Author: Matt Keene

We stopped in Havre, MT today after 35 miles this morning to get our bikes tuned up. I am really trying to get a post written and updated, but pedaling in the heat across the plains is exhausting and I can’t get my thoughts straight. We’ve been fighting a headwind the last few days; it’s supposed to turn around and give us a nice tailwind tomorrow. 70.5 miles yesterday into the small town of Hingham, MT, where an ice-cold IPA brewed less than 100 miles away was waiting at the Hi-Way bar.

Until I can get something written, I’ve added all of our locations to a Google Map. We’ll update it every day or as often as we can. Hopefully, this will give a good visual of our progress.

You can see the map below. It’s also embedded on the home page of this site.

Two nights ago, Jodi and I camped on the Continental Divide after a 43-mile climb along the southern edge of Glacier National Park. Yesterday, we descended into the plains, crossing into Blackfeet Indian Country. We are now flowing east towards the Atlantic, partnered with all the water draining off this side of the Rockies.

One of my shoes has worn through already, so REI is shipping me a new pair to Cut Bank, Montana. It won’t be in until Thursday, so unfortunately we have to take another day off… exploring Glacier National Park… It’s terrible, really…

We should have reliable internet the next two nights, so at least one more post is on the way, maybe more.

At this point, we have crossed the Pacific Crest Trail and the Continental Divide Trail. The only one remaining of the “Triple Crown” is the Appalachian Trail, which is still several thousand miles away. It is a unique spot, where long-distance trails cross paths, as though you are standing at the center of humanity’s migration routes, places where rites of passage, tall tales and spiritual journeys are clawing their way out of Western culture.

 

Several days ago, we stopped in a shallow valley after a long, slow climb. It was a hot day with white clouds blossoming in a deep blue sky. We sat on the rustic front porch of a closed bar and grill, the only shade available in the valley, and began making lunch. About ten minutes or so into it, the door to the bar opened and an older man in blue jeans and boots stepped out. The man told us the bar was closed but we were welcome to sit in the shade. He asked where we’d been coming from and where we were going. He told us about the owner—Sue—and how we’d really like her. He told us she was his best friend.

I don’t know how many times I’ve heard an adult talk sincerely about their best friend. That type of openness and genuine compassion doesn’t come easily. That type of comfort with who you are and where you’ve been.

The man smiled at us as we left. He told us to wave if we saw Sue—She’d be coming our way and would get a real kick out of it. Wouldn’t know what was going on.

I’ve wondered a couple times what that man’s conversation was like with Sue when she arrived. How they might talk while they get the place ready to open. I wonder if they talk about the weather. I wonder if Sue saw me, twisted halfway around on the bike, flailing my arm as she disappeared up a bend.

—

There are long, thin cracks on the roadway filled in with asphalt. The cracks run across the road. For miles, sometimes, our bikes thump over the top of these, a two-thump salute to expanding ice.

—

It scares me how familiar the road has become. Every day we greet it, leaning into it until the bike begins to glide. Every day we lean against its guardrails, breathe in its afternoon heat, curse or smile approvingly at any change in its appearance.

Roads have a massive effect on an environment. It is an effect that reaches beyond the white lines and road surface and extends into runoff, noise and light pollution, water drainage issues that include the alteration of wetlands and recharge areas. And then there’s fragmentation. The movement of plants and animals can be severed by a road, leading to a loss in diversity and the strangulation of entire ecosystems. Most seemingly forested areas that you drive past are, in fact, impacted far beyond what you can see by the road you are on.

I remember on many drives along the interstate seeing deer on the edge eating grass as the sun set. I remember being amazed at how comfortable they are, with cars and trucks racing along at 70 miles an hour. How familiar the road must be to them.

—

Truckers have been the most generous drivers on the road. Nearly all pull completely into the other lane when passing us.

The old man on the porch was an over-the-road truck driver. My grandfather was an OTR driver, too.

The first time I remember mile markers was on a ride with my grandfather. He took me on the road with him, in his rig, all the way to Texas. It’s the first time I can remember counting mile markers. Let me know when we get to 128, Matt, that’s where we’re getting off.

He let me buy a pocketknife at a gas station. When we got to the end of the road, a man named Jesus unloaded all the fish from my Grandpa’s trailer.

—

I still count the mile markers. When we turn into the road in the morning, I make a note of the first mile marker we see. It becomes my metronome throughout the day, counting downwards and upwards. Seven miles, eight more till the town. Eight miles, seven more until the town. Every now and then my tire will thud over a crack in the asphalt. Every now and then a deer will stand still on the side of the road, watching us pass.

