i waited as long as i could for the showers to end before setting up my tent at the blue river campground. with a belly full of pork chops and black beans, sleep began soon after my head hit my pillow.

with morning’s arrival, i did what i have for 35 days: i packed my stuff up and began a new journey. i breezed into silverthorne, determined to hit up the rei for some bike shorts, mindful that finding anything in a new population center can be frustrating and time-consuming.

enter bob.

i followed the bike path and as often happens, someone approached on his road bike and started asking questions. he introduced himself as bob and told me he is leaving at the end of august for a vacation in whatever the former czechoslovakia is called these days. my only question for him was: “where is the rei?”

bob said, “i’ll take you there.”

once he got those skinny tires going, i felt like i was in a break-away. we dashed around and through traffic and suddenly, rei’s golden arches appeared like a post-rain rainbow…oh my bad, that was a mcdonald’s.

a half-mile later, i was perched on the front porch of the rei. i shook bob’s hand and our journeys through life separated again.

of course, the rei didn’t have the size of shorts i needed, but they have a lot of other shit i don’t need. i shopped a bit, got some dehydrated meals, and hit the red bike trail leading into keystone

bike trails between silverthorne and breckinridge are thick with people. e-bike riding rubes with their battery assist, throw caution to the wind with high-velocity descents and emboldened and unannounced bike lane maneuvers. they are a danger to society,

at least society as i think it should be.

breckinridge was like every other ski resort town on this trip: overpriced and detached from plebeian reality. boutiques? check. yoga pants on an 85° day? check. bikepackers eager to start the climb up to boreas pass and be away from all the goings-on? check.

most of the passes you climb up and then drop from, have names. some day i will index them but the truth is, this trip is about going up and down. details mean little when you are pedaling in your “granny gear.”

leaving the radium campground meant a long climb up an unknown pass that skirted up another section of the colorado river valley. half way up, the dreaded “road work ahead” sign appeared and traffic was backed up.

i could see water trucks and graders and as i approached, the road surface was slathered with liquid. my biggest fear was the d.o.t. guys were giving the road a magnesium chloride facial. that shit is corrosive, and while a vehicle can drive to a car wash, cyclists just have to deal with it.

fortunately, the graders left a strip of “virgin dirt” on the side and the track was good. even more fortunate was finding out from a driver that they were “just applying water, the magnesium is coming next week.”

that’s gonna suck for others.

not my problem.

once i got to the kremmling intersection, i stopped and debated over taking the 1.5-mile detour into town for some nutrition and cold beverages (can you say “kum and go”?). as i was about to turn, a colorado d.o.t. truck pulled up and it’s driver asked where i was going. i told him “ute pass,” and he warned me about resurfacing ahead and the need for cyclists to “wait for a shuttle ride through construction.”

i described my ride as along the divide route and assumed that would place me far and away from road construction and all its ills.

in other words, i don’t need no stinking shuttle.’

the guy was nice and curious about my journey. he reminded me of patrick simmons, of the doobie brothers, given his long hair and multiple piercings. he also revealed he was the project manager and his name was kevin.

we shook hands, he turned back up the highway, and once again, my life was reduced to “kum and go.”

the ride out of klemming and up to ute pass included rain showers and a monotonous landscape. that is a terrible combination for a cyclist. your brain shuts down and all you want is to be beyond the monotony and drudgery of where you are. you put your rain gear on and overheat (goretex breathability is overrated especially when pushing 150 watts).

once the climb up ute pass began, the rain ended and the sun worked it’s magic. the downside of the climb is the the mckenzie molybdenum mine, which has literally filled a formerly pristine valley with mining tailings.

grossest site on the divide.

once you pass the mine and your focus returns to landscapes man has yet to completely fuck up, ute pass takes over.

ironically, my earlier meet-up with doobie brother guitarist/ute pass d.o.t. project manager kevin, would reinvigorate itself, once i made it to highway 9 and the construction back-log began.

all along i thought the gdmbr had outsmarted the industrial complex, and here i was, stopped by a flagger, with 150 cars full of impatient drivers behind me. kevin was right.

what was more ironic was that my destination for the night, the blue river campground, was only a half-mile from the flagger and he proclaimed boldly, amidst cracking lightning and visceral thunder “you shall not pass…”

in that moment, you have two options: indignation…”i’m on a bike you putz,” or, you start name-dropping the project manager’s name.

