Wyomininans

I’m at a gas station in Moorcroft, Wyoming, about thirty-five miles from Devil’s Tower National Monument.  I’ll go there today.  Easy rock is playing from a speaker right above my head.  It’s hard on the stomach.  I just ate three chocolate chip muffins.  They’re easy on the stomach.  Outside, men are buying gas and they’re wearing cowboy hats and nobody is making fun of them.

This post explains my time at Ten Sleep to my time in Buffalo.  We’re almost caught up to the present:

The road to Ten Sleep was relaxing.  I take my time each day because I don’t have to do squat for mileage.  Hitchhiking and ridesharing has put me well ahead of schedule.

Ten Sleep was nice, but everything closed early because it was Sunday.  I sat in front of the café/bakery to use their wireless.  Young boys, about nine or ten-years-old, were playing next to the road and making a ruckus each time a car drove by.  I wanted to throw mud at them and yell, “Simmer down, I’m trying to type a blog and your mom’s bakery hasn’t got any damn muffins left.”  But that would have been misdirecting my negative feelings about Sunday in Ten Sleep.

I biked out of town and camped in the canyon.  A sign pointed to the campground.  The sign read, “Wigwam Reserve and Camping Area.”  Free camping, the nicest campground I’ve seen.  It was surrounded by the canyon cliffs and a stream ran through it, straight from a John Wayne movie.  I pitched my tent and relaxed, but I thought, “If I get ambushed by Apaches right now, I’m screwed.”  

The next day, I biked the Big Horn Mountains.  That was the most challenging day of biking that I’ve had, yet.  The pass was 9,666 feet.  Three hours of bicycling uphill to reach the pass.  86 degrees at the base, 59 degrees at the top.  The day was hot.  I was pulling chunks of sweat salt out of my beard. No joke.

… then I was mixing them with my water with a bit of orange juice because I was worried about my salt intake.  Homemade Gatorade.  

… I didn’t really do that, but I was worried about my salt, and the beard salt was real.

I pounded water and sweat it out.  Luckily, near the top of the pass, a lovely elderly couple refilled my water bottles from a thermos that they had.

These Bighorn Mountains weren’t as rewarding as the mountains at Yellowstone.  That’s probably because I didn’t know that I had to bike them.  Biking them felt good in the same way having to do sprints after basketball practice feels good.  I’m feeling like I’m about done with mountains.  Give me South Dakota.

I reached Buffalo and wanted to chill and eat.  So I pulled into the first campground that I saw, talked the guy down to ten dollars for the night, went to the IGA to buy a shit ton of food, collapsed on the picnic table, and shoved a handful of butter toffee peanuts into my mouth.  

I lay on the picnic table and read.  I read Charles Bukowski’s Ham on Rye. That book either inspires individualism on a bike trip or causes cynicism for my privileged ability to take a bike trip.  I lay on the picnic table until late evening, reading and pondering, then I set up my tent and lay in my tent until late morning, sleeping.

The Mango Sentinel needed some tuning in the morning.  I inflated some tires and tightened some bolt things and realized that I broke a spoke and needed new brake pads.  The Buffalo Bike Shop guy was nice.  He showed me how to do both of those things but didn’t charge me labor.  He told me that most people on bike tours wouldn’t have even attempted the repairs.  I don’t believe that, but it was nice of him to say it.

I left the bike shop, crossed the street, and sat on a bench in front of the book store.  I wanted to finish my book.  A lady going into the bookstore chatted me up.  She had a vivid smile and was very interested in the bike trip.  She seemed concerned about my well-being.  At that point, I didn’t know if this concern was a motherly type of concern or a Buffalo Bill type of concern.  Her name was Debra.  When she came out, she invited me to stay at her house for the night.  She explained that she had sons that had taken similar adventures and that people had been kind to them on their adventures.  She wanted to give back.  Also, her husband, Gordy, was into bicycling and she was into reading.  I decided that her concern for my well-being was a motherly type of concern.  I decided to stay with her and Gordy.