—

Jodi and I are not weekend bikers any more. Our scent of before has shed away and now we are in this in-between place.

I’ve been here before on past trips. The warmth of the comfortable is gone. There is no familiar porcelain mug to drink fresh-brewed coffee from. There is no laundry basket to put in place or couch to sink into. There is only the comfort of what you carry. There is only the comfort of sil-nylon stuffed into sacks, the familiarity of campfire smoke in your food, and the warmth of a laid-out sleeping bag.  Beyond that, there is only what you can find in town—a cold drink at a small grocery store, a bulletin board filled with needs and desires and phone numbers to really let you breathe in a town, and maybe a cheap bed or place to set a tent.

In town, people move all around you and for once you stand still. There is a motion in the towns, of people with to-do lists and jobs to go to. And we, we stand apart. Coming into this unfamiliar sea, with our hands held down, flat against the shorepound, shielding, bracing ourselves for the cold splash.

When we come to a place, we come without a car to transport us back to a familiar cornerstone. We come without the tether of a starting place. We have left that place, packed our tent, loaded our bags and leaned into the road. We will not be returning there, we will be moving on, moving through this place and on to the next. When we come, we carry our cornerstone with us. We carry our familiarity with us. And when we leave, we will focus on the next place, the next space to be, where people will move with lists and tasks and concerns, where we will stand, apart and in-between.

—

I have to wonder what led that older man to share such an intimate detail with us under the shade of that porch. I wonder if he saw a bit of in-betweenness, a bit of travel, a bit of towns moving all around you and strangers passing on lonely roads. I wonder if he heard the faint idling of a diesel or saw the familiar in an old rig. I wonder if Sue knows she’s his best friend.

Jodi and I are moving into our third week of cycling. We have taken one day off and had a few short days to rest up and resupply. In that time, we have moved east through the Northern Cascades, through the Bitterroot Range and into the Rocky Mountains. We’ve crossed Washington, the “panhandle” of Idaho, and are a good 60 miles into Montana–our longest state–with a total of around 550 miles of the Northern Tier completed so far.

This trail is markedly different from other long-distance trails we’ve completed. There is a near continuous presence of people and towns. Even when tucked deep into national forest land on rural country roads where there may be a 30-minute gap between passing cars, the pavement and white lines are a regular reminder of the foundation of civilization that permeates and spreads and divides.

Even experiencing the mountains this way has been new. When hiking, you are tucked into the womb of mountains, following narrow trails shaded with a dappling of light that breaks through the leaf cover, following switchbacks up to a ridgeline where, when lucky, you are afforded a rewarding view. Hiking the mountains pulls you away and centers you, orbiting the spine of the range in a quiet, dark and rocky world. Cycling the mountains is like running your fingers along an egg shell. You feel the rough pockets and can trace the curves. If its a good egg, you may get the tiniest tuft of a feather or the smallest clump of earth. The inside, though, remains a mystery, separated by the thinnest of membranes. Riding a bike over a pass and along mountain roads affords the most spectacular views with more frequency than almost every mountain I have hiked. It is, however, primarily a superficial accomplishment. The peaks remain just in the distance. The dappled light remains just beyond the membrane.

In our second week, we began to notice the differences but we also settled into the similarities. Packing up your entire world every morning. Your tent, your sleeping bag, your supply of food. Looking at the route ahead, following the trail laid out on the map, looking for unwritten messages in the elevation profile, untold stories in the lines. Thinking about food. Thinking about food all the time. And most importantly, moving forward. The singular commonality between this trail and every other is the need to move forward. The drive coming from deep in your gut, telling you to just keep going towards that rising sun, towards that spot just beyond the horizon, past that mile marker, past the top of that hill, around that bend.

For me, the second week is one of irritability. By this point and after this many trails, I can very clearly identify it. The anticipation of the trip has ended, the beginning of the story has been written, now it is routine.

This second week is a week of moving bags and repacking gear in increasingly more efficient ways. Its a week of figuring out how much food is too much and how much is too little. Its a week of fine-tuning the liters of water you’ll carry. Its a week of sore muscles that aren’t going to get a break for many more months. Its a week of adjustment to the presence of the sun and the movement of the wind. Its a week of learning to appreciate slivers of shade and five minute breaks.

The second week is a week of communication. Its a week of adjustment. Its a week of writing and scratching out and rewriting a blueprint that will guide us down every road, over every mountain and through every day.

Jodi and I crossed into Idaho two days ago! We had a short day into Sandpoint today, where we wandered around a farmers market and stocked up on supplies. We’ll be in Montana tomorrow or the next day!