“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.
“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 on two wheels instead of four.
That evening, we drive a couple of miles from our motel to the Grand Hotel, which offers “Fine Dining in our restored 1890s Saloon.” We’re greeted by a harried server, who looks panicked when I tell her we need a table for nine.
“Uh, I’ll have to go check. Wait here,” she says
I look around. Several high-top tables in the bar are filled with customers, while a large nearly vacant room looms beyond. A few minutes later, a smiling willowy lady in a white blouse, long linen skirt and cowboy hat and boots guides us to a large empty space at the back, where a long table has been set up for us.
After a ten-minute wait, the skittish server, who seems to be the only one working this evening, returns and tries to make sense of our request for several split tickets. After learning that we have two groups of two, one group of three, and two singles, flips the pages of her order pad and says, “Oh, that’s too many…I’ll just take y’all’s orders separately and sort it out at the end, OK?”
Jonnie opens the bidding by asking for dessert first. “I’m worried I’ll fill up on the food and won’t get to enjoy it. Besides, I’m nearly fainting now, and need the sugar boost.”
Most of the squad orders one of the myriad versions of burger on the menu – Rodeo, Buffalo, Coffee-rubbed, and Bacon Blue (my choice). A 16-oz ribeye and a 12-oz New York steak are also requested.
During the half hour wait for our meal, we hear an announcement from the bar, 50 feet away: “Welcome to Karaoke Night here at the Grand, everybody! I hope you’re all ready for some FUN!” Strains of an upbeat country tune drift back to us, along with a surprisingly on-key version of a Patsy Cline standard. That’s followed by a hushed, warbled attempt at something by Hank Williams. Quiet for a few minutes, and then the first singer takes back the mike, and says, “No one else? OK, here’s a few more then.”
For the next 45 minutes, we are treated to the surprisingly professional soundings from a pint-sized chanteuse. She not only hits all the notes but throws in the trills and nuances you’d expect from someone who sings for a living. “
Periodically during dinner, she steps up for another song. By the time we begin trying to make sense of the shorthand on the checks we’ve been handed, she has found her way back to us, still cheery-eyed and bursting with enthusiasm.
“OK, I’m sure ONE of you must be a singer here. Just name the song, I’m sure we’ve got it in the machine up there. Come on, who’s gonna try?”
Our tired party tries to placate her, but it’s clear she is not going to take “No” for an answer. I’m worried someone, after a couple of beers, is going to take the bait, and we’ll be there for another hour, losing valuable sleep needed for tomorrow’s ride. When she turns and implores me, “Who’s the best singer here, let’s find out!” I try a little deflection.
“You are really good. You must have been singing since you were a kid? You know what you’re doing, that’s for sure.”
She bubbles back, “Oh, I started singing in church, and just kept it up. It makes me feel so good.”
“Well, you are quite accomplished, that’s for sure. You really know how to sing, I mean really sing.”
Others chime in, and we are able to slowly ease our way to the front door while paying our bills. With and promises to return the next time we are in town, we land on the street at 9 PM.
“Well, that place was sure something,” Dave observes.
The $20 hamburgers, $50 steaks, and a free concert definitely made our two hours at the Grand Hotel Fine Dining Room in Big Timber memorable.
