Week 5: Road Angels

Jackson, WY to Saratoga, WY 327 miles

5/4 – 5/9

To view the map on google click here.

The title of this week is an homage to the trail angels of the PCT. Weather wise, this was the worst week yet. Despite the miserable conditions, there were so many great and interesting people put in my path who supported me along the way that this week has been the most special to me so far. The past few days have been the wettest Wyoming has seen in a long time. I spent the past six days doing more swimming than bike riding. It either rained or snowed on me everyday, and rarely did I not have a wind hitting me directly in my face. I came to find that with these less than ideal conditions, my motivation for taking pictures waned, and as such the quality of the photos might not be up to their usual snuff. Despite these setbacks, I rode through some great country, passing back through the Tetons on my way north out of Jackson. With a brand new Big Agnes tent, I stayed the night outside of Moran, WY. I then went over Togedy pass and came down to see some great views of red sandstone cliff walls, moraines, and buttressed fingers of rock poking the sky. I came into the town of Dubois and, through serendipity, ended up staying in the guest house of one of the local pastors. After feeding me dinner and breakfast the following day, his family sent me on my way to Lander where I Couchsurfed with the most interesting man I have ever met. He cooked me food compiled from his local dumpster diving expeditions. After Lander I biked to Jeffery City, a once booming mining town now inhabited by only ghosts. The lone bar in town consisted of the waitress tending said bar and five cowboys who fervently insisted I have a beer with them… or seven. I ended up staying at their ranch and set out the next morning to hitchhike/bike through a snow storm all the way to Saratoga, WY where my first stop was some hot springs and my second stop was a sports bar and grill where I went to watch some NBA but ended up meeting some fun-loving locals who showed me around town and put me up in the “B&B,” a living complex for Ranch workers in the area. I must thank all my “Road Angels” from this week. Without their help it would have been a significantly… different experience.

Day 30: Jackson, WY Rest Day

Monday, May 4th

After waking up and making pancakes, eggs, and bacon with Lauren, my host, I went directly to work typing up my posts for the week. I spent the vast majority of this day in the local library blogging. Nothing really interesting of note happened other than the chance for me to see the little bit of town between the library and Lauren’s house. After finishing my writing around 6 o’clock at night, I went to watch the playoffs at the Sidewinder, a sports grill in town. I found myself incredibly hungry and kept ordering entrees and appetizers and without realizing it racked up a bill over $50, way over my budget for the day. With my tail between my legs I went back to Lauren’s house and went to bed, guilty but with a very full and satisfied stomach.

Day 31: Jackson, WY to Moran, WY 31 miles

Tuesday, May 5th

I slept in today to about 8:00, wished Lauren, my host, goodbye, washed my bike and packed my gear and set off to do a few errands in town. When I contacted REI several days prior regarding being shipped a new tent, they told me it should arrive at the post office around 3:30 PM. So I had some time to kill. I checked out downtown, did a little bike maintainance on my brakes and shifters, and explored the town. Snow King mountain resort, similar to the resort at Whitefish, Montana, was located right at the edge of town. Snow King, I was told, was more of a rich tourist destination. The locals attend Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, only a few miles west of town.

Jackson really is an outdoor sportsman’s town. It is filled with adventure tourism shops for activities such as rafting, mountain biking, hiking, climbing, hot air ballooning…etc. While trying to capture a picture of the local kayak shop which encapsulated this vibe, I was approached by two employees from the shop. They were about my age and were curious about my bike tour. We got to talking and Josh, one of the guys, offered to buy me lunch that day. I also picked up some more essentials including toothpaste, deodorant, and powdered milk. Being a traveler himself and an accomplished kayaker, he knew the value of a hearty meal. We went to Lucky’s Market just down the street where we ate pizza and drank smoothies and talked about kitesurfing and travel.

Pictures from Lauren's home.

Josh, posing for the camera after buying me lunch. What a swell guy.

Ski resort at the edge of town.

Fun put put course I found.

After lunch it was nearing 2:00 and I decided to check in at the post office to see if my tent was in. It wasn’t. I called REI to look up the tracking information and they told me it wasn’t supposed to arrive until Thursay at the earliest! This was unnaceptble. After being stationary for less than a day and a half I was already anxious to move on. I worked a deal with the post office and REI. I would send back my broken tent and leave orders to have the new tent returned to REI as soon as it arrived and I would have all my money returned. I then went to Teton mountain sports (where I learned that the Grand Tetons, the national park mountain range, was French for “the great teats”) and bought a Big Agnes two-person tent. It cost a little less than twice what my REI tent did but weighed about half as much. I didn’t really want to shell out that much moolah, but my desire to get back on the road outweighed my desire to be thrifty.

