Taking Stock

I’m only in western Wyoming, but it’s hard to believe that, having ridden over 1,135 miles already, this trek is almost a third complete.

Perhaps it’s hard for me to believe because, as someone with an “easterner” mentality, Wyoming is “out west.” But if you look at a map, Wyoming is about 1/3 of the distance from west to east. Also, it seemed that it took forever to complete the route in Idaho. This is because I chose the scenic route loaded with climbs, and not the most direct route east. Imagine finger painting on a map of Idaho and that would be a good approximation of my route.

Today I completed the penultimate climb in the west, Teton Pass (8,450 feet). It wasn’t a long climb (only 11 miles, which seems like a lot but nowhere near the 25 miles it took to climb Snoqualmie Pass) but the last several miles were steep, pretty much a solid 10-12% grade. I had to stop every half mile or so to catch my breath.

Teton Pass is a heavily traveled route, as it is the main entry from the west into the Jackson Hole valley, an upscale ski and winter/summer resort area. On the way up the climb, there were too many cars passing me closely as I hugged the narrow shoulder. But then some poor motorcyclists bad luck was my good fortune. A couple of miles from the summit, I saw the traffic come to a standstill. As I churned my way past the stopped cars (some with engines idling; some with engines off and passenger milling about and walking their dogs), I was able to reach the summit without the danger of cars buzzing me as I huffed and puffed my way to the top. I spoke to a Teton County Sherriff officer in his SUV right before the summit who told me that some motorcyclist took a turn too wide and hit a car. As I weaved my way around a tow truck hoisting the damaged remains of his bike (the front end was in pieces on the ground), I realized I now had the good fortune of descending the even steeper eastern slopes without any traffic to contend with. Funny how that works (or doesn’t, if you were the motorcyclist).

I have one more pass to climb (Togwotee, elevation 9,500) and then it’s basically downhill to Columbus. I decided not to over-exert and I converted a two-day ride into three days. Today’s ride was only 33 miles, and tomorrow will be even shorter, northwards to the small community of Moran. I will skip my planned rest day on Tuesday to do Togwotee and ride to the town of Dubois. From there, it’s a straight shot southeast towards the Nebraska border, where I will hook up with the 200-mile Cowboy Trail that takes me through most of the state.

But I am getting too far ahead of myself.

The only way to do this is one day at a time.

Or, in the words of my new mantra, “To get there, be here.”

I Can’t Help Myself

Yesterday evening, I was sitting in front of a Sinclair gas station in the small farming town of Tetonia, Idaho, sipping on a much-needed $1.09 cup of coffee (rung up by a cashier who only sported one tooth). It had been a slog riding against the wind in the well-irrigated high desert of eastern Idaho, and I was sipping caffeine so I could make the last 7 miles to Driggs, where Joanie was waiting for me. As I sat there a parade of characters stopped and entered the station’s store, and among them were two gentlemen who seemed to unfold out an old car. The first walked stiffly, betraying either an accident or years of hard labor. He looked tired. The second was very tall, and wore a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, dusty jeans, and had a long, grey moustache. He nodded at me, and like an idiot, I said, “Howdy.” As he entered the store, the first association I had after laying eyes on him was the Leadbelly song, When I was a Cowboy. I couldn’t help myself, and started singing, “When I was a cowboy, out on the western plain…”

I probably shouldn’t have sung out loud.