I followed her to her house on my bike.  She gave me a towel to shower and showed me the washer and the dryer for my clothes.  The washer and dryer were especially nice.  I’ve washed my clothes a few times since California, but this was the first time I’ve used soap to wash them in while.  She showed me her books and recommended that I read a C.J. Box book that she had.  Box is a local Wyoming writer.  Then Debby went to the grocery store.  I sat in a comfy chair and read Box.

She came back with an amount of groceries that rivals a Guimond grocery shopping outing.  I helped her bring them inside, then she gave me a submarine sandwich and a Gatorade for late lunch.  Yeahaheasss.

Debby and I chatted.  She studied art in college.  Lately, she’s been into doing post card sized paintings of little stories that she hears or encounters.  She works at the elementary school and gets some of her stories from the tall tales that the elementary students tell her.  The paintings have words that tell the story.  One painting showed a dead elk in the back of a truck.  The story went something like this:

Judy, a third grader, and I saw a dead elk in the back of a truck.  I said, “You would never see something like that in Illinois.”  Judy asked, “Why not, Debby?”  I replied, “Well, for one, they don’t have elk in Illinois.”  Judy said, “Those poor people.”

And I read some more, and it was about time to start cooking dinner.  She had bought New York strips, and she asked me to cook them on the grill.  All good things.  

Gordy came home from his job at Child Services, and we dined on steaks, potatoes, rolls, beer, and…   I seem to recall some sort of fruity-vegetable-y substance on the table, too, but the memory of what it was exactly seems to be dominated by the steak and beer.  

After dinner, we went outside.  Gordy pulled out a fiddle, I pulled out my harmonica, and we played some bluegrass.  Gordy was better than me, but he didn’t care.  We sang some verses and took solos and generally got down with our badselves.  I’m pretty confident that some windows around the neighborhood opened and, by the end of the concert, we had a substantial audience.  But we can’t be certain.

Debby brought out cobbler and ice cream for everybody.  Gordy gave me a beer that he brought from Wisconsin, Spotted Cow.  That was a heartfelt gesture because he only brought back six beers.

I slept in the guest bedroom.  The next morning, Gordy gave me a bicycling shirt and a bunch of electrolyte bicycling nutrient things and a book about cycling.  And he made blueberry pancakes.  Debby gave me jar of peanut butter.  An entire jar of crunchy peanut butter.  And she gave me the C.J. Box book that I had been reading.  

I felt welcome in their home.  It wasn’t that they gave me all that noise.  They were just nice to talk to, fun to chill with.  It was relaxing.  At first, I had been thinking that I could attribute all this beautiful hospitality that I had been receiving from various Wyominians to a disposition native to Wyominians, but I don’t think it’s that.  I think I have just been getting damn lucky with the generous and genuine people that I have been meeting.  But the people that I’ve been meeting help the case for Wyoming.  I dig this state.

The YAGCT

I'm at the McDonald's in Gillette.  And the story continues from getting picked up at Yellowstone:

The youth adventure group counselor trainees were a bit strange, but that’s how I like my youth adventure group counselor trainees.  There were ten of these youth adventure group counselor trainees and a youth adventure group counselor trainee trainer.  I rode with four of them and the trainer.  

The trainer drove, I sat shotgun, and some girl they called “Mom” sat between us.  She chewed with her mouth open.  John, Eli, and Horwitz sat in the back.  Eli was straight ginger, and it made me nervous having my back to him.  He ate brown stuff from a plastic bag.  It was a combination of mushed up bananas, peanut butter, craisins, peanuts, and soul.  John talked for some of the trip about this bicycle fiesta tour that rides across Iowa.  I want in.  It’s after Blissfest, though.  (How do you feel about that Stuie?)  Horwitz was real quiet and looked like Moses.  He was the guy who I asked for a ride from.  He said “yes” and offered me a Laffy Taffy.  He was twenty-nine and wise beyond his years.  We were talking about Father’s Day, and he said, “Man, I’m not getting my dad shit for Father’s Day.  They have Sunday once a week, and I never get squat.”

It took us two hours to drive the sixty miles through the pass to get to Cody.  It was nighttime.  It would have been terrifying to bike through that, but it was pretty to see it from a car.  The youth adventure group counselor trainees invited me for pizza.  So we went to Pizza Hut.  Eli doesn’t eat meat and dairy together because he’s Jewish.  He ordered a jalapeño and pineapple pizza.  

