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.
“How was it?” I asked.
Beaming, Dave chortled, “That was so much fun!” His legs were slathered with caked mud, the logo on his shirt obscured by drying dirt. “But I gotta get this stuff off the rear derailleur before it gets too hard. It stiffens up just like concrete.”
Rick came through next. “You should have seen him – flat on his back rolling around like a turtle!”
“I tried to avoid the puddles, up on the high point in the middle. But that was even slipperier. So I’m lying on my back, and Sheila comes along to get a picture. Tells me to stay there, she didn’t get it the first time.”
Sheila appeared, saying, “You should have seen it! He was almost swimming!”
Tom pulled up last. “Well, you were right, Al.” He brandished the tongue depressor, bent and brown from use. “Glad I had this. That stuff dried as soon as it hit the bike. Never could have kept going without it.”
I grabbed a water bottle and turned back to Dave. “Here, let’s spray that stuff off.” A little bit of squirting and his gears could shift again.
Once everybody calmed down a bit, I said, “I thought we’d eat here.” I pointed ahead, towards the hill rising several hundred feet and a couple of miles in front of us. “But maybe you want to bike up there first?”
They all agreed, and I drove to the top. I raised the camper van top and started lunch preparations. From the refrigerator, I pulled out a giant tub of peanut butter, the 3-pound vast of cream cheese, a pack of 6 “everything” bagels, chutney, marmalade, and strawberry jelly. I started slicing the bagels, excavated the water and Gatorade from the cavern below the rear seat, pulled out paper towels and utensils.
As I finished, Robin, Jonnie and Satish appeared from one side, Rick, Tom, Dave, and Sheila from the other. Perfect timing! They crammed around the van door, grabbing bagel slices and slathering on their preferred topping.
“Got any more of that smoked salmon?” someone asked.
Spirits were high. We had reached the mid-point of our trip, and everything was falling into place. The previous two days of mingling with residents in small towns, the torrential rain, and now a challenging ride through the resulting muddy track had created a group consensus about our trek. Robin was getting all the gravel miles he needed for his upcoming 350-mile ultra-ride. Satish reveled in the quirkiness of the US outback. Michele and Jonnie had discovered yet another place to share their love of bike adventures. Rick did not regret his decision to give off-road biking a try. Dave, muddy though he was, had one more reason to look forward to his future as a Montana resident.
While Satish gazed west towards the Little Belt range, the harbinger of the Rockies over the horizon, Tom and Sheila pulled me aside.
“Can we load up our bikes? That took it out of me, I think,” Sheila said. “That wind will be in our face for the next five miles, right?
“Sure.” I didn’t try to talk them out hopping on my SAG wagon. We drove a few miles down to a lone farmhouse and turned right into the wind. By the time we hit the pavement, I could sense them becoming itchy to get back on their bikes. I dropped them off after we turned left onto the gravel, with the wind now at our backs.I drove to the start of the pavement, a few miles out of Big Timber, our stop for the night. I gazed up at a sky which stretched forever, the low horizon showcasing the snow-flecked Absarokas to the south, dusty plains to the east, and looming clouds, remnants of yesterday’s storm, to the north. I breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction as I took my Lauf off the rack and started back uphill.
[To Be Concluded]