while waiting for the bicycle shuttle, it started to rain in volumes somewhere between “showers and deluge”. i was wet, i was cold, i was tired.

once the shuttle transported me and my bike the half-mile to the campground entrance, kevin pulled up in his vehicle and the workers who were “fucking off”, soon became “busy.”

kevin came up to me and shook my hand and apologized. he then offered to give me a ride to silverthorne.

pouring rain notwithstanding, i remained true to the divide (never mind yampa) and scooted into the last campsite in the campground.

i was cold and tired after 64 miles and 5,500 feet of climbing. i sat at the picnic table, my clothing stuck to me like a second skin. i picked at my trail mix and heard footsteps approach behind me. i assumed it was the assholes from the stagecoach campground but instead, it was my new neighbor, asking if i would like to finish their leftover pork chops and black beans and strawberry shortcake.

you can’t make this stuff up when it happens on the great divide.

once the shaming and pay-off were over, i considered my exit. going back to the divide trail meant a couple miles backwards, while going forward meant taking a dicey, no-shoulder highway connector to yampa and tonopas before reconnecting to the divide.

my thinking was also guided by the need to replace some supplies i apparently left in the steamboat springs wahlgreen’s parking lot.

not the first things i have left behind on this journey; the list is long.

once i made it to yampa, i exhaled. the highway had no shoulder and there was a nasty 5” drop-off once the asphalt ended.

when they approach, vehicles are loud and going (at least) 60 mph. after days of solitude and the sound of rubber on gravel, being passed is completely unsettling. most drivers are courteous and i have that annoying red strobe on the back of my rig so minimally, “they see me”.

leaving yampa, a couple of kids were on their bmx bikes and i asked them to do a wheelie and one said he’d do one “for five bucks.”

it was a shitty wheelie, he slipped off the back wheel and as a result, received no payment.

have fun in school, punk.

once i reconnected to the gdmbr, i loitered at the colorado historical society’s “rock creek stagecoach station”, which was built in 1860 and restored in 2000. the vibe was pretty intense…all the life and stories, sadness and celebration that building saw. now, most of the footprints in the dirt floors have pedal cleat marks.

could have been a cormac mccarthy novel…

from there, the gravel alternated between good and chunky. the final climb puts you atop the colorado river valley, which is expansive and rugged.

the descent ended at the radium campground, which is a blm site, without water or shade, but with some big-ass rv’s.

it was hot, i set up camp and went to the water. i slipped over rounded river rocks and then eased into a 3-foot scoured hole.

the water was cold and swift. my breath shirt and quick. my core cooled and the dirt on my skin moved downstream.

my day’s journey was over.

took a short ride from “informal camp 3”, ending up at the brush mountain lodge. the lodge is legendary on the divide for kirsten’s over-the-top hospitality and wood-fired pizza.

after we got there, other riders trickled in and soon there were nine, with 5 southbound and the rest headed north.

there was banter and bravado and stories of woe and whimsy. there was a heated debate about dietary selection by a vegan rider who challenged kirsten about pizza options.

it’s pretty simple in my mind: when you are a guest and food is served on a donation basis, don’t bitch.

problem solved.

i will eat anything. i don’t need specialty items. i need calories and carbs and protein and fat.

just like in the book.

the climb out of brush mountain was great and then the divide chunk reappeared and while the uphill involved some hike-a-bike, the downhill off of hahn’s peak was as punishing as that off of union pass, way back in montana.

embedded rock, loose cobble, sand and a meandering roadway with terrible riding lines for the 2 + mile descent.

same story, different descent.

i pretty much bomb downhills, and though the group left 20-minutes before me, i passed them on the chunk.

old man tempting fate.

logistics are a bit splintered now. originally, steamboat springs was tagged as a target for our journey…bike shops, restaurants, and really expensive “every thing else” for a budget already blown out of the water. but given our two day exhalation in pinedale last week, another rest day seemed overly, ahhh…restful and to me, unnecessary, necessary bike repairs notwithstanding.

the decision to lay-over was not a mutually-derived decision and so, some would rest and some would ride.

i rode…all the way to stagecoach state park, which is about 22 miles south of steamboat. got there at 19:00, registered as a “bike”, set up my tent, ate and entered a deep and restful slumber.

little did i know that i was about to test the mettle of the colorado parks system.

rest in peace: shawn perich, the guy who gave me the nickname “owlman” in 1988. 😔

once i got situated at my campsite, i slept like a baby. i chose a site close to the bathroom and water; two things that are constant challenges for bikepackers.

upon emerging from my tent in the morning. a neighbor approached, curious about my bike packing set up, but also curious why i had camped in the host’s site.

