Gateway town

Ashton, Idaho to West Yellowstone, Montana. Wednesday, June 12, 2024.

Another sunny day on US 20, another brisk tailwind. I passed a sign that reiterated what I discussed yesterday

and got a prettier picture of them rising over Henry’s Fork

The day began with a sharp hill, 6% grade, but I can manage if I stop every mile or so to rest. At one stop was a turnout where a large semi truck was idling, the driver had set out safety triangles to warn passing traffic. While I was catching my breath, I saw the drivers, an attractive younger couple, looking quite perplexed. I went over if I could help in anyway (yeah, I’m sure my tiny tool kit was just what they needed) but they only spoke Ukrainian. They were trying in vain to contact their Ukrainian dispatcher, but had no cell service. I had two bars, and managed to download Google Translate and engage them in a slight conversation. It was weird to see my words translated into Cyrillic text. They asked if I had a hose clamp. I told him I would try to inform the police that they were in distress. I did reach the Idaho State Police dispatcher, and he said he would send a patrol car over. My attempt at being a road angel, after having been blessed with so many trail angels.

Further on I passed a long line of cars and trucks, over 200, that were stopped by a flagman. They were striping the road. They let me ride on the blocked off portion of the road while all the other cars slowly passed me. It was a weird feeling.

At a quick stop I met Cindi and Curt, a retired couple motorcycling around the country. They had left from Tennessee and made it here after a couple of thousand-mile days (yikes), and their agenda was not unlike mine, trying to visit obscure out-of-the-way places. We marveled that our bikes had similar belt drive systems. I was surprised to hear their cycles only got 40 miles to the gallon, worse than our Prius.

The next climb was Targhee Pass, not much to look at, but quite momentous.

I was leaving Idaho for the last time, crossing back into Montana, and for the first time crossing the continental divide. In a month and a half I had traversed the Pacific drainage completely, and now was on the Atlantic side of the divide. I’d be crossing that divide many more times this trip, but this felt significant.

Finally, I descended to West Yellowstone, a classic national park “gateway town.” It is the only part of Yellowstone I had never seen, actually it’s just outside the border, as gateway towns always are, free of Park service restrictions. Inside the park, commercial establishments are rare, muted, and carefully regulated to only one or two concessionaires. Outside the park, anything goes. National parks may be America’s Best Idea, but gateway towns can be America at its worst.

Some gateway towns are tasteful, such as Estes Park in Colorado and Jackson, just south of the Tetons. Some are only borderline shlocky, like North Conway and Niagara Falls. And some are completely over the top, like Gatlinburg, Tennessee, the gateway town to the Smoky Mountains. That one is a piece of work, and worth a digression.

Gatlinburg was the end of a long bike ride Eric and I had done in 1995 down the Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway. I described it thusly to my sister:

You know that scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy opens the door to her house, and through the drab doorway you look out into colorful Oz. Well, the end of our trip was like that, although possibly I have the metaphor backwards. After 600+ miles of cycling through a tunnel of green, we crossed the boundary out of Smoky Park and entered the most concentrated example of decadent excess I’ve ever seen. Free at last from the shackles of the Department of the Interior, the developers went wild.  Crammed into a 3 mile strip were casinos, trendy boutiques, fast food joints, cable cars, speedways, observation towers, water parks, and no less than five “wedding chapels”. Looming over it all was Dollywood, a huge theme park inspired by the Well-Endowed One herself. Brassy babes in fur-trimmed miniskirts were walking their afghans, jaunty dudes were honking their souped-up Rolls Royces, and everyone was looking at us astride our mounts, grimy, grizzled and blinking in the glare of it all, like we were from Mars.

Bill Bryson did a better job, in A Walk in the Woods.

I feared West Yellowstone would be the same, serving as the principal entrance to the oldest, largest, most famous national park in America, but it was not the case. Just many blocks of the usual tourist fare—pricey, slightly seedy, but nothing over the top. I had fun spotting relic of my childhood image of “Jellystone Park.”

There was at least one diamond in the rough, Firehole Barbecue, that served up the best brisket I can remember, giving Dinosaur Barbecue in Syracuse a run for its money. Among the charming staff were Harley, daughter of the proprietor, and her friend Logan.

I am continuing to listen to my audiobook, The Dying Grass (60 hours long) and it was eerie to think that at the same scene of all this excess, 147 years ago, Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce were being chased by General Howard as they tried to escape to Canada.

I am back on the Transamerica trail again, but still not seeing any cycle tourists. Still too early in the season, although I’m sure they’ll catch up to me. Today I face another dilemma, Hamlet histrionics as my friend Eric calls them. Do I continue doing these highpoint parking lots, which involve a lot of dicey sections, or do I just head home on the Transamerica? After lots of inward soliloquies, I decided to keep doing the parking lots. Jane wants me to be done with this, I can’t blame her.

Distance 55 miles, 1,733 total. Time 9 hours with stops. Elevation gain 2,456 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria