“Do you think I’ll need this anymore?” Tom held up a mud-encrusted tongue depressor. He leaned down and scrapped a few clumps of the brown muck clogging his derailleur. “It’s not that bad, just those few puddles back there.”
“I turned around a few miles ahead. Jonnie said it was getting worse, impassable for the van. So I’d keep it, if I were you. The road gets narrower, becomes just two ruts, or at least it was a year ago,” I replied.
After the previous day’s downpour, Day 3 of our gravel trek dawned crisp and clear. At 6:40, I pulled the curtain back and saw someone briskly heading down 2nd Ave in the direction of “Downtown”.
“There goes Rick,” I said to Dave. “He must be heading out for breakfast. I’m going to try and follow him. I’ll text you when I get to Klo’s, let you know if the menu’s any good.”
Klo’s Kitchen, in a repurposed storefront at the corner of Hiway 12 and Central Ave, was the only place in town open at 7 AM. Rick had set off hoping to find some real coffee. I caught up to him just as he arrived at the doorway. Inside, a young woman in blue jeans and sweatshirt was pulling up the shades. My watch read 6:55; Rick rapped on the door glass. Surprisingly, she opened the door for us.
Inside, a spacious, airy room morning light streamed onto our table from the east. The wall behind us, light tan paint generously layered over a brick façade, featured the image of a giant chocolate chip cookie, two bites missing between 11 and 2. Above the case of baked goods – cinnamon rolls, cupcakes, scones, more cookies – two shelves of several dozen syrups stood ready to satisfy the palate of any discriminating espresso fanatic. A chalkboard menu promised oatmeal, berries, and orange juice, in addition to standard toast, eggs, bacon, sausage. I took a picture and sent it to Dave. “This is the best breakfast you’re gonna have on this trip” my caption read. Klo seemed to be filling a need in Harlowton, an alternative to the small town meat and potatoes, biscuits and gravy menus elsewhere.
“How long have you been here?” I asked as the young lady brought my food.
“We opened in in April,” she replied, glancing back where a man, looking cross between a hispter and a cowboy, had ambled up to the counter.
“Wow, this is surprising. Not what I expected, in Harlowton.”
She gave a brief, almost shy, smile, and quickly turned to her customer.
[ED. Note: I wondered about this place, discovered this news story from a local Billings station: https://youtu.be/b5vhvzykG3U?si=qmGPy3TQpjLlWkbd]
The night before, we’d discussed myriad options for the ride today. Who would ride with whom, when they might start, when the faster team would turn around, how the vans would manage the potentially treacherous roads. In the end, Robin, Satish, and Jonnie took off about 8:30, while the rest left 45 minutes later, prudently waiting for the sun to warm the air above the 39F which had greeted us after the storm.
The day would be 95% gravel, with short bits of pavement into and out of the two terminal towns, and a 4 mile stretch in the middle. The first 22 miles were gradually up, along a progressively narrower and less traveled ranch road. The final 7 miles skirted a small ponderosa-flecked mesa along a double track which promised to be muddy and potentially unridable in sections.
I told the group of Tom, Sheila, Rick, and Dave that I was turning around at that spot, and they would be on their own for the next seven to ten miles. Michele and I would be at the other end, waiting for them with lunch.
“Good luck!” I said. “Try to stay clean and dry?” I stuffed their warm riding kit into the van’s Day Bag and headed back the way I came. In Harlowton, I turned south on US 191, and sped along at 70mph for 25 minutes. I turned back into the grassy plateau, and headed north up a rise, meeting Jonnie and Robin near the crest. We shared our plans.
“I left them back before the road started to get really bad,” I said. “I told them I’d meet them at the junction of Red Bridge and Tony Creek. Maybe have lunch there.”
“That’s about 22 miles in, right/” Jonnie said, looking back down the hill. “It’s a pretty stiff grind, coming up here. I don’t know what they might want, but if it were me, I’d rather eat after a climb. I don’t like the feel of a full stomach right before I have to work up something like that.”
I looked around. A few hundred yards ahead, at a false summit, a stand of trees offered a scenic view of the rolling grasslands leading west to the Little Belt Mountains.
I looked back at Jonnie. “You’re going out to the road? Then turn around? Hopefully, by the time I get down there, they’ll be coming out, and we can decide on where to eat. Just keep riding back ‘til you meet up with us, OK?”
Down at the junction, Michele waited with the Ram.
“I’m going to drive up a bit, see how the road is, if I can see them,” I told her.
As soon as I left Tony Creek, and started up Red Bridge, the surface turned to dirt, and narrowed to about 12 feet wide. Ahead, a small dip held a puddle of uncertain depth. I scanned for a place to turn around, and finding none, performed a perfect 12-point 180. With a deep internal sign of relief, I made it back to the relative safety of the junction. I got out, and walked back around the bend, to a point where I could see the ponderosa mesa. After about ten minutes, the first rider rolled into view, a lot later than I’d expected. I began to worry the track had deadened their spirits, the mud serving up anguish rather than joy.
[To be cont’d]