Afraid of the rain and the cold, I wrapped up with waterproof gear and packed, then unpacked in a forgetful frenzy to locate the straps that hold the tank bag on. Too dumb to be afraid of the altitude, the un-paved roads, the snow and the black ice.
We hauled up to West Yellowstone Montana and joined the long queues to get into the first National Park, my yearly pass permitted us to use the ‘express’ lane and we waited in line next to piles of slowing thawing snow. I should have known better than to visit on a holiday weekend. Inside the first sighting of two lonesome bison caused traffic chaos, in spite of the signs everyone stops on the roadway to take pictures from their cars. I have found that whenever I stop, parked precariously, in an attempt to capture yet another amazing sight then, not 200 yards down the road there is a scenic rest area, true enough around the corner there is parking and a large herd of bison. Frustrated by the delay, I didn’t stop.
Crossing the park west to east there is an option to loop down past Ol’ Faithful. Not wishing to pass up the opportunity to see the old geeza we impatiently queued until the Guzzi started to complain. There are a finite number of times any component can be used and I was mindful that we were burning a lot of clutch life repeatedly crawling forward 10′ uphill, we bailed and took the other route to the north. There the only stoppage was to watch a large black bear ford a stream and shake itself dry. I snapped this ‘Sasquatch’ like image as it disappeared back into the forest.
Snow melting by the side of the road stopped melting and spread out across the meadows as we climbed. It got cold, I got more afraid as the bike lost power in the thin air and ice warning signs became more frequent. the radar had suggested that my window of less rain would close around 2 pm and I dreaded the thought of rain or snow on these frozen roads.
The routes convert again at Lake and I naively imagined a downhill run to warmer climes by a sun kissed shore but we kept on climbing next to the Yellowstone river that was flowing out of not into the lake. Then, to cap it off, 5 miles or so of un-paved road (soon to be re-paved) towards the eastern exit skirting a frozen lake before climbing further.
The descent from way above the snow line was scary and I held off on testing the limits of our new tyres. Magnificent, awesome and terrifying al at once. I saw sulphur pools vent steam, mountain goats seriously defy gravity, bison by the roadside ignore and ignored by the traffic and melt water cascade down the rocks or smear across the road between banks of snow. Sated but glad to leave it all behind and relieved as she got her breath back on the road to Cody.
Buffalo Bill is not forgotten in Cody, a little too much for my tastes so I passed up the chance to fire ‘real’ guns and pressed on 50 miles to Greybull. The landscape change drew expletives from my lips once more. Cresting onto a desert plain rimmed with snow capped mountains down an arrow straight empty road as the sky cleared and the sun returned. I knew where Greybull was long before I arrived, the road flew towards a range of mountains and, like a ‘Tron cycle’ would have to turn left or right and there would be a junction and a town. This one had old fire bombing planes parked in the desert as part of a museum.
Rosey welcomed me too the ‘Historic Greybull Hotel and Speakeasy’ and sold me on a room opening onto the street. The hotel owner was also the Mayor she told me and despite having two prosthetic limbs still climbed the 26 steep stairs to where the majority of the hotel was on the first floor. Quirky and classy, I liked it. Not so much the siren that sounds at 9pm to announce a curfew for the young people.
I repaired to a local bar where Carla, Jim and Tom made me feel right at home despite a bust, possibly entrapment, by the local PD for selling drive-through beer to a minor.
Le Mans man 