We were at Pizza Hut for another two hours.  The youth adventure group counselor trainees invited me to camp with them.  So we went to the KOA.  All the males slept in one, eight person tent.  Horwitz didn’t use a sleeping bag.  He doesn’t ever bother with them.

The youth adventure group counselor trainees left at 6:30 in the morning.  I had to wake up.  They need their tent.  We parted ways and shook hands and licked faces and all that.  They offered to buy me coffee and doughnuts, but I said, “Hell, no.  I don’t fraternize with youth adventure group counselor trainees.”  So they left.

Little did the youth adventure group counselor trainees know that this particular KOA has free pancakes each morning.  This is why they are still trainees.  (I didn’t know either, until I wandered over to the arcade and saw the sign.) I feasted on the pancakes and bought some sausage and chocolate milk to go with them.  I took a shower.  I chilled in the arcade and typed on the computer.  I really took advantage of the KOA experience.  (The Cody KOA is the first KOA to come into existence.)

I asked the clerk at the KOA for direction to my next destination.  He said, “Make sure you turn on the highway towards Burlington.  It’s a good-sized town.  The turn should be marked.”

Burlington is tiny, 300 people, but it’s a good-sized town for Wyoming.  Horwitz told me that more people live in San Francisco than in Wyoming.  I like that, but none of the towns have a Wendy’s.  I’ve been jonesin’ for a Frosty.

It was a short bicycle ride to Basin, Wyoming.  I had the wind at my back and it was downhill.  I sang the whole way because I felt good being out of the cold mountains.  “The hills are alive with the sound of music…” I sang.

 

Upon arriving in Basin, I visited the grocery store.  I wanted to buy some vittles for the night and the next day, then I’d ride out of town and camp.  While I was in the store, though, a man and wife, Josh and Sandra, approached me and asked me about my tour.  They were thinking about taking a tour, too.  They supported the trip and thought it’d be nice to chat with me, so they offered to let me pitch my tent in their backyard. 

They had a cookout that night.  They invited the parents (it was the parent’s house) and the neighbors over, and we all ate elk kebabs and drank beer.

The youth adventure group counselor trainees and Josh and Sandra gave me their contact information.  They told me to let them know how the trip went.  Also, they said that they’d offer assistance if I get into any trouble out west.  Josh’s dad, Lyle, said he’d drive as far as the Black Hills to help me out.  So that’s nice.

I left in the morning.  Josh and Lyle gave me advice on the next few days of the journey.  They gave me a shortcut to Ten Sleep, and they told me not to take the low road around the Big Horn Mountains.  The road was dirt, and it would be flooded from snowmelt.  That meant that I needed to go over the mountains.

Song of the Week: Cheesecake by Louie

Hello All, 

The first song of the week, by request of Robert Allen Guimond, is Cheesecake. We used to sing this song regularly in 4th grade music class. It's a great tune for those who don't remember lyrics well and love creamy, sugary desserts that can carry a supporting cast of fruit topping or chocolate or fudge.  

The ditty at hand has another bonus feature: the melody stays happily within a limited range of notes. It comes in handy if blow at singing. Robbie's grandma always says, "If you can't sing good, sing loud." Cheesecake still sounds nice following that strategy. 

So lets gobble and munch.

I'M EATING ICECREAM

We’re still behind on the blog chronology, three nights behind after this blog.  I’m at a campground in Buffalo, WY.  I’m eating ice cream.  So here’s what happened at Old Faithful:

I woke up from my nap on the visitor center gravel.  A fellow biker was walking towards me.  He was haggard and bearded and crazy-looking.  He said, “Where are you headed?”  I said, “Michigan. Where you headed?” He said, “Alaska.”  I said, “Oh, where did you start?”  He said, “Argentina.”  I said, “Hot damn.”  He said, “Where are you staying tonight?”  I said, “I have a friend that works here.  I’m staying with her.”  He nodded and walked away.  Talkative fellow.

If I were biking solo for that long, I would go crazy.  I need someone to unload my thoughts on.  I’m already talking to myself like a homeless person, and we’re starting to hang out in the same places.  I saw a homeless man at McDonald’s in Idaho Falls cashing out on the free refills, scratching himself, talking to himself.  I could vibe with that, except I don’t have bugs in my clothing, yet.  Well, maybe you don’t have to be homeless for that.  Also, he may have been wearing an itchy wool sweater.

Eventually, Rachel showed up from her grocery shopping in Bozeman.  There’s a whole dorm room life culture for the workers at Old Faithful… like in Dirty Dancing.  We went back to Rachel’s dorm and I met her roommate and some of her friends and we all played Euchre… like in Dirty Dancing.  

The next day Rachel and I woke up real early to drive her friend back to north Yellowstone, and then we drove around and did touristy things.  Saw some mud holes and geysers and other earthy, watery, lava-y land formations.

Rachel’s dope.  She’s a poet, talks a lot about food.  She bought me lunch at the fancypants Old Faithful Inn.  We had smoked Gouda and roasted red pepper soup.  Goodness gracious.  And we had elk sausage.  She left for work as a waitress at the Inn, and I walked around looking at more land formation stuff.

I bounced the next morning.  I had to bike through Craig’s Pass.  Craig had a snowy pass that day.  It was gross.  I made it to the east side of Yellowstone.  The problem with trying to exit on that side was that I had to go through Sylvan Pass.  Turns out, Sylvan had a pretty snowy pass, too.  The rangers had been closing it during the day time, fearing that snowmelt would cause avalanches.  So I had to wait until early morning to bike through the pass, or I had to bike the pass after 8 pm when it opened.  The latter option sounded too dangerous and the former sounded too cold.

So I figured that I could bike to the road block then hitchhike through the pass.  So I waited in a café in little town near the pass then biked to the pass at around 7PM.  I got there.  There was a line-up of cars waiting to pass the pass.  The first people I asked for a ride hooked me up.  I rode in a caravan: a truck and an SUV.  The vehicles were filled with youth adventure group counselor trainees.  They were about my age.  We got down.

The Mountains

I’m at a café in Ten Sleeps, Wyoming.  I’m at this café because I heard that they had good muffins.  They are out of muffins.  The following is my description of bicycling up the mountain towards Yellowstone.  I may repeat some stuff from the last post, but it’s probably good review.

I wanted to bike eighty miles after leaving the Idaho Falls Motel 6.  I knew that the weather would be bad and that the last twenty miles would be mountainous, but I wanted to get as close to Yellowstone as possible so that the next day, in the heart of the mountains, could be leisurely and highly enjoyable.  Island Park was my destination.  I figured they’d have a good place to warm up.  

So I bounced.  Sixty miles went pretty quick.  Rain fell on every mile, but I felt good, and I had muffins. 

I stopped in Ashton at the base of the mountains and ate some sardines in tomato sauce.  Sardines have salt and protein and other lovely nutrients for a biker, and sardines are cheap, and these sardines were on sale, but I may be eating too many of them.  The first can was alright.  I gagged a little on the second can. 

And I began the ascent.  Slowly.  I biked for ten minutes then encountered freezing rain.  Visibility was still good and I felt good and I still had some muffins.  So I continued.

That twenty miles in freezing rain was a struggle.  Cars slowed as they passed me.  The people inside looked concerned.  I looked back as determined and as seasoned as a biker could while wearing a neon yellow jacket and a bright pink bandana tied around the head bank robber style.  The people in the cars shook their heads and drove on.

My clothes were soaked with the freezing rain that pelted me then melted on me.  My toes were cold.  My cheeks were cold.  My muffins were cold. Two hours of biking.

Finally.  The ground leveled.  The rain turned into a sputter.  I saw Island Park peeking out around a curve, a little way down the road.  A clearing opened to my left.  I could see the foggy mountains that I was pedaling through.  I was up there with them.

And I felt so good.  Only two times before have I experienced that powerful of a combination of long-built anticipation, beautiful surroundings, and hard work.  

One time was when I was hitchhiking from Dublin to see my buddy Portice on the Connemara Peninsula in northwest Ireland.  I’d been on the road, ride to ride to ride to ride, for about ten hours.  It rained off and on all day.  Foggy.  Damp.  I was tuckered, foggy and damp, too.  I had arrived on the peninsula.  The fog lifted.  The rain stopped.  Mountains crisped in the distance.  The sea pushed against the road.  And a damn rainbow shone among the mountains.  