Teton mountaineering, where I bought my Big Agnes tent.

Finally, at around 4:00 in the afternoon, I put Jackson in my rearview, heading north out of town, backtracking a little but also seeing the Tetons yet again. Along the road I would spot a herd of roughly 50 elk and I would take a brief break as I watched them hop fences and cross the highway. I was rained on fairly heavily before making it the 30 miles to Moran. I would spend several minutes tracking down a suitable camping area. The town of Moran was really only a post office and some rangers housing and I didn’t really feel like it was a good place. Just down the road about a half mile I saw a primitive track leading up a hill off to my right and a faily large flat area halfway up the hill. I dismounted, carried my luggage up the hill, then pushed my bike. It was really an ideal spot, with the highway just out of sight yet with a vista of the Tetons. I ate some of the Mountain House freeze-dried meals that I was given several days earlier by a passerby.

Finally leaving Jackson, after 4:00!

More Tetons

Check out the elk jumping the fence.

My camping spot and new tent.

Day 32: Moran, WY to Dubois, WY 56.5 miles

Wednesday, May 6th

I’m pretty sure the track that I used to push my bike up to my camping site was made by elk herds because in the middle of the night I heard the stamping of hooves all around my tent, and when I peeked out through my rain fly I spotted several just in my narrow field of view. I wasn’t really bothered; I felt we had an unspoken agreement: they stay outside, I stay inside. We passed the night in relative peace.

In the morning I would eat a meager breakfast of cereal and PB&J. I then started the climb up Togowtee Pass where I ascended up to 9,658 ft. I stopped for several photo shoots along the way, taking advantage of the snowscapes. Although the view up Togowtee was pretty grand, the day was defined by the trip down the other side. Even though I was wearing my rain shell as wind breaker, I was quite cold as I coasted down. But about halfway down my descent I was greeted by a warm breeze that hit me like a wall. It was like jumping into a bath of refreshingly hot water. It was great, yet it was an indication of inclement weather coming my way. The scenery and landscape would completely change. No longer surrounded by views of the Teton mountain range, now my eyes were full of brick red sandstone cliffs jutting skyward in their layers of compressed sediment. Occasional hundred-foot tall fingers pointed at the sky and gave me ideas of rock climbing. The scene reminded me of something you would see in one of the national parks in Utah—Arches maybe, or Zion. I would follow the windy river, a skinny, bending stretch of water that made frequent 180 degree turns on itself before contining down the line of the valley. I would learn quickly where it received its name. The previously warm and gentle breeze would turn into a blustering headwind. I was going down a steep downhill grade, peddling with difficulty, and barely pushing past 5 mph. It was quite defeating. The upside was when I needed to blow my nose I could just turn my head and snort and the wind would take away the snot before it reached my shoulder. Always have to look for a silver lining.

Sun rays in the morning.

Togwotee lodge.

Togwotee selfies.

Coming down off the pass.

Windy river.

Red sandstone cliffs.

Wyoming flag. Shows the wind coming right at me.

Ever so slowly, I made my way into the town of Dubois (I’ve heard it pronounced 10 different ways, I’m not sure there is a correct one). I would follow the signs to the “Largest Jackalope Ever” where I would mount a giant fictional taxidermied jackalope and take a touristy picture. I would then eat dinner at one of the local favorites, the Cobbler. The waitress there was incredibly nice, convinced me to stay for dessert, turned on the TV for me to watch the playoffs, and asked everyone who came in for advice on where I should stay for the night. Eventually we came to find the concensus was I should camp outside the rodeo grounds. That night it was supposed to snow and drop below 20 so I wasn’t exactly enthused about that idea but I had spent so much money in Jackson I didn’t want to pay for a hotel. While I was biking to the rodeo grounds, feeling a little hesitant about camping, I passed over the hill and just about ran into church. I had heard about people staying the night in churches during tours and figure it couldn’t hurt to knock and see if anyone was there who would let me crash. Oddly enough, as I entered into the Wilderness Baptist Church I was greeted by the pastor Geoff Stevens. Apparently they were just about to have their Wednesday night service and I was welcome to stay the night. It seemed to good to be true.

My giant jackalope.

I eagerly attended the service, hungry for a sermon after weeks on the road. In true Wyoming fashion, the sermon was titled something along the lines of “the best gift for mother’s day is being a fly fisherman.” Geoff paralleled the finesse and conscious attention required of fly fishermen to that of a husband towards his wife. Geoff himself was a flyfishing guide he said. It was a very well presented sermon and I enjoyed it very much. After church, I met Geoff’s wife Lauren, it was going to be her birthday the next day. They were having a dinner party for her at their house that night and they invited me not only to join them but to sleep in their guest house as well. Although I tried to refuse their offer out of politeness they insisted and I relented quickly. That night I would join some the Stevens family which included a gaggle of amazingly entertaining children as well as some family friends as we ate dessert and laughed the night away. Their guest house was immaculate and I found myself sleeping in one of the most comfortable beds of my life. God was really looking out for me that day.

