right nice conversation about this and that. Definitely a good community in CDA.
On Wednesday, it was finally time to get back on the road.
Our final destination was Bozeman for Mike’s third rotation, but as he didn’t
need to be there until Monday, we would make a stop in Missoula to hang out
with classmate Meadow for a few days.
She had offered to let us park the trailer at her house and use her
internets, shower and laundry facilities, and (are you seeing a theme here) we
took her up on it.
Meadow’s house is up on a hill south of town, with fabulous
views of the surrounding mountains. We rolled in just after dark, and she
immediately set about feeding us dinner like the badass mom she is (she and her
husband, Clint, have five kids between them).
Meadow was supposed to be in Walla Walla right after Mike, but he gave
her a heads up about how awful it was in time for her to find something else,
and happily she was able to get a hospital in Missoula to take her on so that
she could be with her family. We chatted with her about rotations for a while
that evening, and also learned some of the places we should take the dogs
exploring for the next couple of days.
On Thursday afternoon, having spent the morning basking in
the glow of central heat and fast Wi-Fi and doing a couple loads of
impressively stinky laundry, we took the dogs up Mt. Jumbo, just north of I-90. It was blustery and cold, but there was still
a surprising number of people out there at the same time. A guy was even up there getting ready to go
paragliding, but the wind was strong enough that we wondered what his plan
would be once he was 100 miles away five minutes after taking off.
Mt. Jumbo features a
large “L” on the west face, and we got to see it up close:
Because Mike is a huge bike dork, on our way past it he
identified the pattern of a Maxxis DHF tire, left by some brave or crazy soul
on the steeply inclined concrete letter:
We also had a panoramic view of Missoula from there:
Once I was sufficiently cold and cranky, I decreed that it
was time to turn around. Halfway down,
we looked back to see paraglider guy hovering gently above the ridge, even
though the wind was still valiantly trying to freeze my ears off. I do not understand how air works.
Once down, we went in search of beer, and found ourselves at
Kettlehouse Brewing, where we were greeted by a sea of beards, flannel and
Patagonia. I got the sense that Missoula is a good town to be single in: small
enough that it’s not overwhelming, large enough for a decent dating pool, and
outdoorsy enough that most people you meet will be into some kind of
interesting activity. The beer was pretty good, and the best one by far was a
10.5% Imperial Porter. There’s no food
there, though, so don’t go if you’re hungry.
We met Meadow and Clint downtown that evening for dinner at
Flathead Lake Brewing Company. Great food and beer—definitely recommend.
The next few days were more of the same: relaxing,
interneting, laundrying and hanging out with M&C. Their daughter Makenna
was very taken with Paddington and Ellie, although the resident dog there,
Pokey, was rather nonplussed by their arrival and attempted to mark his
territory by peeing on the couch. (This earned him a lot of laughter and
temporary banishment to the basement.)
I explored downtown and spent an absurd amount of time in a
bead store, as I tend to do whenever I find one.
Finally, it was time to say goodbye and drive the remaining
three hours to Bozeman, where there was a spot waiting for us at the KOA at
Four Corners.
This place can pretty much be summed up by a conversation I
had with a guy on a mountain bike while I was out walking the dogs. He saw my Colorado flag hat and stopped to
ask what part of Colorado I was from. I told him Denver, and asked where he was
from. When he answered “Durango,” I said
“I love Durango! But wait—why are you
here instead of there? Durango is so much better!” He replied that his wife got
a job here but they’re trying to maintain the house they still have near Mesa
Verde. Then he turned the same question on me, and I explained about Mike’s
5-week rotation. He then said it was a
good thing we wouldn’t be here for winter, since it’s basically 30 degrees and
damp every day with a constant weather inversion.
If you don’t know what a weather inversion is, it’s
basically the visual manifestation of lung issues. The clouds and the air below
the clouds switch places, and the air squashes the pollutant-heavy clouds down
like a bully squeezing the lunch money out of Steve Urkel. Salt Lake City is
famous for its nasty winter inversions:
Ew.
By the way, where I was walking the dogs is the only place within
20 miles where I can hike them off leash.
It’s called Bennington Lake, and it has the distinct air of being
grudgingly afforded to Parks and Rec by the surrounding agricultural interests.
AND it’s also a hunting area from October to January, so I have to put orange
things on Paddington so she doesn’t get mistaken for a wolf and shot.
For the record, this is a wolf:
This is not:
Note the brindle fur, white feet, and curly tail.