I happened to be riding with the most Irish, amiable, happiest Irishman in Ireland.  He looked half leprechaun.  He said, “Look there, Robert.  A rainbow.  Isn’t she a beauty.”

The other time that I felt a similar goodness was at the end of a cross country race.  The race was outside of Rudyard on some sort of nature reserve.  In the middle of the woods during late autumn.  Snow fell as the runners approached the starting line.  We all ran 5k through the red and the orange and yellow woods, snow falling on our heads and shoulders and on the ground.  I didn’t feel like I was running at all because everything was quiet, peaceful.  

But all those leaves and trails and snowflakes still tuckered me out.  At the final 200 meters, the trail came out of the woods and we all ran for medals.  My dad, the principal of Rudyard High at the time, was at the finish line awarding the medals as each runner crossed the line.  I was running in a pack.  Twenty places received medals.  The pack crossed the line and entered the shoot.  Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.  My dad was pulling off the medals from duct tape wrapped around a piece of cardboard.  Twenty.  I reached him and he held out the piece of cardboard and said “Sorry, Son.”

The medal didn’t matter much.  I felt good seeing my dad there at the finish line after all those trails and leaves and snowflakes.  

The rainbow in Connemara.  My dad in Rudyard.  The mountains in Idaho.  Welcoming.  It was nice.

We’ve been planning this bicycle trip for a year.  We’ve been talking about it for three years.  The trip came together for me a few days ago as I stood among those mountains.  We had some trouble in California.  (I headbutt a car window. Stuie hurt his knee.)  We missed Big Sur and the Redwoods, but that’s no big deal.  I’ll get to those eventually, and I don’t have to be on a bike.  But the mountains.  The pinnacle of the trip for me has always been, building for three years, the mountains.

I saw the mountains, and I stopped pedaling.  I stared at them and felt relief and accomplishment and joy.  I ate a muffin.  I felt good.

Arrival in Yellowstone

I'm in the arcade at the Cody, Wyoming KOA. They have a Tekken machine.

The blog post timeline is a little behind compared to the bike trip timeline.  But I don't want to give you the whole story all at once. So I'll get caught up over the next few days.

Idaho Falls.  I asked the manager at the McDonald's in Idaho Falls to allow me to sleep in the lobby, but she said that wasn't going to happen.  Not wanting to mess with the rain, I decided to go to a Motel 6.  It was nice.  They were remodeling.  I had a room that smelled like hardwood floors.  My room was carpeted.

I bounced in the morning, and biked eighty miles to Island Park, a tourist boom town twenty miles outside of Yellowstone Park.  It precipitated the entire eighty miles.  That biking experience was something and will be discussed in my next post.


At about 3:00 PM, I had already reached my destination, so I stopped at a gas station to warm up before making camp.  Because of the precipitation, business was slow at the gas station.  Noreanne the gas station clerk and I chatted. She said that another bicycler had been in the gas station the day before.  He was in the gas station for nine hours waiting out a blizzard.  He had no sleeping bag or tent.  He was wearing flip flops and a sweater.  And he was on his way to Yellowstone.  That's about all Noranne knew about the biker.  He from Spain and didn't speak much English.  I'm telling you this story so that you can see how well off I am on this bike trip.  Not only do I know English, I'd say that I'm fluent.  If you're going to worry about someone, worry about that Spaniard who is somewhere off in the wilderness right now, probably trying unsucessfully to scare away bears and park rangers with his flowery latinate speech.

Noranne and I talked about the bears.  She said they were angry this time of year, hungry and hunted.

We watched the five o'clock news.  The weather looked good for Wednesday.  It was Monday.


Thinking about the bears and the poor weather and the expensive lodging in Island Park, I felt like I was in a pickle.  Also, biking eight miles probably gave me a pickle like saltiness and a vinegary smell.

Noranne said I could probably stay at the gas station.  I'd have to wait for Bryan the manager to arrive at seven so that I could ask him.  When Bryan showed up, he said it'd be twenty five bucks to stay there.  That sounded good, cheaper than bear mace.  Noranne's shift was over, so she left me with Bryan.  When she said goodbye, she gave me her monthly pass to get into Yellowstone.  Nice lady.

Bryan was a nice guy, too.  Dude was a talker.  He talked at me for the next two hours as I was trying to break away to go to bed.  He was fluent in Laos-inese because he did a mission in Laos.  Missions in Hawaii and Vietnam, too.  After college, he managed the largest wildlife reserve on the west coast.  Idaho has the most amount of millionaires per capita than any other state.  Lots of money in seed potatoes.  Bryan wrote a math book when he was a freshman in college.  His dad was a math professor at BYU.  Years ago, they bought seats in the BYU basketball arena.  He wishes that he had gone to see Jimmer Freddette.  Bryan played college ball.  Liked to talk smack.  Played high school football, too, the quarterback.  They played a private school that recruited Samoans for the the defensive line.  Bryan asked: Have you ever had a 300 pound, angry Samoan come at you?  Bryan says it's terrifying.  Bryan said some other stuff, too.

The next day, I arrived at Old Faithful at about 2:30 PM.  I don't know if it was the biking or the elevation or the talking to Bryan that tuckered me out.  But I was tuckered.  I chilled on the benches in front of Old Faithful for three hours.  I saw it go off twice.  I felt super American.  Then I took a nap on the gravel beside the visitor center, waiting for Stu's friend Rachel to arrive from grocery shopping in Bozeman.

Ideas and Implications: Robbie is still alive

 This looked better as the thumbnail photo on faceook.

Robbie has not yet texted me what he is doing today, but yesterday he arrived at Old Faithful in Yellowstone, where he will be hosted by the lovely and poetic Rachel, who is representing the SVSU Writing Center out there on the Yellowstone staff.  I believe he plans to stay in Yellowstone for a night or two. Maybe until the bad weather passes. If anybody has missed the last few entries, Robbie is being snowed on out west, but bikes on like a champion.

So I am here in Michigan, reunited with friends and family, regaining my health, looking for a place to live. I was house-hunting today, and a potential roommate reviewed my application. He saw my area code and said, "906, hey. Where's that?" I said the U.P. He said, "Oh, ok," with the tone of somebody who had just asked a stripper what kind of dancer she was.  Then he said, "I see you drive a truck."  I confirmed that I did, indeed, drive a black S-10.

This data compelled him to inform me of something. He said, "I feel like I should tell you...I'm gay. Some people have a problem with that."  Implied: especially yoopers with pickup trucks. I informed him of my liberal progressive ways, and responded that my girlfriend is younger than me, so as long as that didn't make him think I was a bad person, I'd live with him.

 

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Anyway, I have ideas for livening Robbie's bike trip:

1. Song of the week. Please review the blog on Sundays to catch the Song of the Week. I will post a Youtube video of a song, which I will be practicing on the uke, and Robbie will then practice on the Harmonica, and we encourage all of you to practice on your various musical instruments. Anybody who wishes to join us at our campfire or for open mic at Blissfest to jam to the various songs of the week, we welcome. No skill, talent, or expensive instruments required.

2. The Blissfull Bikers: On the morning of August 8th, a Friday, Robbie will be departing from either Charlevoix or Petoskey to make his final descent into Blissfest. I would like to organize a large troop of cyclists to accompany our hero on his final jaunt. I will see if some local market would like to have a sale on Clif Bars, alcohol, firewood, and Gatorade (the essentials for people heading to Bliss on bike with vehicle support), and we will have a little kickoff ceremony before we roll on down the highway to our musical holiday. 




I imagine it looking like something between this...






And this...

If anybody has ideas, suggestion, or wants to help set this up, please email us, comment on this blog, or whatever. If you are aware of any associations of cyclists who would participate in this, please inform me as well.

I leave you with this: Robbie has accrued some degree of debt to continue the journey after repairing his bike. I will figure out how to post a paypal button on our page, and if you wish to support Robbie's journey, you can do so. I have a bunch of money left over, and I have medical insurance to take care of whatever my knee may require, so I require nothing but your reader's appetite, thank you.

Live long and prosper.