West 2002
 
 

Day 05

July 29

 
 

One of the roads I have heard a lot about over the years is the “Going to the Sun Road” so I am excited about getting after it today. Coop has recommended we get up with sun this morning to beat the RVers, so we are up and at it early. There will be no pig meat and hen fruit until after this ride. We break camp and are pulling out as the sun comes up. As we make our way quietly through the small village of St. Mary, I am really glad Coop picked where we should camp. It enables us to get to the front gate of the park really quick. In fact, we are so early that the rangers are not even manning the entrance. There's just sign –

“If we are not here, just come on in”

or something like that – or at least that's what we understood it to say.

 
 
 
 

We gladly oblige and are into Glacier Park and on way to the sun. The road gently winds alongside the beautiful St. Mary's Lake just like old friends who would walk together. What a feast for the eyes after the dry and hasty lands we have crossed in the last few days.

 
 
 
 

Then the grade begins to increase quickly and the scenery becomes more captivating. A good ways up into the mountains we come to a tunnel that is being repaired. We halt briefly and I am thankful that we did get out early. If we were stuck behind a long line of slow moving land yachts this could have been very painful instead of peaceably quiet. We dismount and manage to sneak in a few pictures of a waterfall tumbling down the head of the valley.

 
 
 
 

While we wait, I strike up a brief conversation with one of the workers –

“Where you guys from?” he asks.

“Well, me and one of the fellers are from Tennessee, and Coop, he's from Wisconsin” I tell him.

“Long way ain't it?” he responds.

“Yeah, but ridin' sure beats the fire out of working!” I respond.

He laughs and it's our time to move on through. Just when you think you can't go any higher, the road just keeps going up. We see snow banks clinging to the sides of the mountains as we reach Logan Pass at 6646 feet. It sure seems higher than that as we see views that just grab your eyes and hold them. As we move on, the road stretches before us in an alpine fashion – narrowly clinging to the sheer mountain face as it snakes downward.

 
 
 
 

With snow banks plastered to the mountainside along the road, you have to be careful about wet spots across the road in case they are ice spots. We ease our way back down, savoring the view and the complete lack of traffic. Once again I thank Coop in my heart for his careful planning. As we reach the lower levels, we leisurely run alongside Lake McDonald. With more daylight now, we can really appreciate the natural beauty that surrounds us everywhere. We make a quick photo op and necessity stop.

 
 
 
 

Far too soon we are out of the park and back on the regular road. My thoughts turn quickly to important matters – breakfast. As we meander down the road I spy a restaurant with some cars and a few bikes and we pull in. There are a group of Harley riders having breakfast and I strike up a brief conversation. They are amazed at how far we have come and how far we are going so the conversation does not last long, since we don't have too much in common. We are quickly seated and order our usual preferences. I'm quite amused to myself on the differences in what we all eat and how often we order the same thing for ourselves for breakfast. Two things you can be usually sure of – I'll order a ham and cheese omelet and Coop will usually get pancakes. The food is quite good and we talk about the beauty that we have just come through. As we finish up, we notice an older Canadian gentleman and his wife at another table who are also riding a Harley. He asks us about our bikes –

“How do you like them?”

“Well, I reckon the best part of it is I don't have to work on them!” I reply with a grin.

He begins to bemoan the horrible problems that he has had with his ride and the times he has been stranded. He is probably one of the few people I have ever met on the road that tries to do any distance on a Harley. He is very interested in the ST1100 and quizzes us about many aspects of the bike. We all three vouch for it's flawless performance and reliability. We say our good-byes, knowing we have some miles to cover before we rest. Highway 2 will be our magic carpet ride for most of the day with our ultimate destination to be Crow Butte State Park near the Oregon border.

 
 
 
 

The panhandle of Idaho comes and goes quickly and soon we enter the state of Washington. It's been a pleasant ride on the backroads, but I know we will soon have to hit the slab again. Finally, we arrive on the outskirts of Spokane. As we head into the city, I see them – traffic light after traffic light, car after car. Immediately I know I'm in trouble with no place to go. We inch along in a stop and go mode, never able to keep a steady pace. Slowly like pot starting to boil, the pain in my hands begins to intensify. Because I have no cartilage left in critical joints in both hands, every pull in of the clutch and each touch of the front brake rubs bone against bone. I don't see a decent place to pull off and my hands are getting weaker and my ability to operate the clutch and brake is rapidly deteriorating. This is getting to be a bit of a sticky wicket. I keep hoping, for once, that I'll see the interstate sign soon. My body has a very interesting tendency - when the pain increases to a great enough level, the contents of the stomach tend to remove themselves. I can feel my stomach beginning to churn and I think –

“If that ramp doesn't show up soon, I'm fixin to dump my cookies all over the fine streets of this city. Boy am I ever glad I'm not wearing a full face helmet today.”

At the very verge of losing my stomach contents and my ability to control the bike, I finally see it – the ramp. One more traffic light – aw forget one more light I'm going through! As I fly up the ramp I realize I can't operate the clutch or the front brake so I have to upshift without the clutch and hope I've got a clear lane. The old RedBird seems to understand, never complains, and smoothly clicks from gear to gear. Fortunately there's an opening and I gratefully slide into it and hang my left hand out in the breeze to rest. My stomach begins to settle down as the pain level decreases and I am grateful that made it through that near disaster. As we head south toward the campground, I make a mental note to avoid Spokane in the future. I relish the scenery as we are out on the open road again, cruising across the high desert. For all the world it reminds me of parts of Texas that I have been through. But it's hot and dry so we are glad to see the campground at last. A quick ride alongside a lake, and we are at our destination. We pay our fees and notice the signs that require you to put your tents in the gravel instead of the nice soft grass. We all have a lively discussion as to the foolishness of pitching in the gravel but we reckon it's just another bureaucratic rule someone has come up with. As I unroll my tent, the wind picks up significantly and I can't find my tent pegs. I turn to Coop –

“Boy, I can't believe I left my tent pegs at the KOA.”

Having almost a phobia about leaving things behind, I always check over the site before I leave so I am really confused. And at any other time not having pegs would have been okay. Here the wind makes the tents billow like a main sail on the Great Lakes. At any rate, I've got a tent to pitch and there maybe a solution down by the lake. I wander down by the water, figuring there might be some small driftwood I can carve on. Sure enough, I find a small cache, and commence to make some old fashioned pegs. Glad I brought that hatchet along that Guy made fun of on our Canadian trip. A feller just never knows when a good old hatchet might come in handy. After making what I need, I drive them into the half inch of gravel on top of what seems like solid rock. I manage to get the four corners stabilized and am glad I'll be able to sleep inside the tent instead of on top of it! As I unroll the rain fly I see it – the wind had blown the rain fly over the peg bag. Gladly I remove the homemades and put in the real deal, thankful to have found them.

 
 
 
 

As the darkness descends, we settle down for the night with our tents billowing in the breeze. Little do we realize we will know the answer to the gravel question before we awake in the morning.