Between the Rockies and a Hard Place.

July 14, Saturday I think...

I woke up in Bozeman, and sat down to try and get another post up; the other "ZAMMers" as Marcus and John call themselves, left before me to go to the university where so much of the important action of ZTAOMM took place. It took them a while to find Montana hall but I sent them the picture from the ZMM Facebook page just as they had been directed to it by a librarian who apparently is a big fan of the book 

I packed up from the Bozeman Inn, which was a lovely place to stay, and headed for the University myself; even with the picture as reference it took me a little while to find Montana hall, and when I arrived I had a text from John telling me that the building was locked. So I went up and took a couple pictures and managed to take a halfway decent picture of the interior through the front door, and then headed off to look for someplace to have breakfast. 

The Church of Reason.

MSU is a lovely campus, blending the modern with early 20th C. in harmony with the surroundings. 

I found myself at "Joe’s Marketplace", which seemed appropriate, but it was in fact more of a market that a café. However, the proprietor was kind enough to direct me to the coffee shop in back, behind their parking lot. The International Coffee shop is as cool a college town coffeehouse as one could hope, for and I had a great cold brew and a delightful egg sandwich (they call it a Panini but I’m not really sure it was a Panini) and I sat and got some more pictures uploaded. All in all, I was trying not to make it too heavy a day, and decided that I would be satisfied if I made it as far as Butte,

The inside of the International Coffee shop was lovely, and cool even with all the doors open. Good coffee, too.

At the International Coffee shop I had the pleasure of meeting a young man named Pete, a student at MSU, who was working there during the summer to try and establish residency. Pete hails from Massachusetts, and on a whim I asked him what it was like to go to college in a red state when he came from such a blue one. That got us into an earnest conversation about the election of 2016: what went wrong, his part in it (he voted third-party - kids!) and whether he had learned his lesson or not...  Peter is also a motorcyclist and was fascinated by our journey across the states to emulate Robert Pirsig's journey of 50 years ago. He has read the book (!) and says it is already something of a bible to him and he’s very excited to read it again, some years after he read it the first time, and see what has changed for him. 

We exchanged email addresses and I hope to keep the dialogue going with him: this feels like the first really successful conversation I’ve been able to have with anyone since leaving Chicago . 

This was on the wall. It's a fair reminder that we have brought all our current troubles on ourselves.

There are some streets in Butte that I just didn't even dare try on the bike, slightly top-heavy as it is. I didn't realize it was called Butte because it was literally built on one...

Butte is a really neat community: an old copper mining town. They were having the Montana Folk Festival there, and there were no rooms to be had, and since the weather was so nice (hot, but very clear and dry) I decided to strike out for Missoula and got on the interstate right behind another motorcycle, a Beautiful Indian Road Chief or somesuch and we paced each other back-and-forth through he changes in terrain, until I arrived, in the evening, in Missoula, Montana. Now, I should point out that this puts me a full day (or two, depending on how you look at it) ahead of my itinerary. (although exactly on a pace with the itinerary the ZMM Quality folk have laid out in their map...)

This was the lovely rest stop on the way to Missoula; Montana takes their rest stops seriously.

The light began to fade on my way to Missoula - it happens really quickly when you are driving between two mountains.

It's really hard not to stop every 100 yards in Montana - it's that lovely.

I was feeling very accomplished as I pulled into town I pulled into the Sinclair gas station (I love that they have Sinclair gas stations here) only to discover I had received a text from Marcus (&John) telling me that Missoula was almost full; so I struck out to try and find lodging for the evening. I had actually been prepared to camp tonight but, as it turns out, arriving a day early was not the best thing in the world. 

Missoula has a marathon the following day, and every single room was completely booked up: even the KOA had no available spaces. After texting back-and-forth with Marcus (&John) I decided to try a Super 8 on the outskirts of town that had *appeared* as though it might have rooms (to them) as they had arrived a couple hours before me; the Super 8 was also completely booked, but the night clerk was kind enough to point me toward the Tamarack Inn. Now, the Tamarack Inn seems like a nice enough place (although overpriced, this weekend, like everything else) but their address in Google is actually nowhere near the motel. I found myself almost 20 miles to the south on Montana 93, and had to find my way back to Missoula. After a frantic phone call with the night clerk there, (fortunately I made a reservation while I was at the Super 8 because I honestly think I may have gotten the last motel room in town) I arrive at the Inn and settle in. I am glad I called to confirm I was on my way, because I heard the woes of another traveler whose room had been given away, because they said they would be there shortly, and then took over an hour to appear.

