I think most animals evaluate new objects by asking two questions: ”Can it eat me?” and immediately afterward “Can I eat it?” I woke up to a deer evaluating my stuff on the second point. Once I moved, I was elevated to a “maybe” on the first point, so it ran away. I packed up, did what I could about the pile I stepped in last night, and claimed a table at the bakery shortly after it opened. As mentioned, I ended up staying there for six hours. I *think* I didn't smell like dog poo.
I got a new chain at the local bike shop (which real cyclists apparently abbreviate as LBS), and then did nothing worth mentioning for the rest of the day. What I definitely did not do was this: stop at a McDonald's to use the WiFi (again); cycle 8 miles in the wrong direction; cycle 8 miles back to Lander; finish watching Avatar: The Last Airbender; listen to some dude describe, without a hint of irony, what types of racists make up each Native American tribe; and then head back to the city park. At least the city park is really nice.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Monday, June 27, 2016
Proper incentive - Day 33: Moran to Lander
I exited the teepee to see that no one had put the horses away from last night. They were happily munching on the lawn and leftover party trash. I decided I should help clean up, so I collected trash, made a lost-and-found pile of valuable-looking things, and delivered dirty dishes to places that seemed sensible. I went back to the chair I had first sat down in, again preparing to eat granola and milk. Instead, the same girl I met yesterday - up surprisingly early, considering the hangover she must have had - put in an order for me in the kitchen, so I ate eggs, sausage, and pancakes while defending them from a local cat.
Maybe a week ago, Jon had picked up a Monster energy drink that fell out of a vending machine. He didn't want it, so he handed it to me and I'd carried it until I could find a good reason to use it. Since I would cross Togwotee Pass today, the second highest point on the Trans-Am route and >2,500 feet above Moran, I dumped half of it into each of my bottles and diluted it with water to make it more tolerable. Properly fueled, I left to attack the pass.
I had hoped that the bear situation at the pass would have cleared up by now, but there were still flashing signs imploring that I should stay in my vehicle. Several cyclists were crossing that pass every day, so I figured bear spray would be a sufficient replacement for a vehicle. Most of the road wasn't immediately bordered by forest, either, so I expected to see a bear before it could get close. Thankfully, all I saw when climbing the pass were several local cyclists and some biting flies that didn't care about my bug spray at all.
After two good meals and a Monster, I made the pass without much problem and embarked on a glorious downhill, now scanning the road ahead for imperfections in the pavement instead of grizzlies. I made it to Dubois without trouble and met three old, retired guys from New York on Harleys who called themselves The Three ROMEOs, which stood for Retired Old Men Eating Out. They told me about 60 mph winds and other stories.
I wasn't sure how far I wanted to go that day, as the only campsites listed on my map were either disappointingly close or unreasonably far. After eating in Dubois and evaluating my progress, I decided on Unreasonably Far, which was Lander, WY. My primary motivation was that Lander allows free camping in the city park. Road conditions and variable winds made things a little tougher than I imagined, but after a couple stops at Crowheart and Fort Washakie in the Shoshone Wind River Reservation, and inspired by the idea of "free", I got a second wind and made Lander about the time it got dark.
I stopped at an ice cream shop that was still open and checked my mileage for the day, which came in at 123 miles in total. This marked my first 100+ mile day, known as a "century" in the cycling community. I celebrated my progress with a German chocolate sundae and opened my map to find the park. Before I could read anything, a woman asked if I needed help finding the park - understandably, everyone stops there. She told me she works at a local bakery and invited me to stop by the next morning, saying that I could set up shop there as long as I wanted. I hope she doesn't regret that decision, because as of this writing I've dominated this table for about 6 hours, blogging, charging stuff, and taking care of miscellaneous online tasks that I've neglected.
Anyway, the Lander city park is quite nice. I kept my light off to avoid waking any other campers, and was rewarded for my consideration by stepping in a pile left by a dog that must have been very large and well-fed. I pledged to take care of that tomorrow, put my shoes far from my bivy bag, and went to sleep.
