The actual route
Although we'd spent months debating different route options and plotting them out in Basecamp, we were uncertain throughout the trip whether we could actually complete the route we'd
settled on in the available time of a month. The original plan was to do a massive loop from Ottawa down the MABDR to the TAT, head north up the Continental Divide via the COBDR, and loop back via the Black Hills and Michigan's Upper Peninsula. That amounted to some 13,000km of riding--clearly not feasible given our budget of 4 weeks plus a few grace days at the end. So we chopped it down and decided to ship our bikes from Montreal to Calgary via mytripmybike.com, which added $1200 to our individual budgets but chopped weeks off the itinerary as well as the added costs of maintenance and travel. It was a great solution, and I recommend it to others looking to focus a trip like ours on the "best parts".
In the end, our actual track (above), which went clockwise, closely matched our planned GPS track. However, on the return trip, we decided to bail off the Idaho BDR after a couple of days riding (more about that later). As you can see, we cut back across country to regain our original track back to Canada. Despite a few days of grind on the highway, this proved to be a good decision. More on that later, too!
The bikes
I took my WR250R, Pete was on a CRF250L, and Jeff had a pimped-out DR650 that sounded awesome compared to our little toys. Each bike had its merits and weaknesses--as we were to discover. For my part, I'd say the WRR was about 80% of what I wanted for the trip. For both Pete and me, the limitation was power and top-end for highway riding in mountainous terrain. I could barely sustain 95km/hr, and high elevation (we rode up to 13,000', where there's about 30% less air) sapped a third of the already limited power on tap. With 55lbs of gear and fuel, the little 250's were most comfortable at around the 50-80km/r zone on most of the terrain.
However, our 250's were light and perfectly at home on the roughest sections--where bigger bikes would be a liability.
Bottom line is there's no one perfect bike. For this route, I wouldn't take anything bigger than a 700; it would be too heavy and hard to maneuver on the rough sections, especially if it got muddy.
Shipping the bikes to Calgary
We loaded our three bikes with all our travel gear except for our Kriega backpacks (saved as carry-on for the flight), then drove the bikes to Montreal in a U-Haul.
The crew at mytripmybike helped strap the bikes securely onto special pallets that could be forklifted into a tractor-trailer. A week later, our bikes arrived safely in Calgary. As we stepped out of the airport, the sight of a bro-dozer confirmed we had indeed arrived in the west.
Our bikes awaited at a warehouse conveniently located just a 5-minute Uber ride from the airport.
After unloading, faffing with bags, and changing into our riding gear, we were off to a Cabelos also located conveniently nearby, where we bought bear-spray as a necessary precaution for the extensive bear country we would be traveling through. Then we headed south to Kananaskis Country under perfect skies, the mountains forming a spectacular backdrop as we left the prairie.
Whose bike would fail first?
Turns out it would be mine. Everything was going swimmingly well, until my bike started to randomly die when I started it or gave it gas. This was an unfamiliar and unexpected failure--an inauspicious start to day 1 of our trip. After checking the side stand switch and shop manual which I had saved as a PDF on my phone, we decided to try resetting the ECU, which required removing the fuel pump as part of the procedure. You've got to be kidding! Everything had to come off the bike, then strip the seat, side panels, tank, etc. All while roasting in the sun and wishing we could ride on, not knowing if this would be a serious problem.
Resetting the ECU seemed to fix the problem (whatever it was), and I didn't have any further issues for the remainder of the trip. The only thing I can think it might've been was some sort of fuel mapping reaction to the elevation. The problem had started as we climbed into Kananaskis Country, which was around 2000m and relatively high since the last time I'd ridden the bike for any length of time--which was at home, and more or less at sea level.
After getting the bike back together, it was getting late in the day so we decided to find a spot to camp. A gorgeous meadow next to an icy clear stream offered a chance to rinse the dust and sweat off our clothes and bodies.
This was the first test of all my camp gear. As it's been years since I've camped with any regularity, I was unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground, and I struggled to get into deep sleep. Plus, we were all somewhat nervous about having a bear encounter despite keeping a clean camp and slinging all our food and other tempting items far up in a tree. Happily, my one-person tent (MSR Hubba NX) and bag proved accommodating and cozy. I was initially a little jealous of Pete and Jeff's two-person tents, but I found the Hubba to be plenty practical, and all my other gear got tarped under my bike each night, which kept everything dry from the dew.
The inflatable pillow I'd brought proved too low, so I ended up not using it. A much better solution was my usual one of rolling all my clothes into a hard stuff-sack, which raised my head comfortably in relation to my shoulder when lying on my side.
The next day, we aimed for the US border under perfect skies again, ripping along gravel forest service roads and leaving billowing clouds of dust behind. A quick stop for breakfast and welcome coffee in Coleman.
The origins of "gpsKevin" as a swear-word
Our planned route had us taking a forest road south before Fernie. We had intended to spend our first night stealth camping on this road, until yesterday's delay with my bike had us stop earlier. Now, as we followed the forest road, we discovered it wasn't passable. The road paralleled a pipeline and eventually petered out into a dual-track where it was also torn up for work on the pipe. Although that section was rideable, we soon hit "the wall": a near 30-degree hill that there was no way we could ride on our loaded bikes. Closer inspection of our GPSes suggested a route around, but it required a stream crossing over microwave oven-sized boulders that none of us felt comfortable attempting.
This was our first of many issues we would discover with the gpsKevin route we were following. Although a worker on the pipeline later told us that the Continental Divide bicycle route indeed followed the stream crossing in years past, it probably hadn't been used this season and was likely in terrible shape. We couldn't imagine a large ADV bike taking this route--it was technical trail riding. And if it had been raining, it would've been hard-enduro level.
Rerouting through Fernie led to a great lunch at a bagel shop on the main street.
A flowy gravel road took us out of town. Along the way we saw many cyclists riding the Continental Divide route. Clearly, they were avoiding the dead-end route we'd recently bailed on too.
As 2018 was the 20th anniversary of the Continental Divide bicycle route, it was heavily travelled by cyclists and we were continually amazed at how many of them we saw over the next few weeks--far more than motorcyclists. In fact, we didn't see any other motorcyclists on the route proper--just a few ADV riders when passing through towns. And certainly no other riders on 250's!
Our route took us through historic mining country, with evidence of mines and mining communities (some now ghost towns) everywhere. Great place to geek out on mining!
Here's the kind of stuff they were digging out: hard coal (and other rock).
Getting across the US border was not too much of a problem, although Pete (who's a British citizen), had to get fingerprinted and ensure a proper grilling, and I got an earful from the gruff border guard who told me my LED conspicuity lights were not legal and needed to be removed. They only run at 5% unless I turn on my high beams, and yes, because of their colour they may seem bright when viewed in the dark shadow of the border building. But they aren't too bright. Anyway, nothing a little duct tape over the lenses couldn't fix, and we were off.
This is just after passing the border. If you look closely, you can see a line of clearcut through the trees on the mountain in the background: that's the Canada-US border.
Before long, we were well on our way into Montana, where the terrain had again changed subtly from the forests near Fernie, becoming more arid and scrubby with shorter pines and loamy soil.
It was also noticeably hotter and drier, and for the first time I switched into my Klim Mojave mesh pants, bundling my Klim Carlsbad suit into my bags. While each suit had its benefits, I soon found that the separate elbow pads I'd chosen were a nuisance to use and frequently slid down. Also, using a backpack quickly became fatiguing and got in the way of quick clothing changes and ventilation. More on that later.
Awsome! Looking forward to part 2
ReplyDeleteMaybe a tad more detail and anecdotal story line?
ReplyDelete