The weather across the distance from Bozeman to Missoula was beautiful and the terrain continue to surprise me: leaving Bozeman I found myself in plains again and although the vegetation was limited because of our altitude the terrain itself was relatively monotonous. We left the mountains of Bozeman behind us, and as I followed my "friend" on the Indian, I was surprised once again at how rapidly the terrain can change. Today was also the latest that I have found myself riding; it is in fact the first day that I’ve actually found myself riding at night, and because the bugs are worst at dusk I found myself having to stop and clean my visor just to be able to see. 

The visor is also the first mechanical failure I have had since striking out; the left side hinge mechanism of my visor seems to be failing, and I think I may need to have one set expressed out . Although, while I was lost, looking for the motel, I did happen to see a Honda and Yamaha dealer south on Montana 93 - so perhaps tomorrow I’ll be able to get a new visor. It is almost midnight and I am completely exhausted from the days exertions; so, I’m going to sign off now and finish this post in the morning. I don’t think I’ve said this yet, but I want to express my genuine gratitude to everyone who is bothering to read these little posts. Parts of each day are difficult and it helps to know that there are people thinking about/love me back home, when I have to surmount the difficult parts. So thank you, and I hope everyone is well and rested and enjoying the summer....

Sunday 7/15

Out of Missoula to the Blackfoot at the bridge. 



Then back through Missoula to head for Grangeville. US12 is a great drive; changes personalities completely at the Lolo Pass.

My impressions of riding US12 from Montana into Idaho at the Lolo Pass:

Montana: you’ll never top the Beartooth Highway

Idaho: hold my beer

Longer version:

US12 in Montana:

I know it’s distracting, all this natural beauty - but if you stay safe and concentrate, we’ll keep the roads well marked and provide lots of scenic pullovers.

US12 in Idaho:

F**K YOU.

F**K YOUR SUSPENSION

TRY NOT TO FALL OFF, B**CH!!

Because seriously, what had been a super clean, pretty fast (70mph) scenic country road, switched on an angry bitch-face at the Idaho line and turned into 90 miles of the “corkscrew” from Laguna Seca that hadn’t been maintained since the Truman administration, and whose idea of a "safety pulloff" was "a loose pile of gravel perched on what appeared to be the treetops below" and that didn’t appear to actually be lined  in any way

Until, of course, you get to the bottom of the valley: if you survive the descent, *then* you can have a beautiful, newly paved asphalt with fresh, bright lines. 

Except, she (Idaho) heard that crack about the Truman administration, so f*** you, she thinks, I’ll just maintain it today, shall I!? I’ll maintain thirty ducking miles if it, because you don’t mind riding your sport bike through alternating hot tar  and loose gravel, do you? DO YOU!?

There are no pictures from this portion of the ride, and certainly no video. They would be terrifying. And incriminating. But, it was really fun.

And now, it's check out time in Grangeville, on to ... somewhere else today. Almost certainly, somewhere in Oregon. There are lots more pictures to this section, but I am at checkout time, and things are STILL uploading. BECAUSE WIFI IN THE WEST IS A LIE.

More soon. (I hope.)

Pirsig Day 1 and 2. (July 8-9)

I leave cousin Jo Ann Musumeci behind, and head West.

It is now the first real day of the Robert Pirsig recreation (such as it will be) and I am thinking a lot about the book now. I had such a great time seeing old friends and discovering (re-discovering) a relative, but now it is time to get "serious."

After leaving Minneapolis one of the first things that I notice is that the terrain is beginning to really flatten out. The low rolling hills  around the Mississippi give way to a flat plane. This is still extremely agrarian country and the roads have begun to straighten and level,as well; when I think of farm country I think of rural Maryland, to the west of Frederick, or perhaps, more appropriately, the Eastern Panhandle of Maryland and Delaware through which I rode coming back from the shore. What we don't realize in the east is that even in the lower panhandle of the Delmarva Peninsula, as flat as it is, the eye is always stopped by the tree line or a rise or town: here the fields go on forever. As the country flattens out,  I've become aware that one can see much farther than I've ever been accustomed to seeing. I know that Montana is called "big sky" country but I feel as though I am already there. 