So everybody can stop saying she looks like a wolf now.
The trails at Bennington meander around a medium-sized body
of irrigation runoff water, and there are lots of charming signs around warning
of the danger of “toxic algae,” which will apparently really fuck your shit up
and that of your animals and children (though if you let your children go near
that water, maybe you should get out of the gene pool anyway). So even when it’s
hot out and the dogs could use a drink and a wallow, I keep them well away, and
they are very sad. The trails are open
to bikes, but I think riding here would just be depressing because I’ve been
spoiled by actual mountain biking. It’s also popular with equestrians, which
means that although I have to carry my dogs’ poo around with me until I find a
trash receptacle, I have to constantly sidestep enormous piles of horse crap on
the trail. Thanks guys.
This is what the place looks like:
Ugh.
Its one redeeming quality is this cool Great Horned Owl that
I spotted the other day. I shall call him Archibald.
So this is basically all we have for outdoor exploring
around here unless we want to drive for over an hour. This is clearly not a haven for adventurous
souls like Boulder or Bozeman, and I would advise anyone who likes doing
anything other than drinking wine to give it a miss.
We had originally bought the trailer with the hope that we
could find nearby Forest Service land to drop it on for free in each rotation
location, and then run electricity off the solar panels and generators. On our second day here, we found out that W²
is not that kind of place. The closest
we’d be able to manage was at least an hour out of town on roads with very
sharp, tire-puncturing gravel, with no cell service. That was simply not going to happen, so we
admitted defeat and paid for a month in a spot at Four Seasons RV Resort.
The pros: 1.5 miles from Mike’s hospital
Fresh water
Electricity
Showers and laundry
Nearby grocery store
The cons: It’s a goddamn RV resort
Oh well. It’s only 5 weeks.
Hey, at least there’s a resident gang of turkeys! Stuffing. Let’s
say a group of turkeys is a stuffing. So wrong it’s right. Paddington and Ellie really really want to
chase them, and I kind of want to see what would happen if I let them. But I can’t help remembering the time Ellie
chased a cat and got a claw scratch down the cornea for her trouble. So…they will remain leashed.
Yes, I know there's a tortoise in the photo. Look past it.
I thought our trailer was decent-sized (in any case, it’s a
major pain to get situated anywhere that’s not perfectly level) but it is
downright tiny compared to the behemoths in this place. Everyone’s got massive 5th wheels
with multiple pop-outs, and since this place has DirectTV, you can see their
enormous TVs through their windows at all times of day and night. ‘Murica!
We’ve done no mountain biking here. There isn’t any.
We did some wine tasting.
Woo.
I made a display rack for earrings out of bike spokes. Yay.
I realize this post has probably been a major downer, but in less than a week we get to go back to Bozeman! It will be considerably colder, yes,
but there will be so much more funtivities! Stay tuned!
In a word: idyllic.
This is the kind of place in which I think I would have very much
enjoyed growing up. The public school
bus ride would have been a bear, however; the place is 15 miles north of town
on a winding road that, combined with the environment of a lurching bus, would probably create perfect conditions for motion sickness.
The neighborhood is just across the road from the Bridger Bowl ski area,
and our hosts’ property comprises 12 acres of spruce and lodgepole forest
backing up to a gentle peak.
The first thing you notice about the house is the giant
stacks of firewood surrounding it.
Montana, as we all know, is a cold place for quite a lot of the year,
and the felling, cutting and splitting of suitable trees is a constant activity
in the late summer and fall. Thanks to the pine beetles infesting the west, there is no shortage of dead standing trees that make for good burning. The dogs
especially enjoy sniffing around the piles after chipmunks though they do tend to knock huge heavy logs off of the pile occasionally. I fear for my toes.
The house has a large parking area (which is where the snow
plows pile up the drifts in winter) and a little grassy yard with a deck and
fence-in garden featuring a few small tomato plants and a large patch of
brambles The house itself is stacked lodgepoles on 3 sides and a stone façade
on the fourth, and it is, at least to me, the exact right size: two rooms
upstairs and a large open living area, kitchen, and bathroom on the ground floor.
The wood burning stove keeps the whole affair toasty in winter and the
skylights provide abundant natural illumination.