Stevens' put me in some nice digs.

Day 33: Dubois, WY to Lander, WY 74.5 miles

Thursday, May 7th

That morning I would wake to several inches of snow on the ground. I woud eat a breakfast made by the Steven’s children which consisted of delicious waffles, sausage, and eggs. For Lauren’s birthday, she and Geoff and were going to Jackson but before I let them leave I took a family picture of them. Their kids were so well behaved and during breakfast climbed over each other for the chance to tell me stories from their lives. These stories ranged from books they’ve read and movies they’ve seen, to experiences with boy scouts, archery, fishing, and countless more. I was so entertained I didn’t want to leave. It was an incredibly refreshing treat to meet the Steven’s family and I couldn’t wish more for them.

Left to Right. Caroline, Geoff, Grant, Jack, Georgia, Lauren, Wyatt. All wonderful people.

As I left their house I entered into the Wind Reservation, the seventh largest Native American reservation in the US. I was immediately greeted by a head wind and wet snow. I guess the glorious night before was to balance the scales from the miserable weather conditions that would follow in the coming days. The rain was blowing straight into my face and I could hardly keep my head up to look where I was going. It was not fun in the slightest but I gritted my teeth. I was iron man, I would outlast this weather, I would keep on pedaling. One foot in front of the other, that was it. Five minutes later, after sticking my thumb out, I found myself in the warm enclosure of a pickup of the local postman driving south. A nice gentleman whose name I forgot to record, he seemed to know everyone in the town of Dubois and talked with me about life in “dees parts.” He would only get me to the end of his route before dropping me off. Five miles later I would get picked up yet again. Yet another pickup, I had to push a shot gun and a rifle over to make room for me to sit. My feet rested on ammo which rolled around on the floor of the cab. A Mr. Wayne Sudah would by my chauffeur. He owned a couple head of cattle and a ranch on the reservation. Despite a rugged appearance he was cordial and conversant. He explained to me about some of the history of the Native American tribes in the area. As he pointed at Crow’s Heart Butte, a flat mesa in the distance, he told me the story of how two rival tribes’ chiefs fought to the death on the hilltop. Legend goes that Chief Washakie, upon winning the battle, ate the Chief of the Crow Nation’s heart, giving the butte its infamous, if gruesome, name.

After driving me about 20 more miles along my route, he dropped me off. As he drove away the wind was blowing fairly strong and I almost couldn’t make out his epic salutation. “Don’t go shooting nobody Matt, now ya hear!” A perfect example of the Wyoming culture if ever I heard one.

I continued riding along the highway, through wind and rain, eventually arriving in Fort Washakie where I would have Mexican food for lunch. I had missed Cinco de Mayo after all. I then departed both the Fort and shortly thereafter the reservation. Unfortunately, the lasting image I had from the reservation wasn’t of the beautiful landscape (which was covered by fog and clouds for the most part) but of the dense litter coalescing along the roadsides. Maybe this observation was due to my own prejudices, but it gave me a lot to think about, as far as being cognitive of my own perceptions.

Pretty awesome scenery.

Wildflower.

Crowheart Butte.

Antelope stare down... I won.

Self explanatory.

Typical house on the res.

You can see the snow line.

From the Fort, it was only a short ride into the town of Lander, a city with a population of around 8,000. I had a Couchsurfer lined up in that city, a man by the name of Juan. As I pulled into his house I rolled my bike into his backyard. The yard was filled with pickups from a bygone era in various states of disrepair, tall grass, and machine parts and tools that I could only guess as to their function. Upon the front door was a note left for me telling me to come on in and help myself to a shower. I knocked but Juan wasn’t home so I let myself in. As I open the door I was shocked to see a house that seemed straight out of American Pickers. At first glance my initial impression was that Juan was a hoarder, but as I toured the house I found it was more ordered than I had thought. His house was filled with various collections. Photography equipment and clothes filled the living room, magnets covered the refrigerator, a collection of plastic animals lined the windows, olive oil cans ran along shelving in the kitchen. I was entranced, walking around and around his house just soaking up the memorabilia and interesting collections. I would set my panniers down in the kitchen in just about the only floor space available in the house and I would hop in the shower.