“it’s a salsa beargrease with 29” wheels…wait a minute…what? i’m camped in the host’s site?”

“yeah”.

“where does it say that?”

“right there by the frog that says “slow down.”

i looked and yes, one could make a connection that my site was actually the host’s site, but where were they?

anyways, it didn’t matter because i was leaving and had registered and as the canadians say “not a worry”.

then doug, who i had met the previous night came over. the three of us had a nice conversation about all things that weren’t politics or religion.

they left, i packed and was ready to leave, when a golf cart, driven by someone’s great-great grandpa, pulled into my…i mean the host’s site.

he didn’t even bother to get out of the cart, he just said “you can’t camp there…that’s the host’s site.”

you know that scene in blazing saddles when the minister tells mongo he can’t park his bull “there” and mongo knocks out the rev’s horse? that’s what i wanted to do. i wanted to knock that golf cart out.

fortunately, decorum took hold and i showed ggpa my registration receipt but he wanted nothing to do with it. i had violated the code of old people driving golf carts in public campgrounds and there would be hell to pay.

father time put the cart in reverse and told me “you didn’t even get the right permit,”

one of my more memorable scoldings.

i really didn’t care. i was about to start pedaling and in my mind, i made an honest effort to comply with instructions that were at best, confusing and befuddling.

i hopped on my bike and was about to climb to the exit, when a park enforcement vehicle pulled up and an officer got out and approached me.

i showed him the receipt and even the 800 number i had dialed to reserve a site and he proceeded to tell me that the tier of campsites i had stayed on was available only by registration and that the receipt was for a day pass and not a tent site.

craig, however, gradually began to appreciate my story. i had a receipt, even if it was the wrong one and a phone log and he acknowledged the system is not very functional for bikepackers. rather than cuff me and force further indignation, he suggested “tell you what…give me 10 bucks and we’re done.”

i gave him the cash and he put it in his shirt pocket and wished me a good day. felt like i was in juarez.

i climbed up from my, i mean the host’s site and there was methuzalah, perched in his cart, waiting for another miscreant to violate not only the colorado park and recreation’s code of conduct, but his.

i waved at him and he kept both hands on the wheel. there was no acknowledgement, only a disheveled great great grandpa who caught the guy in the host’s camp site.

good work boss. you had best get busy on your bucket list.

it is a geologic bowl where water never leaves. there are no outlets or drainages and no meandering stream to course its way to the atlantic or pacific oceans, as directed by the continental divide.

what falls in the basin, stays in the basin.

anyone who undertakes the divide knows the great basin looms like a bouncer, eager to dash your hopes for an uneventful 120-mile sprint from atlantic city to rawlins.

the basin’s winds are fickle and if it rains, it turns the roadway into a slippery mix of clay and silt known as “peanut butter.”

if you are lucky, you can make it from atlantic city to rawlins in two days. those representing the youthful guild, and pushed by northwest winds, can make it in one.

the ride is monotonous and you can see the road 10-miles ahead as it cuts through a rise or drifts towards a valley.

you pedal as though on a treadmill. no end, just the beginning.

when i left atlantic city, the goal was to make it to the a and m reservoir, an “unofficial” divide campsite that is nestled on the shoreline of a created trout pond. the reservoir is about 78-miles from the bowels of atlantic city and if reached, leaves only a 54-mile trek to the blighted city of rawlins.

reading about the divide came with all sorts of warnings regarding the basin. “don’t run out of water”, “make sure you tell people you are riding the basin”, “check the forecast”, “plan ahead”.

old man angry at clouds.

i can tell you now, it wasn’t that bad and we were lucky. conditions were close to ideal, save for a couple sections of peanut butter. i watched a couple of prairie falcons tail-chase; likely young of the year honing their mad flight skills.

there was little other wildlife, which was surprising. a tally by the group at the a and m camp revealed some antelope and a wild horse, but mostly a long-ass ride into the middle of nowhere.

it would have been so easy to keep lounging in pinedale. the town had everything: stores, hotels, a brewery, a bike shop, and a brewery.