The trailer is situated about 20 yards away from the house
on a small flattish area sheltered by evergreens. This is nice for keeping the wind down, but
it also means that the trailer stays fairly cold until the sun makes its way
above the trees in the afternoon. This is quite amenable to Paddington, who,
being extremely fluffy, is always much too hot if the temperature is anywhere
above freezing;
"It's 50 degrees in here. Too hot. Turn on the AC." -- Paddington
however, for high surface area-to-volume-ratio individuals such
as myself, it is slightly unpleasant, and when I came across a set of fleece
sheets at Costco I bought them for immediate use. (Two thumbs up, by the way.)
One of the major perks of the situation is the availability
of power and water, because otherwise we would be dependent on solar panels,
gas generators and propane tanks to charge our various devices and appliances.
The trailer still has to be taken to town every couple of weeks to empty the
holding and gray water tanks, but it is downright luxurious compared to the
National Forest campground we were using in Pocatello. The house is also conveniently close to a lot
of Forest Service land and trails. The
dogs are getting spoiled by all of the sparsely used open space (and I suppose
I am too). T their credit, although there are many things to sniff and chase,
and plenty of opportunities to run off and become feral, they like to stay
within sight of their humans.
Bozeman itself is an interesting place. According to our
hosts, it has absolutely exploded in size in the past decade, when someone
decided it was a hip place to go and pretend to be a lumberjack, complete with
beard and inexplicably expensive flannel shirt. It used to be a bunch of old
hippies who worked hard all summer and spent the rest of the year skiing every
day. When Mike and I rolled into town at
3:oopm on a Thursday, we were confused by all the traffic at every stoplight.
Who were all these people, and why weren’t they at work? It turns out that Bozeman is basically
Boulder, but with a Costco. It is also another place I wish I’d known about
when I was applying to colleges. Of course, if I had gone to Montana State I
might have ended up like Mike’s brother, who spent more time skiing than going
to class and subsequently transferred to the Northern Illinois University, where the
lack of any stimulating outdoor activities meant an academic environment more
conducive to studying.
We also had the opportunity to do a bit of weekend mountain
biking. Mike particularly wanted to bag
Sacagawea peak, so on our last Saturday there we undertook the unpleasantly
bumpy 6-mile drive from the trailer to the parking area and made our way
through the throngs of hikers up to the saddle overlooking Bozeman. The trail itself was narrow, switchbacky, and
actually fairly technical, which was a welcome change from the buff and mostly
smooth trails we had encountered at Grassy Mountain, Stone Creek and Olsen Creek.
The weather was nice but the top of the saddle was worrisomely windy, and it
was with a not-unreasonable amount of grumbling that I agreed to accompany Mike
up to the tippy top of Sacagawea. We
were rewarded by the sight of a couple fluffy white mountain goats strolling
around the peak, nibbling here and there at the few ambitious plants that had
managed a toehold in the rocks. There
was another couple of hikers there as well, with a German Shepherd that,
incredibly, did not seem terribly interested in the other quadrupeds occupying the
area (my dogs would have been losing their goddamn minds). The goats did not
seem to take any notice of us, but I, remembering the story from a couple years
back about the mountain goat in Yellowstone that GORED A GUY WITH ITS HORNS AND
FREAKING KILLED HIM BECAUSE IT WANTED THE SALT IN HIS PEE (!!!!!), still became
a little uneasy when one of them started moseying in our direction. I was also freezing, so we took some photos
Fun fact: a plane crashed into the mountainside behind me in 2004.
And then bailed.
The descent was a rip-roaring good time, and although I rode
pretty well I was frustrated by a couple of tight switchbacks that I didn’t
clear, so now I’ll have to go back sometime and conquer them. I’d recommend the
trail to anyone in the area with a decent bike and who can handle a bit of
exposure.
We also went for a ride on Emerald Trail on the advice of host Matt, though we didn't find out until we got back that this was the trail on which he had crashed very hard and knocked himself out a few years back. Happily, we had no such issues, and after a few miles of moderate pedaling found the eponymous and very pretty Emerald Lake. I hadn't taken a #freetheboobies photo in a while, so I gave my phone to Mike, who naturally couldn't resist turning it into a selfie:
Sigh.
Besides adventuring, I knocked out a bunch of earrings
during our stay there and sold some of them to a bike shop on the main drag,
Chalet Sports. I also came up with this fun new design:
I wouldn’t say that
the jewelry business is paying the bills just yet, but it’s certainly funding
itself and it’s neat knowing that people are wearing it in a few different
states.
So, Bozeman was a pretty nice first stop, and it will be our
third stop as well, in November, when mountain biking will probably be done for
the season. However will we occupy
ourselves?
Next up: Walla Walla Washington! Where the sweet
onions come from.