After I changed clothes and exited the bathroom I was greeted by Juan in the kitchen. Although in his mid 60’s he was quite fit and had an energy and vigor that made him appear much younger. We spent the remainder of the evening trading stories back and forth. Juan was a cave diver (he adamantly told me not a spelunker, there was a difference), a photographer, an arborist, a climber, a founder of NOLS, a plumber, carpenter, and, most interesting to me, a dumpster diver. Indeed all the food in his kitchen he had saved from a fate in some nameless landfill. We ate a dinner of stir fry; meat, rice, vegetables, and sauce all scavenged from the local grocery store’s dumpster. It was delicious. Although the phrase “dumpster diver” somehow had a home in my memory I didn’t really understand it until now. After dinner he showed me some of his photography work, black and white portraits and landscapes that were very impressive. He even gave me a brief photo lesson on composition and designing your shots. Juan may be the most interesting man ever, but I don’t think he will make it into a Dos Equis commercial any time soon. I slept that night in a lofted bed with my wet clothes dangling on clothe hangers inches above me. I slept quite well.

I have arrived.

Come in.

Juans backyard.

Notice the barbie giving birth to the barbie.

Senor Juan cooking us some stir fry.

Olive oil collection.

Day 34: Lander, WY to Jeffery City, WY 58 miles

Friday, May 8th

After eating a breakfast of oatmeal and rasins, Juan would drive me up to Sinks Canyon where I would see a natural wonder. Amidst an early morning fog and rain, at the trough of large canyon west of Lander I saw the Popo Agie River as it flowed past the highway and disappeared into a cave. About a quarter mile down the road, seemingly out of nowhere, the river would appear and continue running. Once entering the cave, it would filter through rock and stone, eventually bubbling up as a kind of spring. A very interesting natural phenomenon. As we drove back Juan told me of the popularity of rock climbing in the area and how every year there is a weekend rock climbing festival in Lander in July. I make it a point to return someday for this festival. He also tells me about NOLS, the National Outdoor Leadeship School, a famous wilderness school based out of Lander that I wish I could have attended and may return to someday.

Pop Agie dissapearing.

Popo Agie reappearing.

Tons o' fish.

As Juan leaves town for a plumbing job, I leave for Jeffery City, pretty much the only sign of civilization between Lander and the city of Rawlins, over 120 miles away. I don’t see a tree the entire day. All the territory I pass through is range country, dotted by countless thousands of sage brush plants. It rains on me throughout the day, but after a steep climb I roll into Jeffery City. A once booming uranium mining town of over 5,000 inhabitants, most of the city vanished with the end of the cold war. The town now has less than 50 people living in it and is filled with boarded up shops, schools, firehalls, and buildings of other functions. A lonesome swingset at an overgrown playground squeeks as I roll into town. The only open businesses I can see straddle the highway, a pottery barn (oddly out of place) and a grill/bar.

As I enter the Split Rock Bar for some food and advice on where to stay, I see that I will be joining a herd of ranchers. Five cowboy hats sit at the bar, each with a shot glass or a beer in his hand. As I eat my two burgers and look at my state map, one of the cowboys approaches me. A weathered man in his 50’s, with the likeness of the monopoly guy, complete with perfect circle spectacles and a flowing white mustache, Tom, as he introduces himself to me, starts asking me my story. As I tell him about my bike trip he asks me my plans for the ngiht. I tell him I don’t really have any. He then proceeds to pick me up, literally, and places me on the bar stood next to him, slams a beer and a shot in my hand, and orders me to drink up. The rest of the night is a blur of hooting and hollering, of cowboy lingo and machismo jokes. Tom, Rhett, Matt, and Bill would be my company for the night. As the night neared the guys started making comments about their wives expecting them home, and I began to pick up that many were fearing a tongue lashing they were bound to get upon walking into their homes in their current state. Even big bad cowboys get scared I guess. I end up staying the night with Matt and Tom at Matt’s home. After a dinner of spaghetti made by Matt’s wife I fall asleep on the couch while watching a LA clippers game. “Who could have guess I would have ended up here,” I think to myself as I slowly drift off into sleep.

Curious horse.

Beautiful red cliffs.

Notice "Oregon Trail."

OOOH, a tire.

Pretty flat.

Jeffrey City, the ghost town.

Split Rock bar.

My cowboy friends, in latte style.