Oh, right, pictures. Here's the cat that wanted my breakfast:
A self-descriptive sign at Togwotee Pass:
The view from a lookout a little ways down the pass:
The view outside of Dubois, where some Badlands-ish scenery begins (lots of road in the picture, unfortunately):
Maybe a week ago, Jon had picked up a Monster energy drink that fell out of a vending machine. He didn't want it, so he handed it to me and I'd carried it until I could find a good reason to use it. Since I would cross Togwotee Pass today, the second highest point on the Trans-Am route and >2,500 feet above Moran, I dumped half of it into each of my bottles and diluted it with water to make it more tolerable. Properly fueled, I left to attack the pass.
I had hoped that the bear situation at the pass would have cleared up by now, but there were still flashing signs imploring that I should stay in my vehicle. Several cyclists were crossing that pass every day, so I figured bear spray would be a sufficient replacement for a vehicle. Most of the road wasn't immediately bordered by forest, either, so I expected to see a bear before it could get close. Thankfully, all I saw when climbing the pass were several local cyclists and some biting flies that didn't care about my bug spray at all.
After two good meals and a Monster, I made the pass without much problem and embarked on a glorious downhill, now scanning the road ahead for imperfections in the pavement instead of grizzlies. I made it to Dubois without trouble and met three old, retired guys from New York on Harleys who called themselves The Three ROMEOs, which stood for Retired Old Men Eating Out. They told me about 60 mph winds and other stories.
I wasn't sure how far I wanted to go that day, as the only campsites listed on my map were either disappointingly close or unreasonably far. After eating in Dubois and evaluating my progress, I decided on Unreasonably Far, which was Lander, WY. My primary motivation was that Lander allows free camping in the city park. Road conditions and variable winds made things a little tougher than I imagined, but after a couple stops at Crowheart and Fort Washakie in the Shoshone Wind River Reservation, and inspired by the idea of "free", I got a second wind and made Lander about the time it got dark.
I stopped at an ice cream shop that was still open and checked my mileage for the day, which came in at 123 miles in total. This marked my first 100+ mile day, known as a "century" in the cycling community. I celebrated my progress with a German chocolate sundae and opened my map to find the park. Before I could read anything, a woman asked if I needed help finding the park - understandably, everyone stops there. She told me she works at a local bakery and invited me to stop by the next morning, saying that I could set up shop there as long as I wanted. I hope she doesn't regret that decision, because as of this writing I've dominated this table for about 6 hours, blogging, charging stuff, and taking care of miscellaneous online tasks that I've neglected.
Anyway, the Lander city park is quite nice. I kept my light off to avoid waking any other campers, and was rewarded for my consideration by stepping in a pile left by a dog that must have been very large and well-fed. I pledged to take care of that tomorrow, put my shoes far from my bivy bag, and went to sleep.
Oh, right, pictures. Here's the cat that wanted my breakfast:
A self-descriptive sign at Togwotee Pass:
The view from a lookout a little ways down the pass:
The view outside of Dubois, where some Badlands-ish scenery begins (lots of road in the picture, unfortunately):
Wedding crasher - Day 32: Jackson to Moran
I woke up, packed up, and thought about heading out right away to avoid an inevitably awkward goodbye, as the Brits planned to go south to the Grand Canyon while I headed back up north to rejoin the Trans-Am trail. Hamish caught me on the way out, though, so we all went to McDonald’s to work on our hangovers. It was the first time I’d been to a McDonald’s in a very long time, so I was a little worried that I’d lost my tolerance, but salt and grease is very welcome in most any form while on a bike.
As a form of condolences for the Brexit vote, I waived Hamish and Angus's tabs from the night before and headed north alone. I prepared myself to be alone for a while, as this stretch was pretty desolate and everyone I'd already met should be far ahead of me now, along with the bulk of eastbound cyclists for this season.
My preparations were not needed. I stopped at Hatchet Lodge about 1/4 mile from my planned campsite, intending to use their picnic table to eat my dinner of granola with milk, a perishable luxury that I had picked up at the general store that formed the entirety of the town of Moran a couple miles back. I did not make it to the campsite.
