I’ve experienced only a few natural wonders in this world that transcend words, or even photographs: The Grand Canyon; Niagara Falls; Mount McKinley (Denali); and now, Going to the Sun Road, in Glacier National Park, Montana.
At 7am on June 28, 2018, three weeks and 650 miles into my solo cross-country bicycle tour, I started to climb the renowned Going to the Sun Road. I was hauling 165 lbs of myself, 30 lbs of Cassie (my bike), and 45 pounds of gear up to Logan Pass at 6646 ft. A total of 240 lbs.
I had been watching the Park Service website as I approached the weeks before because the road was not yet open due to snow. If it didn’t open, I would have to find another route over the Rockies. Since its completion in 1932, the latest Going To the Sun has ever opened was July 4. This year, it opened June 25th, two days before I got there.
Going to the Sun Road is closed to cyclists on the last 12 miles of the Western ascent of between 11am and 4pm because that’s when motor-vehicle traffic is heaviest (large vehicles and trailers are prohibited altogether). There is no restriction for westbound (descending) cycle traffic; nor is there any restriction on the eastern side of the pass. The road is very narrow. Most of it has a sheer drop-off on one side, and a stone wall on the other, which sometimes leans out over the curvy steep road. There is even one short tunnel. Periodic “turnouts” were built-in for slow-moving vehicles to allow traffic to pass. The Park Service estimated that the last 12 mile stretch would take about 3 hours by bicycle. Four miles per hour. Easy. HA!
Cyclists who don’t plan to reach the summit by 11am, would have to wait at the bottom until 4pm. There are no services along the way. Nor are there any services or camping at the pass, just a visitor center -- and fantastic views.
If I waited until 4pm to begin, that would ostensibly put me at the top at 7pm. Not wanting to then have to descend the other side, find a campsite, set up and eat all before sunset, I needed to reach the summit by 11am.
And I almost did.
I had camped at the Avalanche Creek campsite, the closest to the bottom of the restricted 12 miles. I was up early, ate, struck camp, and had foot to pedal by 7am, a record for me. It was clear and cool. But I hadn’t realized I was still four miles from the restricted area. No big deal. Those four miles were a very gentle incline. By 8am, I was three miles into the bike-limited stretch. I had three hours to go 9 miles. Easy. HA. HA!
I decided to stop every half hour, alternating breather-breaks with belly-breaks (as I called “having a snack”). The distance traveled between each break was getting shorter and shorter. The grade stayed very steady at six-percent, and it never changed. Literally. There was not one section, not one pedal-stroke, not one inch of downhill -- or even flat -- road. But the views were amazing. Around each corner, was another breathtaking sight. I didn’t have time to stop and and take a picture every time I felt the urge, but I almost always snapped one at the breaks.
There were no other touring cyclists laden with gear, but I was passed by several road-cyclists types, with minimalist equipment, and super light bikes. Ultimately, I would see them coming back down again. For them, it was just a really arduous UP followed by a really fun DOWN!
Three ladies fitting that description stopped at the same place I had. Jenny, Sherry, and Susie were impressed that I was hauling all that gear, and we chatted for a bit.
About an hour later, all three whooped and hollered as they zoomed by on their way down.
“You're almost there, Doug! Keep going!” The encouragement helped, as I plodded along.
The air was getting thinner. I was going slower and slower. And it was getting cold. Between the 10 and 10:30 breaks, I had only gone a mile. And I had three more miles to go. The day before, I had asked numerous park officials what happened if a rider didn’t make it. Would they turn me around? Would they give me a ticket? Would they push me off the edge? No one seemed to know.
These 61-year-old Ohio Buckeye lungs were not used to the thin air above five thousand feet (and climbing). I kept going. At the 11am cut-off, I was still a mile and a half from the top. There was no choice but to keep pedaling.
Shut-up legs! Shut-up lungs! Now I had to take a break every 15 minutes. The temperature had dropped to 42 degrees.
At last I saw a sign saying “Logan Pass ½ mile.” What a great sign! I stopped and took a picture, it was such a great sign. I was going to make it! About one hundred yards later the road bent sharply to the left. There was turnout to the right with several parked cars. A stern looking ranger was glaring at me. From there I could see the pass under half a mile away.
The Ranger waved me over. “We have to talk,” He intoned. “The restriction started half an hour ago.”
“Oh, so I guess it’s 11:30,” I said (though I knew). “I started at Avalanche at 7am, thinking I had plenty of time, but it sure is a tough climb.” My plea for sympathy was going nowhere.
He didn’t look happy. He asked for my ID, then stepped away and spoke into his special Ranger Radio. He clearly didn’t want me hearing his conversation.
