Continental Divide ride 2018 - Part 3

Part 1
Part 2

We couldn't have asked for better riding conditions: crystal blue skies, cool temps, and deserted logging roads carving a roller-coaster, swooping ride through Douglas Fir forest. Hardly a bug to be seen on our visors, although the dust remained a challenge and forced us to balance separation between bikes to avoid the worst clouds, and riding within the frustratingly limited range of our Sena 10-series headsets.

As a footnote on the Senas, they are probably fine for road riding, but their analog sound quality and inconsistent wind noise (despite endless fidgeting with helmet adjustments and mic locations quickly proved tiresome and sparked many debates about who was guilty of causing the worst noise. Their lack of communication range in our dual-sport application was a serious liability--especially when we needed to spread out on on winding mountain trails. We all agreed to seek an upgrade after the trip.)

After spirited riding to start the day, minutes later we were flummoxed by yet another gpsKevin route anomaly in what was to become a common theme. Although we'd agreed to at least try the recommended main route to gauge its rhythm before considering alternatives, by now we should've known better. Optimistically, we thought it would be worth checking out a short advanced section that roughly paralleled the main route, on what appeared to be fire roads vs. the paved main road. However, it didn't take long for the gravel to unexpectedly end in what appeared to be either an overgrown landslide, or where road construction had simply ended.

So much for keeping momentum! The way forward was again the stuff of hard-enduro riding, although this picture doesn't do it justice. To our right was a steep drop-off, and just ahead the track narrowed to about 6" wide and would easily catch your uphill peg on rocks and brush. 

   

The track continued this way around the contour of a hill, getting steeper on the drop-off, until it entered a forest about 100 metres on. Some recon on foot found that numerous large trees had fallen across the sideslope, rendering it impassible. We also noticed some wide tire tracks just where the trail started to narrow. Looked like a rider on a big bike got in over his or her head, and decided to nope right out of there, and somehow paddled their bike backwards down the track to the end of the road.

A little frustrated, we followed suit and agreed that from now on, we wouldn't even consider tackling the gpsKevin alternate routes, and would instead try to make something of the main route--which was already proving challenging to follow for simple navigational reasons. Otherwise we'd run the risk of losing too much time on pointless riding, which could easily become a liability if weather conditions changed or something else went wrong--as we would discover later.

As a consolation prize, the main route offered some spectacular paved secondary roads through massive Douglas Firs, allowing us to make up time without dust for a change.

Those trees are much bigger and older than they first seem. As a tree-hugger myself, I couldn't help but imagine what history had passed by these towering pines over the last centuries. It may be hard to see in the following picture, but the Douglas fir from which this slice was cut in 2001 was a certified "witness tree", dating back to 1483. And it was far smaller in diameter than many of the bigger trees we'd seen beside the road.  

Hours of dirt made us all a little cranky, and in these situations I've found that food is always a good idea even if you don't feel hungry. So we welcomed a stop for breakfast in the hamlet of Ovando in the Blackfoot River Valley. The Stray Bullet Cafe was an excellent (and only) choice for grub. We rustled up plates of eggs and pancakes, washed down with root beer. A little pancreas abuse from time to time doesn't hurt--and it turns out we did need the calories after all.   

There wasn't much else to see in the wide square opposite the cafe--just some classic old wood frame buildings that could've been right out of a movie set, including the former town jail, or "hoosegow". That western vernacular word originated in 1908, coming from the English pronunciation of the Mexican Spanish word for jail, "juzgao" or "juzgado". 

This stop represented the quintessential Old West: Slow vehicles, slow talkers, wide open sky, dust, swathes of grassy rolling hills dotted with cattle and topped by firs, sun-bleached old buildings. We hardly saw another motorbike: just the occasional long-distance cyclist riding the same route of the Divide. 

Soon the route began to climb, once again reaching towards the Divide with more wilderness vistas. We wound our way up and over countless minor passes, through desolate ranch lands with log homes tucked down by sparkling, crystal-clear rivers. Hardly a vehicle in sight--sometimes just the occasional tell-tale dust plume of a truck bombing along a country road in the distance was the only sign of activity.

Our infrequent encounters with other folks belied a more industrial and populous history of the region. In the late 1800s, this area was punctuated with countless mining operations and the small communities that sprung up around them, many underwritten by the massive (and appropriately named) Anaconda Company that extracted all manner of riches from the geography, at seemingly any cost. Just when you thought you were in the middle of nowhere on some rutted dual-track, ruins would appear. In this case, we rolled through the once-bustling site of the Empire Mine.