there was also a brewery.

i woke up early. my bike was packed and ready to go. i had off-loaded more gear back to tofte and was eager to take on the great basin, that xeric geologic bowl between atlantic city and rawlins where rainfall doesn’t enter a watershed, it is just absorbed or evaporates.

gone.

before entering the basin, however, we had to make atlantic city, which was an 86-mile trek with a mostly “up” motif.

our group of four left when each was ready, pushing off for the long ride; scott first, me next, and the kids, allen and susan soon to follow. clouds were hanging low and while we feared rain, we rode without rain gear. temps were in the low 60’s and for a minnesotan, it was perfect.

a couple of miles out, i saw another bikepacker and it turned out to be scott, the rider who showed up at the strawberry creek shelter earlier in the week and was driven to his bivvy by an industrial snoring machine.

eventually, we all met at a divide intersection, conversed, snacked, hydrated, and headed to atlantic city.

the gravel roads were perfect, but as predicted, the winds picked up and the opaque skies revealed curtains of rain on the horizon in the direction we rode.

when it comes to riding with the group, i have previously told the sordid blog tale that i can’t. i am riding 2.6” tires and their “rolling” prowess pales in comparison to the 2.2’s on the salsa cutthroats being ridden by others.

what it means is that on pavement or smooth, hard pan gravel, i am the last at a destination, and that is completely okay.

it gives me more time to engage with the expansive and everlasting landscape and learn a bit about wyoming history, which is presented in historical society kiosks along the highway.

that history, like most from the 1800’s invokes manifest destiny with a trifecta of intent: pillage, plunder, profit.

as barren as the landscape is, it is also beautiful and mostly uninterrupted by development. it is, as they say, like taking a step back in time, until cows block your path.

after 8 hours of pedaling, i dropped like a stone on a greasy road surface into south pass city and then climbed up and past the carissa mine, a wyoming historical site that is basically as it was in the late 18- early -1900’s, except it no longer produces gold and is now focused on tourism.

it’s an interesting history, as presented by the kiosk, but the other part of that history is nowhere to be found. i guess we can just assume that white settlers were all that mattered.

after carissa, there were a couple more punchy climbs and one last descent into atlantic city, a town that time forgot, and for good reason.

i reconnected with the group and we stayed at the “miner’s delight inn”, a proud historical society site that looks like it was a set for a hitchcock movie. we paid for a couple of over-priced, shit-box cabins whose biggest feature was one’s ability to “turn up the heat on your own electric blanket”.

the “inn” included its own, rigid-spined version of norman bates, he being the “greeter” for its guests. my guess is that he is still plotting his escape, but has yet to finalize his plans.

get a bike, dude!!!

the inn did serve breakfast as part of the deal, but after a couple of bisquick pancakes and one cup of coffee, i was ready for my escape into the great basin.

we sit on the cusp of the great basin, a 100-mile swath of wyoming known for its heat, winds, and lack of water.

we will get there soon, but rather than jump into deep water after a day off, our decision is to wait another day in pinedale, wait for rain showers to subside and then, for the west/northwesterly winds to push us towards rawlins.

i have no problem with the extra day, save for a sky-rocketing budget and yet another “burger joint” meal.

the respite has proven wonderful. i have slept and napped. i have organized and eliminated gear proven unnecessary, and i have replenished depleted nutrients with a diet rich in meat and protein and macadamia nuts; yet another example of “manna from astoria”. thank you paddy and julie!!

i feel good.

my back side and the omni-present worry of “saddle sores” has been soothed by a rigorous program of hygiene and “air drying.” i was very familiar with air drying; hygiene, not so much.

the rest of the “group”, now lacking sam, who has meandered down to salida, seems rejuvenated as well. there was collective fatigue at play and even in their youth, allen and susan saw the benefit of not pedaling for a couple of days.

recovery allows for reflection. the scenery, physical, and mental challenges have been been integral to this narrative thus far. they will continue to do so.

there has yet to be a day where i have taken anything for granted. this trip serves as a place setting for all that has been and all that still may be in my life. this from a guy who thought “making 25” would be an accomplishment.

i am humbled and proud and yet, my foibles are always knocking at the door, always eager to escape my panniers.

this is as much an emotional journey as it is a physical journey and recovery and rest bear witness to that.

