 THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE: 15 July – 27 July 2000
Overview:
Join the author in his journey along the Rocky Mountains to the Canadian border and a ride home through the scorching heat of the Great Plains. This trip addresses the yin and yang of riding with others versus solo travel. The author discusses his experiences riding through rain and hail in Colorado and camping in Yellowstone. Share the perfect beauty of an afternoon in Glacier and the long ride across Montana. America is shown through the stone faces of Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse and, in real faces at Medora and Belfield, ND. The author visits Sturgis in the week before the feast, and Little Bighorn and Wounded Knee more than a century after the battles. It is a ride where the past and present merge on distant highways.
Excerpt from The Continental Divide:
July 21, 2000: I was too tired to even turn down the bed last night, and this morning I awoke rested and refreshed. I've had my best night's sleep of the trip. Upon stepping outside I notice a tent set up in the front yard of the house across the street and I'm taken back to my childhood when my friends and I "camped out" in such a way. I'd bet that this is a good place to raise a family. Breakfast consists of coffee, juice, omelets, turnovers and fresh fruit (including raspberries, yay!). Well rested and well fed, I'm ready for the road, but the others are not. Today I'm in a hurry to get started.
Flathead Lake is the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi and our route follows its western shore. Even on this warm summer morning, the water looks cold. The parts that aren't reflecting the sunlight have a steely blue tint to them. As pretty as the lake is we spend very little time there, our collective mind wants to get to Glacier. Our original plan was to head across southern Montana from Yellowstone until people in Houston questioned the sanity of riding this far and skipping Glacier. Well, today's the day.
Kalispell is a postcard type town with nice tree-lined streets, and on another day we'd stop — but today we ride on through.
West Glacier is teeming with tourists, yet it doesn't seem as crowded and hectic as Estes Park or Yellowstone — perhaps it's because it's not raining and I don't have to camp out. Perhaps it's the T Rex skeleton in the Alberta Welcome Center (the park extends into Canada) — dinosaur bones are good omens. I think we are at the furthest point from home on the trip — the apogee!
There are National Parks and then there's Glacier. Perhaps it's the weather (a perfect 75, warm in the sun and cool in the shade), but today is probably as good as it gets for two-wheeled touring. The main route through the park is called "Going to the Sun Road." It is an excellent name for a wonderful road that takes us past white water rapids, serene lakes of aquamarine glacial water, snow-capped mountains and deep, green valleys. Our progress is slow. After stopping and staring for a while at a scene of incredible beauty, we move on to find a more impressive spot around the next turn.
As we climb the road we can look up and see other traffic crossing the mountain face on the road high above us. It does not seem out of place. AJ goes on ahead and Carl falls back for awhile but catches up and we ride upward together. Three young ladies ask me to take their picture as they stand in front of a particularly beautiful overlook, I oblige and one of them takes mine for me. We come upon AJ parked at a rest area, shirt off, sunning himself on a stone wall.
The three of us look out over the valley and laugh. It's absolutely beautiful! Near the top of the pass there is a sign asking that we refrain from touching the snow, which is close to the road. Within sight of this sign someone has written "Lopez" in the snow in large letters. A testament to bilingual education?
John Bunyan described Glacier's Logan Pass in Pilgrim's Progress: "... for in this land the Shining Ones commonly walked, because it was upon the Borders of Heaven.” The majesty and beauty are overwhelming. I do not consider myself a radical environmentalist, but I would fight to keep every inch of this place as it is.
Throughout the day people approach us to say that they'd like to be traveling through the park as we are. We tell them what we've ridden through to get here — and that we'd do it twice over to experience this day. This ride through Glacier will take a while to sink in. I will never forget it.
Exiting the park leaves an empty feeling. I'm beginning to notice that I'm hot and dry. We sit outside a gas station at the east entrance drinking water, eating huckleberry ice cream and working up enough energy to get back on the road. It takes some time. The road to Browning is beautiful in its own right. It threads its way through rolling hills, providing ever-diminishing views of the park and its mountains until they're finally lost from view. It's a good decompression from Glacier. We're behind an elderly couple who are driving cautiously, to say the least. We hover behind them like vultures, waiting for an opportunity to pass, and finally roar by on a short straightaway. By the time we reach Browning the land has become flat and arid. The Great Plains lie ahead.
We stop in a parking lot in Browning to check the map. Everyone is agitated and no one has much to say. The only road east is Route 2 and AJ votes with his accelerator. He's around the corner and down the road before Carl and I can mount back up. We ride through Cut Bank and, seeing no sign of him, continue on to Shelby where we see his bike parked at a gas station. He lets us know that he's decided to take I-15 to Great Falls and head into South Dakota. I tell him that I'm taking Route 2 into North Dakota and heading south from there. Carl chooses Route 2 also. The three of us have an agreement: anybody goes their own way whenever they want. AJ exercises his option and heads toward Great Falls. Carl and I call it a day in Shelby.
On July 4, 1923, Shelby, Montana saw heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey beat light heavyweight Tommy Gibbons in a 15 round decision. The fight, by all accounts, was boring; the real contest was staged outside the ring. Dempsey's manager Doc Kearns could have taught Don King some promoter's moves on that day. He was able to get a $200,000 dollar advance along with $100,000 from the gate receipts, which was paid to him during the match. There was a train waiting for them at a siding and they left town as soon as the fight was over.
In the aftermath several local banks went under due to lower than expected receipts. Years later Kearns was reminded that he and Dempsey had broken three banks. His reply was "We broke four banks." Tommy Gibbons only received his expense money for the fight.
Over what has to be the world's worst pizza I ask our waitress about the fight. She relays my question to two older ladies at the next table. One replies that she wasn't alive when it happened and that she wishes people would quit asking about it. Her answer is conveyed in the tone people use when addressing something that they feel should have been put to rest long ago. In this millennium year, Shelby is still haunted by two men who fought here on a hot afternoon 77 years ago.
The main street of Shelby is a mixture of old buildings and new casinos. There seems to be an uneasy truce between them. The street is almost deserted at sundown save some people hanging out in front of a casino. This whole scene has a sleazy tint to it. There is little movement here and no sign of life. I think Shelby is getting fleeced again. We lock our bikes up in the hotel garage.
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