Those foundations on the hillside were once home to a crushing mill, with mining carts bringing in gold, silver, copper and tin-bearing ores from shafts in the distance.

  

Nothing now but tailings, a few ore samples, and some rusted old equipment.

While enjoying a break at the mine, Pete's CRF unexpectedly tipped over all by itself. We laughed and didn't think much of it. Later, after we headed out and worked our way up a rutted, steep trail, Jeff and I noticed Pete was no longer behind us. We eventually went back and found he'd somehow picked up an old bit of wire through his tread, flatting out. He must've lost air when parked at the mine, causing his bike to unbalance and fall, but the terrain was rough enough that he didn't notice his tire was flat.

As it was by now late in the day, we were all parched, patinated with sweat and dust, and the prospect of fixing a flat was the last thing any of us wanted to deal with. Moreover, there was still some distance to go to reach Helena. It was a classic scenario of what can go wrong at an inconvenient time. Fortunately, with some teamwork we were able to change the flat in about 20 minutes--and this would be our only flat for the entire trip! Nevertheless, it was clear that after 10 hours of riding, we were all pretty tired, but since our water was low, camping may be necessary. A strong indicator of our limited time was Pete's general silence over the helmet comms (more than usual, even for a Brit!). Plus, the route was getting steeper and rockier, and Jeff's frustration with the more challenging aspects were becoming apparent, although stopping for a selfie with some cows helped mellow the mood.

Fortunately, Helena turned out to be not much further and entailed a brilliant section of smooth, downhill riding through spectacular open vistas. Just before reaching Helena, we paused briefly to evaluate an advised road closure, but we pushed through anyway: it turned out to be nothing more than some deep ruts from recent rains, and was no problem for our knobbies.

Arriving in Helena so late, we beelined for a tired (but friendly) motel in the downtown, where hot showers and air conditioning proved essential remedies for the appalling combo of fermented grundle-funk and road grime we'd accumulated. Jeff was so disgusted by our collective filth that he got his own room. Pete and I learned important limits in our selection of clothing (in his case, the heavy eaux-de-sheep fog of wet Icebreaker wool underwear; in my case the unwise limitations of rotating only two pairs of UnderArmor shorts). We opted for giving our clothes a thorough flogging in the motel's laundry, sharing a stuffy utility room with old drapes steeped in decades of cigarette smoke and disappointment.

 
Helena (pronounced hell'-en-a) is is an architectural and historical gem, well worth a visit. The town struck it rich on massive placer gold deposits, including one discovered only a few decades ago under a bank in the historic downtown. We'd arrived during a street festival of sorts, but food and beer were our priorities as evening approached.

The downtown was chock-full of beautiful old buildings with wonderful architectural details from the heyday of mining wealth.

The cathedral is a iconic landmark and highly representative of the wealth and hard work in the town's history.

A few days earlier, Jeff's Kriega backpack had spontaneously torn out a shoulder strap as he was putting it on. Since all three of us had bought identical packs just before our trip, and since the cause of the failure seem innocuous, it was a disconcerting failure of expensive and necessary gear. There were no Kriega dealers in the area, and Kriega support proved unhelpful, so we looked for local repair options. (I would normally prefer to repair rather than replace gear, but in this case the problem looked like a basic design flaw and we were concerned that a repair would only be temporary.) Miraculously, we found a sewing shop just blocks from our motel in a nondescript building with an unremarkable entrance. It was like stepping back in time.

Considering we didn't see another soul in the area (never mind the building), the waiting area in the basement seemed out of place and entirely optimistic given the lack of business down there.

But, sure enough, down the hall and buried behind mounds of sewing and old clothes was this windowless lair inhabited by a sole elderly woman who regarded us with clear suspicion.

Some haggling, a $5 bill, and an hour later, and Jeff's pack was fixed by a few bar-tacks. Meanwhile, we'd found a superb breakfast at the Fire Tower Coffee House, which that morning was being run masterfully by Dave. He had the remarkable ability to take orders, pull espresso shots, grill eggs and bacon, and serve and clear tables--working all by himself. Well worth a stop for food and to enjoy the extensive collection of Beatles and other music memorabilia up on the walls. Also, the free WiFi gave us a chance to catch up on messages, although our attention to our phones probably seemed antisocial in such a friendly place.

Leaving Helena proved to be a minor challenge: we had to detour around roadwork on the gpsKevin route, and find our way through a different canyon to reconnect with our intended route. The route snaked up into the hills as a series of gravel roads that eventually deteriorated into rough forest roads and several missed turns. Jeff's and Pete's OSMand GPS solution again came in handy for navigation: trying to plot a new route on my Garmin was tedious and ultimately fruitless in these scenarios.