i am excited for the final chapter of this journey, free from grizzly bears and instant oatmeal. being home always tugs at me and yet, home for now remains tightly packed on my bike.

this is a big world. it is also fragile and at risk from many different angles. there are too many people and encroachments on our natural world are increasing. you hear it on the roadways. you see it in the water.

i can extoll the beauty of this trail and of these landscapes; they serve as book-ends on human history but, there needs to be a tidal wave of conservation, not the puddle of awareness bestowed to a couple thousand of bike packers who travel this path each summer.

we see it. we get it.

humans are the problem and need to be the solution.

rest day over. time to pedal.

we made it into the thriving ‘burb of pinedale yesterday, schlepping over 58-miles of chunk and gravel and eroded downhills and then through 25-miles of wyoming’s finest head winds.

the day before, after a particularly vertical ride, scott and i got to the strawberry creek shelter with a decision to make: do we keep riding another 23-miles to the next campground? or do we call it a day and make the shelter our overnight home?

there were two issues influencing our decision. first, there was no water source at the shelter and second, the skies on the easy side of union pass were looking malevolent.

we bantered and reflected and decided to move towards a creek about a half-mile away and continue riding if the water was a wallowing hole for cattle, or filter and return to the shelter and spend the night.

the creek ran clear and cold. it addressed our hydration and cooking needs. a half-hour after gathering water, torrents of rain dropped from the sky, the dust-covered sage turned a rejuvenated green and our decision-making process was affirmed.

a lone bikepacker sauntered up to the shelter before dark and was invited in, but after 20-minutes of 60 db snoring by scott, opted to pitch his bivvy and sleep outside.

do you know the difference between “white noise” and snoring? white noise puts you to sleep. snoring keeps you awake.

coming down from the strawberry creek shelter looked easy, on a map, with lots of downhill to lessen the plague of mosquitoes through the mosquito lake landscape. from there, it was a clear shot to pinedale…fingers crossed for tailwinds.

the mosquitoes of mosquito lake do not know the rules for mosquitoes. those rules are: come out at dusk and dawn or on cool, cloudy days, buzz around, annoy, and do it for the remainder of summer.

life is good for those little fuckers.

instead, the mosquitoes of mosquito lake have no restraints. they are thick in the sun, they are thick in the shade. they can easily track down a plodding bikepacker, and if you think you can escape with a prolonged, speedy downhill, the rocks and ravines of the road will remove that as an option.

there was a lot of swatting and cursing and it seemed anomalous for insect behavior, but once free from the culcidaen bloodfest, the reality of our downhill set in: embedded rocks and ruts along a 10-mile stretch of road wherever a year’s worth of snow run-off and rainfall moved down a path of least resistance, and then there were washboards that literally shook your core.

after a few miles of that, your shoulders start to complain and then the neck and fingers and wow, isn’t this fun? you question what and why you are doing this and just when bleakness presses down on you, the landscape changes, the verdant forests are behind you and you reach pavement.

i literally got off my bike where gravel gave way to asphalt and cursed the dirt, while welcoming tarmac back into my life.

i missed you, sweetie.

and all was well, save for a landscape that showed your path 5-miles distant, and a headwind that bent the sage tops horizontally.

those moments provide you with two choices: ride or not ride ad if you ride, the zen of pedaling takes over. you know you have a long way to go and you know the physical cost and so? you just pedal. you release the angst and find a gear that moves you forward without excessive energy and that tells the wind: “there you go…not a worry”.

introspection and reflection on a bike is the best.

ten miles out of pinedale, we turned away from the highway and through sheltered rangeland and into pinedale. while riding, an old-timer pulled up alongside me in his truck and started jabbering. i couldn’t hear him so i stopped and he began a litany on why we should take the bike path and stay off the highway. like he was the captain of the toothless bicycling ethics police.

so pinedale it is and weather is gonna be sour. i am tying to convince scott that two days rest will serve us better than pushing on through chores and recovery and then getting back on the bikes: recovery and sleep as weapons.

bike path? fuck you…we’re riding the divide, buddy!

i think we are on the same page.

allen and susan will be here this afternoon and i am bringing my bike into the shop for a once-over. sam, and all his trail knowledge, leap-frogged into colorado and is meeting his wife in colorado springs.

meanwhile, i am doing some “preventive hygiene and posturing” to address a couple of saddle sores and trust me, it isn’t a pretty sight.