Over this stretch of road I began to see some of the bicycle tourists whom I expected to see in abundance. The first was a tandem carrying a couple from Bath (pronounced Bawth) in the UK, who are on an extended tour of the world. Savannah to Montreal, then Salt Lake City to Jasper, then Vancouver, BC to San Francisco, Fiji, New Zealand, Australia, all by February. Whew! I also met a couple (newlyweds) from Boston who are riding from Boulder to Portland. Finally two strapping lads going through from Virginia Beach to Vancouver. All of these folks are telling me of the constant headwind they are fighting. I just tell them that the wind is my friend. I have yet to encounter an eastbound long distance cyclist, although the westbounders tell me the road is filled with them.
My stay in Ennis was with the aunt and uncle of a friend, and they were very gracious, especially when presented with a guest who had just finished a hot 80 miles. After much banter of all sorts, I determined that Toby had been a classmate of my father at Princeton 55 years ago. He was astounded, and fully prepared, now, to forgive me for not attending Princeton.
All is well again.
Babcock and Turner are approaching Yellowstone from a different direction. The newspaper printed this:
From Bozeman we had a steep grade to within ten miles of Livingston, and then for the rest of the distance we coasted continually. We must have come eight out of the ten miles with scarcely touching the pedals. At Livingston, we laid aside our extra luggage and started for our side trip to the National park, wheeling the first day up to the little town of Cinnebar, fifty-three miles on an up-grade and with a heavy head wind.
But the full text of a letter to his brother Charles fills in a little more detail.
One day from the National Park. I am a little intimidated by the crowds I expect to see there.
Loving every inch of Montana,
Dennis