Day 21

It was the best of days. It was the worst of days.

Beautiful clear morning as we enter Yellowstone. Our old person park passes get us in free. First stop: the paint pot fields. I was there once with my mum. It's a strange steaming and bubbling place. Next stop Old Faithful. Still old but far from faithful. The last time I saw her there was a “clock” by the boardwalk with the time of the next geyser. Now, if you ask around, and you have to because there are no park rangers talking up the biggest draw of Yellowstone – go figure, you'll learn that Old Faithful erupts, in our case, sometime between 9:10 and 9:23. She's late. Old Faithful doesn't erupt until 9:36. If you're nearby, Yellowstone is an intersting geological diversion. After all, it's a freeking huge volcano that you ride around inside. If you have a week to hike and visit the harder to get to places, it could be really fun. But, as a vacation destination from some distance away, I'd invest the time and money elsewhere.

Out of Yellowstone and into Buffalo Bill Cody National Park. It's like the badlands in all the old TV westerns. A pretty drive. Some animals. Few photos. We have them all. I did get a dot photo of an eagle. I guess there's just so much I can expect from my camera.

Then into Wyoming farm land. It's very pastoral. Lots oif big ranches with beef cattle roaming around. We pass an airplane dump. Later, we pass a tow trailer dump. Why strange dumps in Wyoming? Who knows. Who cares, the sun is shining and the temperature is just right.

We stop for gas in Cody and learn that there is a deluge ahead that may be dropping 2 feet of snow on the Big Horn mountains and we have to go through them. A kind local gives us directions to a shortcut but it won't save any pain. I stick with Rhonda, who chooses the northern route. The sky is graying but the road is promising. It begins, almost immediately, by descending into a very tight canyon with some nice s-curves and a couple of switchbacks. The rock walls are old and crumbling. They look like lizard skin. In time we begin our assent. This is a tough road. Very tight turns, rough surface, and countless switchbacks. It makes the famous Deal's Gap look like a training school for beginner riders. It's 80 miles of demand. The rain begins and the temperature drops 25 degrees to 36F. Fresh snow is visible but the rain holds. I'm not on my game, today. The rule is, if god says don't ride, don't. But, we have places to go so I try to take it easy and be very attentive. I'm relieved when I reach the top and find 8 miles of straightaway. I can catch up on lost time and I know that a decent into warmer, if not dryer weather must be ahead. Sure enough, the twisties and the switchbacks begin but almost immediately the darkness of night descends like a wet stage curtain and suddenly I rush into fog so thick I can't see beyond my windshield. Oncoming cars loom out of the charcoal air visible only when they are within 15 feet and then only as a pair of headlights. I cut my speed to 5 mph and watch the white line – thank god it's there – to the right of my windshield. I pray that the traffic I meet can see their line. Occasionally, I catch a sign that says, “Open range. Watch for cattle.” This provides little comfort. How long I'm trapped in this twilight zone I don't know but rounding a tight left hand turn, I'm popped out of the fog and greeted with a sunlit vista of an emerald green valley that extends for what seems like a hundred miles. I must be thousands of feet in the air. It's breath taking but a long way down. I know the end must be near and the darkness is behind and above me. I move on taking each turn carefully until finally I'm on level ground, with clear sky. I boot it. It's a joy to be free of the grip of the Big Horns and the farther back they are the better I feel. When I reach I-90, I pull over to wait for Bruce. He's about 10 minutes back. When he pulls up, he asks, “How'd you like that fog?” What a kidder.

We motor on, the most demanding part behind us but, the rain returns and intensifies. The last 38 miles to Gillette, were we decide to gas up and hold up, is in a torrential down pour. For me a cold one. My hands turn white getting a beer from the fridge. The cold rains, without heated grips, have been painful from the start. I have good ones in the garage. I just didn't install them. Regradless, the bike smells the barn and we bolt for first, fresh gas, and second, a familiar motel.

Tomorrow, Devil's Tower if the weather permits. It is not supposed to. But, sometimes god loves me.