There was some kind of party going on inside the lodge, so I found a place far from the festivities and sat down to eat. This turned out to be the employee break area. I chatted with a woman and her grandson, both of whom worked there, and learned that the party was for the marriage of the couple that ran the restaurant. One girl offered to grab me a beer from inside, and I accepted. This was alredy a success.
My tight cycling shorts -- Lance Pants, as the New Yorkers had called them -- began to feel out of place, so I changed into long pants and a collared shirt, which sounds awfully fancy for a tour until I mention the pants were zip-offs with cargo pockets and the shirt was short-sleeved, plaid, and torn.
I situated myself strategically near the main staff thoroughfare between the kitchen and the party, and it wasn't long before a tall man in Western finery -- tall black boots, tailored black jeans, white shirt with a bolo tie, and black ten-gallon hat -- strode out of the kitchen and shook my hand. This was the groom and restaurant proprietor himself, already somewhat drunk. He insisted that I "get a beer, get some food, and come party with us," a phrase that he would repeat many times that night. I went inside. Even the Brits, polite as they were, had learned that you don't turn down free stuff while on the trail.
I had the best meal of my trip so far, stuffing my face with beef brisket, ribs, and mashed potatoes with cheese and garlic. Beer was flowing freely at the bar, so it was easy to get a party prop to hold as if I belonged there. I tried unsuccessfully to talk to some older guests then met the girl who gave me my first beer, along with some of her friends. She had apparently sent the groom out to bring me in, and now that dinner was done, they had the night free.
The DJ played hokey western music to match the hokey western ambiance, and some square dancing happened while one guy, clearly a hotshot, threw some women around in one corner of the dance floor in a very violent rendition of two-step. They seemed to enjoy it. The girl who had engineered my entrance to the party mentioned wanting to learn to lead swing, so I offered to follow and we danced, much to the amusement of a few guys who seemed to be unable to decide whether this was terribly emasculating or some kind of power move. Regardless, nothing we could have done was more awkward than anything else occurring on the dance floor at that point.
As the night went on, young people from nearby resorts got off work and joined the party. The DJ adjusted accordingly, hopping forward in time from Achey Breaky Heart to Uptown Funk and eventually Daft Punk. I demonstrated that blues dancing worked well to club music. An older woman tried to encourage her daughter to dance with me. The daughter wasn't into the idea but didn't know how to refuse, so I offered to dance with the mom, which was clearly preferable to both of them.
Outside, a couple horses had joined the party, mixing easily with the guests and helping themselves to unguarded food. A young woman in a sundress hopped up on one, bareback, competently guiding it around by the base of its mane. Someone's dog was slowly and patiently stalking chislers, the local name for prairie dogs, that kept popping up around the lawn. Another dog obliviously and energetically tromped through the first dog's hunting grounds every now and again, clearly failing to understand that chislers were food, not friends. The newlyweds took photos silhouetted by the setting sun. I wandered between the bar, the dance floor, and the ongoing dog-vs-chisler drama, reasonably drunk and floating as if in a dream.
I danced more with the first girl I met, who had apparently worked out with the groom that it was cool for me to sleep in a thematically-appropriate teepee on the property, which had some bunk beds inside. At this point, she was very drunk. No one seemed to mind that she would just go behind the bar and pour herself, and me, whatever she wanted. She made me a drink that was "like, really strong", but I suspect someone handed her water when she asked for vodka. I returned her to her friends, who had obviously handled this case before, and went off to set myself up in the teepee. A fight was going on uncomfortably close to the entrance, though, so I killed a little time sitting by a fire first, convincing a worker from a nearby dude ranch to try biking across the country next summer.
Here are some final views of the Grand Tetons on the way out of the park, along with photographic evidence of the wedding, though I wasn't thinking much about photos for most of the experience.
As a form of condolences for the Brexit vote, I waived Hamish and Angus's tabs from the night before and headed north alone. I prepared myself to be alone for a while, as this stretch was pretty desolate and everyone I'd already met should be far ahead of me now, along with the bulk of eastbound cyclists for this season.