Just as he signed off, a mountain goat appeared out of nowhere and started down the road. The Ranger gave chase, hollering over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back.” With that, he trotted down the road after the goat, with my ID. Apparently, one of a Ranger’s duties is to shoo wild-life off the road. I wasn’t sure what he intended to do if he caught the goat, but it didn’t matter because the goat had no intention of being caught. Nor was I sure what he intended to do with me. Down the road the Ranger went, chasing after the goat.
NOT the actual goat!
I realized that for every step he chased that goat, he would have to climb back UP the road. So I found a perch on a stone ledge and waited. I could see in the distance that the goat finally veered off into the wild and was gone.
He was back on the radio as he made his way back up the hill, signing off as he approached. I stood up. He wasn’t even winded.
“You got lucky, we're just going to give you a warning. If there are any other infractions, you will be cited,” he proclaimed, handing back my ID. He was all business.
“Thank you. I assure you there will be no other infractions.” The other side of the pass has no restrictions I couldn’t “infract” if I wanted to.
“Had I seen you down the hill at eleven o’clock, I would have turned you back.”
“Thank you again.” I replied. Turned back? With under two miles to go? That would have been a disaster. Sure, if I were one of the joy-riding UP and DOWN cyclist, it would be no big deal, but I was riding through. I wondered if the Ranger would have let me wait there at the turnout until 4pm when the restriction was lifted.
He looked confused when I asked if I could take his picture, but apparently couldn’t think of a reason not to let me. He even managed to look pleasant.
With that, he let me continue. The extended break (while he was chasing the goat) did me good, and I scampered up that last four tenths of a mile like -- forgive me -- a mountain goat!
I did it! Albeit not within the allotted time. It was the most arduous and satisfying single-day physical achievement I had ever accomplished. I took a long, very-well deserved break at the top. No food or beverages were available, but they had restrooms. The large parking lot was packed with automobiles. There was only one other bicycle. The rider was a young cyclist from Canada -- Rachel -- who had just come up the other side. She was planning to camp in the same site I had just come from -- Avalanche Creek. I ended up staying at the same place she had stayed the night before, so we just swapped campgrounds, both climbing the Going to the Sun Road from opposite directions.
The trip down the other side was wonderful (I’d been anticipating it for 5 hours). Unlike the West side, which was unyielding in its ascent, there were a few ups and downs on the East side. The previous year’s fires ravaged more of that side and much of the ride was directly through that aftermath. I could still smell the fire a year later.
By mid-afternoon, I reached the St. Mary campground, near the Eastern Portal, but still within the park.
Did the ranger decide to let me go on because he felt bad I had to wait while he chased a mountain goat? I wasn’t about to ask him. Nonetheless, I’d like to thank that goat.
I’ve grown to hate Internal Combustion engines.
We have never gotten along. Every device I’ve ever owned that featured Infernal Combustion, from leaf-blowers to chainsaws to lawn-tractors to automobiles, has given me nothing but grief. I detested them all. (At least until I discovered Hondas. They run forever, and are mostly grief-free. Sadly, they are not guilt-free.)
Ever since my cross-country bike adventure, I’ve found myself driving even more slowly than usual. I’ve pretty much always driven like an old man (fuel economy, don’t you know), but after spending 65 days at 11 MPH, 65 MPH is terrifying.
From an innocent weed-wacker to a tractor-trailer rig, the sound and smell of all internal combustion engines is loathsome. I rode a few hundred miles through the oil/gas-boom of North Dakota, and came to realize that everything about that production is dirty, loud, smelly, and ugly.
Through most of the oil-boom territory, I felt like I was pedaling through Tolkien’s Mordor. The Earth looked scorched; there were huge piles of dirt and gravel and unsavory looking pools of very uninviting liquid. Brutish looking equipment, often featuring giant, nasty burn-off pipes, dotted the landscape. Heavy equipment rumbled to and fro.
The extraction process is dirty, loud, smelly, and ugly.
Transportation to the refinery is dirty, loud, smelly, and ugly.
The refining is dirty, loud, smelly, and ugly.
Delivery of the final product is dirty, loud, smelly and ugly.
Consumption for fuel is dirty, loud, smelly, and ugly.
And that’s all before even talking about the grave environmental concerns associated with burning fossil fuels, which just makes it all seem even more dirty, loud, smelly, and ugly.
Oil does have other less nasty uses, but about 75% of the world’s production is simply burned for energy.
Prior to riding through North Dakota, I rode through the Montana High-Line, which features miles and miles of clean, quiet, odorless, and beautiful windmills. The contrast couldn’t have been more stark.
Yes, I drive a gas-powered car. I have little choice. But I did buy an electric lawn mower! It’s lower maintenance, quieter, and easier to start. And the day I can afford it, I’ll be behind the wheel of a Tesla. (That is, unless driver-less cars take over beforehand, which I’m all for, but that’s another subject.)
