Flying - Day 21, Jackson to Twin Bridges

I have a lot to write about today.

Yesterday, I initially decided against Jackson after discovering that the resort there charges $30 for a campsite, but I went for it after a tip that there was a new, cheaper place across the street. On arrival, I called the number that said "for hotel assistance" and waited for Bob to show up. He told me it was $20 to camp, and that he couldn't take less because it wasn't his business. I didn't have much of a choice. He took my money and left, at which point I realized I could have just walked in, let myself into a room, and went to sleep without anyone ever knowing.

With Bob gone, the place was pretty empty. There was a Spanish couple asleep upstairs, but that was it. The main street was dead, Marty Robbins and other country singers were crooning from an old radio, and there were horse-related implements everywhere. It was cold, so I sat inside and soaked up the heat and ambiance, reminiscent of the Fallout game series. I sat behind the front desk for a while, but I didn't get to check in any guests. The log book showed that maybe 2-4 people checked in per week.

In the morning, I discovered that there is life in Jackson. I sat down to breakfast outside on the main (only) street, said hi to a few locals, and met another Trans-Am racer. He was clearly frustrated that there was nowhere to eat in this town, so I gave him some granola bars to get him 48 miles to real food. He hung around until another racer showed up, who became my new hero. She was hit by a car early in the race, was in the hospital for two days, got back on her bike despite a fractured shoulder, and is now back with the rear of the pack. Also, she's vegan, which makes eating extremely difficult out here. Apparently she sometimes has to rely on nothing but peanut butter. I gave her more granola bars. I have a lot of granola bars.

When she left, I was joined by Alvaro, Alicia, and Lucas. Alvaro and Alicia are the Spanish couple that was staying upstairs. They've biked all over the place, and are currently going from Salt Lake City to somewhere in Canada. Lucas is their 3-year-old, riding in a bike trailer. Apparently he does pretty well back there, watching Finding Nemo and taking in the sights. A swede named Pelle (Pele?) also arrived from Wisdom and ate with us. We talked about politics, including the corrupt leadership and 25% unemployment rate in Spain, neo-Nazi parliament members in Sweden, and of course, Trump and our own presidential election shitshow. None of us understood how these people manage to stick around.

The weather was looking bad, with rain and extreme winds. An old Danish couple rode past while I was packing up, and I caught up with them as they were deciding to head back to town and wait instead of riding 48 miles into hail and a headwind. I put on my jacket and went anyway. After a couple miles, I reached the leading edge of the storm and the wind came around and became an amazing tailwind. I sailed more than biked, completing two 1,000ish ft ascents and 48 miles in something like 2 hours or less, though I hadn't checked my exact departure or arrival times. The wind was whipping past even while descending faster than I could pedal, and I think I held 30+ mph for what felt like an hour as fitful gusts of wind threatened to knock me off my bike. I have never had a greater adrenaline rush in my life.

I made it to Dillon, a little shaky from marinating my brain in adrenaline for the last two hours, and was pointed toward a coffee shop that kept a biker log. I wrote snarky comments about the Trans-Am racer who checked in before me, then wandered around town while waiting to see if the wind would either die down or become a tailwind for the next leg to Twin Bridges. The wind died, I left, and the wind came back as a massive, freezing headwind. The 28 miles to Twin Bridges took longer than the 48 miles to Dillon.

I finally made it to Twin Bridges and their legendary free bike camp, where I met another cyclist heading my direction named Christian. He asked if I knew another guy named John, and I said no. Then New York Jon walked out of the building - I assumed they were gone forever, but apparently he'd taken a zero day due to the storm. Ethan had gone ahead with some of the other guys, which I'm calling the "old guard" now.

Jon described the camp as paradise, and he wasn't far off. It's indoors, it's free, and it has couches, showers, restrooms, electricity, cider, wine, whiskey, rum, gin, weed, and some kind of lime green abomination known as "winearita". The vices were mostly courtesy of some older guys who stopped by from I-don't-know-where. Kevin, possibly Hunter S. Thompson in disguise, was ex-military intelligence and slept for 18 hours a day thanks to Valium. John loved country music and brought a nice Bose wireless speaker to share some songs about Montana, including one about a cafe in Darby that we just rode through. Randy was an older guy who "smokes too much whiskey and drinks too much weed", and he brought his guitar over. All in all it was a real party.

I've already written too much, so I'll end by saying that I climbed into the rafters to sleep. Someone had thrown a board up there and I like climbing things. Don't judge me.

Here's the storm I was riding toward. I can't capture how windy it was. This is one part of the Danish couple, deciding to turn around:


An alley in Dillon:


Sunset from the Twin Bridges camp: