I got a pretty darn fine cup of coffee at the local bike/ski shop/drive thru espresso. There was not an impatient line of customers at 8:00am and I learned a good deal about Cooke City, Montana. Although there are only 100 people living there now, in the 1890's the number was 3-4 thousand. So much for growth management. The road I was about to ride toward the east is only open 4 months out of the year, meaning that the Park Service and the state of Montana have to come to an agreement on how to keep the road from Mammoth to Cooke City open for the other 8 months.
My coffee provider described quite vividly the scene in 1988 when the town was threatened by fire, and in an effort to spare the homes in town, the fire folks set a backburn, of which they promptly lost control. But in the end, the town was saved.
This fellow is on a one-man crusade to make Cooke City into a ski destination. I happen to know lots of lunatic skiers, but I'm not sure there are enough of them out there to make much of a business.
On the road I worked my way up the last of the climbing for awhile, and turned right at the last opportunity to avoid Beartooth Pass (el. 12000'). The route was very agreeable, downhill for 20 miles, but there was no sign of a town or store for 60 miles.
At the Clark's Fork (of the Yellowstone) canyon, just before crossing this very high bridge over a very deep chasm, I met a man from South Carolina who seemed very curious about what I was doing, but his interest was more in the project taken as a whole rather than the details of Babcock & Turner in particular. We talked, exchanged cards, then he took some video of me riding across the gorge, and then he asked me to make a small introduction to what I was doing, while he had his video rolling. As we parted company, he said "You'll be hearing from me". I'm not sure what to make of it.
And then everyone got into their cars and left me to my work. Problem was that from the bridge crossing the canyon you can look up, way, way up, and see where you have to get to. You can see the road making eight long sweeping switchbacks, and your eyes carefully examine the possibility that there might be an easy way out. Today was not to be a fairy tale. I went up in exactly eight segments, letting the hairpin turns dictate where I would stop for breath. My grandmother gear got a good workout. I had hoped to save Grandma as my secret weapon, for the hills I know are lurking in the east. But today there was no choice. Mr. Tailwind was alternatively my friend and my nemesis, depending on which of the switchbacks I was inching up. After 1.5 hours of very slow climbing I reached the top and it was clear sailing to Cody.
Babcock and Turner report that they are taking more rest than anticipated due to the heat:
From Livingston we ran out late one afternoon about twelve miles on our way to Billings so as to be able if possible to make Billings the next day. There was one consideration, aside from that of time, which caused us to desire to reach Billings, a week in the park had depleted our purses, or rather had emptied mine, and I had helped to flatten Mr. Turner's, so that our available cash would barely take us to Billings where a money order was in waiting. Riding through a strange part of the country with a punctured purse is an unenviable situation, for a rubber patch won't repair it. These circumstances account for the longest day's ride we have yet made, 112 miles, but we found the remittance at the end of the day's ride and as a result we took a day of rest. The day was intensely hot, in fact the mercury stands very high in the estimation of the inhabitants of the Yellowstone valley during the summer months, and this particular day it registered over 100 degrees on two or three more or less reliable thermometers.
We did some very pleasant coasting during the day, and at one time Mr. Turner had an experience which he hopes not to repeat. We were coming down a very long, crooked hill, Turner a few rods ahead. At the bottom the road takes a sharp turn, and as I came around the curve with my wheel under control, I saw the front part of my partner's machine sticking out between two large rocks, and his head and shoulders just emerging from behind the larger of the boulders. He had the surprised look of a person suddenly awakened from sleep, and after ascertaining that neither he nor the wheel were injured we both had a hearty laugh at the movements which he had executed.
Today I accumulated 82 miles, but more importantly the climb was 4860 feet. Good thing I didn't try to do it all yesterday. I am always thankful I have more than one gear.
I finished the day at the Buffalo Bill Historical museum.
Heading east to Graybull
Dennis