Day 35/36: Jeffery City, WY to Saratoga, WY 110 miles

Saturday, May 9th/ Sunday, May 10th

I wake up to see over three inches of snow on the ground and more continuing to pour from the heavens. Matt tells me I’m welcome to stay another day, and although I seriously consider it, I figure I should keep making progress. After a wonderful homemade breakfast of biscuiuts and gravy Matt and Tom drive me back to the Split Rock. I start on the road right away, picking up where I left off the night before. The snow itself isn’t that bad, but the stiff wind blowing it across myself is chilling and incredibly annoying. I can’t see anything and am quickly becoming miserable. So, once again, I guiltily stick my thumb out to passing cars. Within ten minutes I’m picked up by Brian, a construction worker from the area. As we make small talk about the weather he tells me the four seasons in Wyoming: almost winter, winter, still winter, and construction season. He drives me out of the snow all the way down into the city of Rawlings where he pats me on the back, wishes me good luck, and plants me right in the middle of downtown. I eat lunch at Buck’s, a hunting themed restaurant. I end up talking with the couple at the table next to me, two once-avid bicyclists. I tell them my planned route for the next day. I was considering staying in Rawlins for the night until they told me the forecast and the likelihood of road closures and getting stuck in town. So, with their advice in mind, after eating an aptly named Monster Burger, I leave town and have my first experience riding a bicycle on a freeway.

Matt fueling up the truck to go back into town.

Fun in the snow... not.

I broke down and hitched it.

The road from Rawlins to my next destination, Saratoga, required me to ride 20 miles east on the interstate before turning off it south. A strong northerly wind, gusting up to the mid 20’s, blows across my body. Every time a semi-truck drives past me the air vacuum it creates sucks me towards the lanes. It is near terrifying but the few mph I gain as a truck drives past is almost worth it… almost. Eventually I reach my exit and proceed southward. Now, with the wind at my back, I fly towards Saratoga, and make 20 miles faster by far than any stretch yet. As I pull into the city, I follow the sings for the “Hobo Hot Springs.” I have been told these public hot springs are open 24-7 and I am chilled to the bone and really could use a hot soak. The springs are publicly maintained by the city and look almost like a swimming pool area, complete with locker rooms and showers. Some five people are lounging in the steaming pools as I arrive. I change clothes quickly and rush into the pool. I only get shin deep before the intense heat drives me out as I hear the jeers of the other soakers as I sprint back up the steps. They really are HOT springs. The temperature must have exceeded 110 degrees. Ever so slowly I wade in. After about an hour of luxury, my hunger drives me back onto my bike, and into town.

The town of Sinclair.

HOT SPRINGS. So nice!

If you’re paying attention, you may have figured out my MO as I enter a new city. Find a sports bar, sit down by myself, look vulnerable, and hope some kind soul takes pity on me and invites me to stay with them for the night, saving me from a night in the cold. Although I had sent out about half a dozen couchsurfing requests, only one person replied to say they were out of town for the night. As I sit at Duke’s, I talk briefly with the bartender who, before taking my order, tells me she was born in Mt. Vernon, the same town I was born in. What a coincidence! As I sit drinking an Angry Orchard, eating my PB&J, and watching my basketball, a stout guy about my age in flannel and cowboy boots and a hat walks up to me, introduces himself as Spoon (yes, Spoon) and invites me to play pool with him and his friends. As he looks at me his eyes narrow. He asks me if I was the guy traveling on the bike. He asks me if I was the couchsurfer. Yes, yes. Apparently he was the guy who replied to me saying he would be out of town. He comes clean, saying he lied because he just didn’t feel like entertaining guests that weekend or something along those lines. He laughs about it, I laugh about it. Although it might sound like an awkward situation it was only comical. I glady go and play pool with him.

I end up spending the rest of that night and the entire next day with Spoon and his friends having a great time. Although I feel like I met every member of Saratoga, who all seem to know each other, the main group consisted of Spoon, Telesa, Jamie, Peter, and Dan (and Bandit, Telesa’s incredibly affectionate dog). Many of the group work at the Brush Creek Ranch, a kind of tourist ranch where people can do things like trap shoot, fly-fish, ride horses, and zip line. I gather it is one of the biggest, most prominent organizations in the area. I stay my two nights in Saratoga in the “B&B,” the name they give to the housing where workers at Brush Creek Ranch stay. As the day passes I feel like I have made some great friends. Telesa is a Neuroscience major with aspirations of attending Colorado School of Medicine too. Peter is a rafter who has done the Grand several times and promises to take me rafting if I come back to Saratoga. Jamie, an incredible artist, will be moving back to Denver in the Fall and offers to show me around the city. Everyone is extremely friendly, even the giant fellow I meet who I later see bloody some other guys’ nose in a classic Wyoming bar fight. It was hard to leave Saratoga, but being so close to Denver, I know I’ll be back someday.

Fun hats. Left to Right. Jamie, Me, Telesa, Dan, Spoon.

The B&B.