My preparations were not needed. I stopped at Hatchet Lodge about 1/4 mile from my planned campsite, intending to use their picnic table to eat my dinner of granola with milk, a perishable luxury that I had picked up at the general store that formed the entirety of the town of Moran a couple miles back. I did not make it to the campsite.
There was some kind of party going on inside the lodge, so I found a place far from the festivities and sat down to eat. This turned out to be the employee break area. I chatted with a woman and her grandson, both of whom worked there, and learned that the party was for the marriage of the couple that ran the restaurant. One girl offered to grab me a beer from inside, and I accepted. This was alredy a success.
My tight cycling shorts -- Lance Pants, as the New Yorkers had called them -- began to feel out of place, so I changed into long pants and a collared shirt, which sounds awfully fancy for a tour until I mention the pants were zip-offs with cargo pockets and the shirt was short-sleeved, plaid, and torn.
I situated myself strategically near the main staff thoroughfare between the kitchen and the party, and it wasn't long before a tall man in Western finery -- tall black boots, tailored black jeans, white shirt with a bolo tie, and black ten-gallon hat -- strode out of the kitchen and shook my hand. This was the groom and restaurant proprietor himself, already somewhat drunk. He insisted that I "get a beer, get some food, and come party with us," a phrase that he would repeat many times that night. I went inside. Even the Brits, polite as they were, had learned that you don't turn down free stuff while on the trail.
I had the best meal of my trip so far, stuffing my face with beef brisket, ribs, and mashed potatoes with cheese and garlic. Beer was flowing freely at the bar, so it was easy to get a party prop to hold as if I belonged there. I tried unsuccessfully to talk to some older guests then met the girl who gave me my first beer, along with some of her friends. She had apparently sent the groom out to bring me in, and now that dinner was done, they had the night free.
The DJ played hokey western music to match the hokey western ambiance, and some square dancing happened while one guy, clearly a hotshot, threw some women around in one corner of the dance floor in a very violent rendition of two-step. They seemed to enjoy it. The girl who had engineered my entrance to the party mentioned wanting to learn to lead swing, so I offered to follow and we danced, much to the amusement of a few guys who seemed to be unable to decide whether this was terribly emasculating or some kind of power move. Regardless, nothing we could have done was more awkward than anything else occurring on the dance floor at that point.
As the night went on, young people from nearby resorts got off work and joined the party. The DJ adjusted accordingly, hopping forward in time from Achey Breaky Heart to Uptown Funk and eventually Daft Punk. I demonstrated that blues dancing worked well to club music. An older woman tried to encourage her daughter to dance with me. The daughter wasn't into the idea but didn't know how to refuse, so I offered to dance with the mom, which was clearly preferable to both of them.
Outside, a couple horses had joined the party, mixing easily with the guests and helping themselves to unguarded food. A young woman in a sundress hopped up on one, bareback, competently guiding it around by the base of its mane. Someone's dog was slowly and patiently stalking chislers, the local name for prairie dogs, that kept popping up around the lawn. Another dog obliviously and energetically tromped through the first dog's hunting grounds every now and again, clearly failing to understand that chislers were food, not friends. The newlyweds took photos silhouetted by the setting sun. I wandered between the bar, the dance floor, and the ongoing dog-vs-chisler drama, reasonably drunk and floating as if in a dream.
I danced more with the first girl I met, who had apparently worked out with the groom that it was cool for me to sleep in a thematically-appropriate teepee on the property, which had some bunk beds inside. At this point, she was very drunk. No one seemed to mind that she would just go behind the bar and pour herself, and me, whatever she wanted. She made me a drink that was "like, really strong", but I suspect someone handed her water when she asked for vodka. I returned her to her friends, who had obviously handled this case before, and went off to set myself up in the teepee. A fight was going on uncomfortably close to the entrance, though, so I killed a little time sitting by a fire first, convincing a worker from a nearby dude ranch to try biking across the country next summer.
Here are some final views of the Grand Tetons on the way out of the park, along with photographic evidence of the wedding, though I wasn't thinking much about photos for most of the experience.
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