One hundred and fifty years of enduring rapid-fire controlled explosions is enough. Internal-combustion finished the job started by its cousin, external-combustion (steam-engines), which launched the industrial revolution. It has served its purpose. It’s time to thank internal-combustion for a job well done, pin a medal on its chest and let it join all the steam-engines at the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan. It’s time to move on.
There is more than ample renewable energy at our fingertips. Battery technology has made huge strides. We, as a society, just lack the political will to change, which is fomented by the entrenched oil companies and the politicians they own. The sooner we can wean ourselves off fossil-fuels and convert every weed-wacker, lawn mower, ATV, motorcycle, automobile, truck, semi, freight-train, and powerplant to renewable energy, the better off we’ll all be.
Then let the healing of the Earth begin.
It was my 61st Birthday. I didn’t feel 61. I haven’t felt my age for decades. But the calendar doesn’t lie, I was 61. This day. How did that happen?
It was nearing twilight as I approached “Tunnel Number Three” on the Elroy-Sparta bike trail in Wisconsin. My bike -- “Cassie” -- and I were 2000 miles into a 3200 mile Trans-Am solo adventure.
Creative name aside, “Tunnel Number Three,” was the first tunnel I would encounter on that trail. Clouds were rolling in, making the the sky darker yet. The woods were getting deeper. I hadn’t seen another human for many miles. I was wearing down, as I was over sixty miles for the day. A mile for every year, I thought, and now I’m over sixty. I felt like I was about to “bonk” (when a cyclist just runs out of energy). Regular snacking hadn’t helped. What was going on? Maybe I was more of a sixty-one-year-old than I wanted to admit.
The explanation was right under my nose, or beneath my pedals: the approach to the tunnel was uphill. Naturally, the designers of the railroad took the tracks as high as they could before having to dig a very expensive tunnel. Railroad inclines can’t really be seen, especially as it gets dark, but the legs can feel it.
I reached the tunnel nearly exhausted and in a gloomy mood. “Happy Fucking Birthday, indeed!” There was a sign saying bikes must be walked through. They weren’t kidding. The path was crowned in the middle, with a steady small stream of water on either side, created by the constantly dripping ceiling. I had a powerful flashlight, but it was still creepy inside. The dripping was like a light rain. Cassie wasn’t scared as I pushed her through the dark, but I was.
Because the three-quarter-mile long tunnel was a gentle arc, for 100 yards in the middle I could not see the light at the end of the tunnel (literally!) in either direction. Curiosity got the better of me and I briefly turned off my light.
It was absolutely pitch black.
Maybe I should have camped in the last town of Sparta instead of pushing on. I found myself singing simple arpeggios to take advantage of the amazing reverb. If I timed it just right, I could sing a chord! It was as close as I’ve ever come to literally whistling by the graveyard. Scary Tolkienesque scenarios played in my mind. Was that a noise I heard up ahead? Or was it behind?
My birthday started much better 60 miles earlier. I had stayed with my friend Patrick in Winona, Minnesota. He was already up and making pancakes when I came up from the basement guest room. His five kids, all under 10, and wife were still asleep. We chatted for a bit while he flipped the flap-jacks, then he insisted I sit and eat while the house was still calm. I filled up on pancakes and scrambled eggs, with plenty of coffee.
The kids were slow to rise, appearing one-by-one. I packed up Cassie, and asked to get them all together for a group shot. I won’t try to get them in order: Gwenevere, Camille, Vera, Nora, Marty, Patrick and Lindsay, and of course Finton the dog.
The morning was sunny but cool as I made my way through downtown Winona to the bridge over the Mississippi, and crossed into Wisconsin. I had followed the river 200 miles downstream from St. Cloud all the way to Winona. It’s a really big river. But it was time to head east, away from the Mississippi. After nearly 2000 miles of pedaling “Out West,” I was now officially “Back East.”
Twelve miles later, I picked up the Great River Trail in Trempealeau. There are four connected trails in Wisconsin, the Great River, The La Crosse River, the Elroy-Sparta, and the 400. They are all formerly the same railroad bed, and are unpaved, but mostly well-packed crushed limestone. I’m not sure why there are four names. I ended up following the entirety of them for 101 total miles.
River Trail Cycles is right by the trail as it passes though the town of Onalaska, and I decided to get yet another opinion on the squeak intermittently emanating from Cassie’s front wheel. Two prior bike shops could find nothing. It was beginning to drive me nuts. Emily, the owner, and manager Dan -- and shop dog Owen! -- were happy to help. Nothing could be found. The brake and hub were in good shape.
(The squeak stayed with me all the way to Ohio, and was finally fixed by my home-town bike mechanic JD at Kent Cycle.)
Dan very kindly gave me a brochure about the trails, complete with maps and details of various features. When I told I him I was headed for Sparta, he pointed out the campground near there, but said the next one down the trail in Norwalk was nicer.
