Wow, a wolf! I came to a halt so as not to frighten him but he was already scampering down the trail away from me. It is extremely difficult to come upon a wolf; their sharp senses allow them to see you but you rarely ever see them. In this particular case he was distracted as he was creeping up on prey before I rudely interrupted him. In addition, he would not have been expecting me as I was on a trail that was closed to the public (obviously rules are for other people). This meant the single-track around Richmond Peak was fast becoming thick with wild-life and bush as nature relaxed in the absence of humans.
The Montanan weather was proving to be very Irish with scattered showers and sunny spells. For someone spending all day and night in the elements it was proving more difficult to handle than the actual biking. The weather, while being typical of the mountains, was considered "unusual" for the time of year. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that on my round-the-world trip etc. While I don't mind the rain at all, I do mind the challenge of trying to stay dry as drying clothes and a tent out in the wet weather is simply impossible. It was as much about the mountain dew as the rain. However, as long as temperatures didn't drop any further my good mood somehow remained impermeable. This is likely due to the promise of better and warmer weather further south. Thus, I decided to bike hard to Wyoming where the sun would hopefully shine as the route there is away from the peaks.
With an escape plan hatched I pressed on to the tiny town of Ovando as opposed to resting up in Seeley Lake. Ovando has a population of about seventy people although you wouldn't know it on arrival. There was no life at all but for Skip who showed me where I could camp for the night; either the museum lawn or the exhibit to the Lewis and Clark expedition. Lewis and Clark were the national scouts who mapped out North America for the white government. It is difficult for a European to conceive of the frontier that existed here. At one point no-one (except the native Indians) knew what lay out west. The frontier in Europe only ever really existed at sea along with the fear of sailing off the edge of the earth.
Naturally in such a small town I became Skip's friend for the evening. Skip, who had placed duct-tape over the rip in his puff-jacket (fashion crimes don't exist in small towns), came across as the kind of guy who has watched too many seasons turn while sitting on his front porch. Either that or he is a little too, what Americans call, 4:20 friendly. His slow drawl perfectly matched the local pace of life. While I was happy to chat and was thankful of Skip's help I wanted to be left alone. It is a little annoying to have company when you are trying to pitch your tent and cook dinner, kind of like when somebody is at your desk chatting to you when you have lots of work to do. What is the protocol, is a starving cyclist supposed to share his gruel? His dog finally caught my drift by panting for his dinner when he saw me eat mine and so I was finally left in peace for the rest of the evening. The best part about Ovando was that I woke up to a great cafe on the door-step of my tent. Such convenience made my day and it had barely even started. Cafes and bars along the route turn into incredible sanctuaries. Not only do they let you off the hook in terms of carting more food, cooking and washing-up but they get you out of the elements. Living out in the open one quickly learns to appreciate Man's instinct to put a (nice) roof over his head. Of course, they provide a great opportunity to chat to the locals as having a UFO propped up against the railing of a cafe will inevitably draw curious conversation. Such places are great for learning more about the area and the road ahead. The pancakes weren't the only treat; when you are chuffed to have wi-fi over breakfast you realise that you may have wandered a little too far from civilisation.
Inevitably there was another climb on the road to the town of Lincoln but I was looking forward to it as it was called Huckleberry Pass. Huckleberries are amazingly sweet and when your tooth is as sweet as mine the promise of a natural mid-afternoon sugar rush was good for morale. You can imagine how disappointing it was to discover that the locals, as opposed to the bears, had picked the whole mountain clean. Humph! At least the climb was straightforward.
More soon
Holland Lake is now behind me
where is this going?
crikey!
Lewis, Clark & Gill exhibit
Ovando
clouds rumble as I make my way to Huckleberry Pass in the distance