While the riding was excellent, something didn't feel right with my bike. Perhaps spooked a bit by Pete's puncture yesterday, I pulled over a few times convinced that my own rear tire had gone flat. It had developed what seemed like the tell-tale vibration of a stiff knobby with low air. But each time I checked, it seemed to be holding air just fine. I eventually discovered that releasing some air helped, chalking up the problem to a combination of consistently higher speeds, higher elevations, and higher temperature, which together naturally increased the tire air pressure versus at lower elevations, leading to less compliance of the knobbies and therefore more vibration. This was another good lesson for all of us to rely on actual air pressure measurements, not just compressing the tire with a boot make sure it was full. Tire air pressures crept up and down with our elevation changes, so we learned what to watch for. With the correct air pressure, problem solved! We were all relieved, because even little problems like this can build up and wear down a group, killing momentum when you want (and need) to make up time.

At least we had engines. Just before one crest, after a long, hot climb on a rough surface, we passed a couple of sweaty, sun-beaten cyclists following the same Continental Divide route who looked like they'd already spent a few hours getting to this point. Unfortunately for all of us, just a few hundred metres on we discovered the road was completely closed due to treefall and other damage.

Clearly there'd been some major weather activity in the last few weeks, confirmed by stories from others we'd met that long sections of the route had been impassible mud not long ago. Equally clear was that we shouldn't enter the closed area in the face of active clean-up work, or we'd likely face significant fines from the workers who passed us.

It had been many kilometers since we passed an alternate route option, which really sucked for the cyclists coming up behind us: they'd completely wasted their morning and would have to descend all the way back down thousands of feet of elevation to find an alternate route at least another 50km out of their way. Not fun when you're low on water and there's no shade. But there didn't seem to be any alternative besides taking the "expert" gpsKevin route which, judging by the terrain we could see from our present location, was likely another Hard Enduro epic beyond our bikes and skills. The map at the closure wasn't much help either, and both we and the cyclist swore at whoever thought to close the road at the top of the mountain rather than at the last intersection with an alternate route.

All this backtracking was sucking hours out of our day, which normally wouldn't be an issue but we hadn't even hit the hard stuff on our journey. We needed to establish a rhythm for traveling and interacting with each other as co-adventurers, to avoid frustration. Having been on numerous group trips in the past, I'd expected to reach this dynamic at some point early on in our adventure, once the initial excitement wore off and the stark prospect of thousands of kilometers of overland travel on hot, dusty roads started to settle in. Fortunately it happened now, while the weather was perfect. This was actually a really fun stage of commitment for me, because it reminded me of when I competed in long-course duathlons, and having to dig deep within myself to overcome doubts and discomfort, and find the determination to cross the finish line. Basically, the problems are all of your own making and in your head: Accept the situation for what it is--a series of trivial setbacks--and look for ways to enjoy them as simply part of the adventure.

Eventually the rough mountain roads gave way to paved highways through stunning canyons with glittering rivers at their base, providing a welcome change from the dirt. Some diversions along  abandoned rail beds built originally to support the mining boom in the 1800s were equally fun. At the time, these railways would've been the only passable routes through the area, and we had them all to ourselves, ripping along standing on the pegs. Along the way were many signs of old mines, including dark timber-framed adits into the cliff beside the trail, piles of old square timber, twisted old iron machinery, and other detritus of lost communities. Would've been nice to stop and check some of them out, but we were going too fast and we were determined to reach the historic town of Butte, Montana, where we had planned oil changes and maintenance.

Dirt yielded to Interstate, where a long descent revealed a panoramic view of Butte and ample signs of its continuing history as one of the most remarkable mining sites in the world.

That hill in the distance hides thousands of miles of underground mining tunnels as much as a mile deep. Whole communities used to exist on the mountain, swept away by excavation to become what is now one of North America's most contaminated sites.

"Our Lady of the Rockies", a statue based on the Blessed Virgin Mary, watches over the town.

Being a mining junkie, visiting Butte was a highly anticipated destination for me. The town has an incredible history stemming from the vast riches dug out of the local mountainside known as "The Richest Hill in the World". Today it remains a hardscrabble community frozen in time, home to incongruities like a vibrant music festival and neo-Nazis, as well as a proliferation of more side-by-sides and Harleys in daily traffic than we'd seen anywhere else.

In the next post, I'll cover some of Butte's history, but the short version is if you are at all interested in mining, you have to put Butte on your bucket list. What we didn't know is that we'd end up going to Butte three times... it proved hard for us to get away despite our best efforts!

Part 4