Like so many others, they refused payment. Most people are nice.
As I approached Sparta around 6pm, the sky was getting darker, yet the forecast didn’t call for rain. Sparta claims to be “The Bicycling Capital of America,” but where the trail came through was not inviting. The former-Depot-converted-to-Visitor-Center was not open. Nor was anything else nearby. The campground was about half a mile beyond the town. I considered looking for a FBM (Flea Bag Motel) -- it was my birthday, after all. I felt I could justify splurging, but I had spent too much on FBM's already, and the campground was free.
I stood and debated for several moments, and decided to try the campground.
Satan couldn’t have fashioned a more hellish campsite; right next to the freeway; the restroom was a latrine; no shower; just a spigot for water; four understandably empty campsites; no picnic table; loads of mosquitoes. I wouldn’t be any worse off if I stealth camped. I knew from Dan at the cycle shop that the next campground -- in Norwalk, 12 miles away -- was better, but I didn’t know in what way. It certainly couldn't be worse.
Again, I stood and debated, wracked with indecision, getting eaten by bugs.
It was nearly 6:30. I needed to either camp or start pedaling.
I rode on. Worst case, I could stealth camp somewhere along the trail.
Tunnel Number Three along the Elroy-Sparta trail, was built from 1870-73 at a cost of 1.5 million dollars at the time ($31.5 million in today’s dollars). Tunnel numbers two and one are much shorter.
As I progressed through the scary, black tunnel, the other end slowly became visible. The steady “rainfall” continued, but the streams on either side of the trail were running away from me; I had crossed the apogee. It felt like an hour, but was only about 15 minutes before I emerged. The sky on the other side was much lighter than before, and the temperature felt warmer (which was probably just the contrast from the chilly damp tunnel). For the same reason the trail was ascending on the other side, it now descended a couple more miles to Norwalk. Cassie and I flew through the woods and down the hill. I was happy to be out of the tunnel; happy to be warm and dry; happy for easy, downhill pedaling; happy to be sixty-one years old.
WARNING: Pointless though Poignant Birthday Digression follows:
Like many kids in the sixties, I closely followed the U.S. Space Program. From John Glenn’s historic flight through all the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo missions, I eagerly followed along, devouring all the magazine and newspaper articles. Imagine my excitement when the paper reported the moon-landing itinerary and the Big Event -- the first man on the moon -- was due to happen on my twelfth birthday!
However, the itinerary also inexplicably called for the Astronauts to take a nap after landing on July 20th (the day before my birthday).
I can hear Armstrong’s pep-talk to Buzz Aldrin, “Well, Buzz, we are the first men to land on the moon, about to embark on the biggest event in all recorded history, how about we get some shut-eye first?”
Not surprisingly, they decided to forsake the official itinerary and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon late on my birthday eve, while the entire world, including my family, all watched on our new color TV’s.
For many of the ensuing years, I was vaguely disappointed that the event hadn’t happened on my birthday. If the subject came up at social gatherings, I would snort, “Moon-landing? It was supposed to happen on my birthday.” Then I’d launch into detail about the itinerary napping nonsense, and drive my hapless listeners to join discussions in another room.
Such is the future of a disappointed twelve-year-old birthday-boy.
Decades later, for a reason long forgotten, I looked up “First Moon Landing” on Wikipedia. What measure can history use to record date and time of an event not on earth? The only way is Greenwich Mean Time. Never mind what time it was at Birthday Boy’s house; late in the evening in Ohio is early the next morning according to GMT. Neil Armstrong DID first walk on the moon on my twelfth birthday, 2:56 GMT, July 21, 1969.
I am vindicated. But now it’s not as good of a cocktail party story.
Back on Earth, nearly 50 years later:
Norwalk is a bike friendly town. The first thing I saw after rolling down the mountain from the the frightful “Tunnel Number Three” was a still-open ice-cream/sandwich shop called “Lisa T’s.” Across a well-tended lawn from the shop was a community park that had many other campers. There were picnic tables! A playground (complete with “munchkins”)! And a public restroom -- with showers! I felt like Dorothy, filled with wonder after a terrifying trip to Oz. Lisa T herself -- my personal Glinda the Good Witch -- was at the take-out window and kindly furnished my dinner, along with change for the coin-operated showers.
I was jubilant that I had pedaled past Sparta, “Bicycling Capital of America!” There was just enough light left for me to set up camp, eat my meal, and grab a shower.
Happy Birthday to me! I had avoided the mosquito infested campground, endured the near-bonking before the tunnel, and survived the dread inside the passage to arrive at the haven of Norwalk, Wisconsin. If you’re ever there, say hi to Lisa T.
“Tunnel Number Two” and “Tunnel Number One” awaited me the next day, But this 61-year-old Birthday Boy had a bit of life left in him.