Not too far along in Minnesota, I take advantage of a rest stop, and it is extremely well-appointed, and i take some time out to chat with Mike, the maintenance superintendent of the rest stop. he admires my bike, and tells me how he and his wife go to Sturgis each year. We have a lovely conversation - motorcycles, not zen - and I get all the bugs cleaned off my visor (the bugs will become a constant as I get into the Plains states...)

I remember driving through Ireland and commenting on the fact that around every turn it seems, a castle or ruin would rise up from the terrain... in the West Plains castle ruins are replaced by the structures of agriculture, which rise like modern castles out of the glass-flat landscape. You can see from incredibly far away the shape rising up from the horizon and it grows and grows until you're upon it, and it is a silo, or grain elevator, or some other structure of modern agrarian economy sized to a scale that I've never seen before. Another thing I have noticed is that the roads often follow rail lines and the railway accommodates trains of a size I have also never seen. Across western Minnesota I pace a train to the south that seems to be at least 3 miles long. There is the occasional overpass, but for the most part the land flattens out to a Euclidean plan and eventually the only variation is the modulation of green denoted by the planting of different crops. 

From a distance, this looked just like a medieval castle...

Even in this terrain I am surprised to discover that the landscape can take 180 degree turn with almost no warning; halfway through my ride I realize that a breeze has picked up; the breeze becomes wind but I have never ridden in a crosswind like this before. I remember many years ago, in the 80's,  on a beach trip, we had to evacuate the shore because of an oncoming hurricane. My friend Jason had ridden his motorcycle to the beach, and, as we were evacuating inland, he was out in front of us and we marveled at the sight of him riding in a straight line but leaned over at almost a 30° angle just to keep some tracking off the road because of the winds. This is what the second half of my day is like -  the wind is a constant 90° to my direction of travel and at least 40 mph all the time.

Shortly after the wind picks up, I am surprised to see a small lake to my right, then another to my left, and soon I am completely surrounded buy water on both sides; I realize I am traversing the Lake country of western Minnesota and the eastern Dakotas.

Not too long after leaving Minneapolis, the heat becomes oppressive again. My first destination is Ellendale,  North Dakota, but I make my first variation from the Pirsig route early on to avoid a storm to the north, and I wind up in Aberdeen, South Dakota, by  following Rte. 12 pretty much exactly parallel to Ellendale to the north. As I'm driving, I can see the storm dumping to the north, and when I meet up with riders who were also following the "ZAMM" trail (as they call it) they tell me that they barely managed to avoid the storm that included tornadoes and devastating hail. I hope Pirsig will forgive me, but I am relieved for my decision. I phone ahead to get a reservation in Aberdeen, and get a room in a motel that is also housing quite a few members of what I believe to be Army National Guard. 

You can see the storm I dodged off to the right (North)

This becomes my first attempt to strike up conversation, but it is completely ineffectual as they make it very clear that they are not allowed to (nor predisposed) to discuss politics or the state of the world, (much as one young woman (a corporal, I think) looked as though she would very much like to. I have booked the motel online but find, when I get there, that my confirmation number does not match -  although they have my reservation - and the night clerk cannot help me. I throw up my hands and pay again, unpack the bike,  and crash like a stone. I wake into oppressive heat, and attempt to deal with the overcharge with the day manager, as the night clerk suggested I do. UPDATE: Status still pending as of 7/13. The trip to Aberdeen has been a little brutal: over 300 miles on the straight edge roads and blistering heat, leaning half the way just to keep the bike from going off into one of the lakes. My next stop is Lemmon, North Dakota and it promises more of the same: this will prove to be one of my toughest but most rewarding rides, almost 350 miles. But I know that along this ride I'm going to cross the Missouri River, and  my connection with Robert Pirsig's narration will deepen as we enter reservation territory.

I stop for lunch in Bowdle, ND, and take a moment to wander through the town. Such as it is. While everything natural is much larger out here, everything "human", it sometimes feels, is smaller. It's hot as hell, and the only sound outside the Bowdle luncheonette is the flag rope clanging against the pole across the street. Then, I am off to Mobridge to cross the great river.

The GoPro has remained the bane of my existence: I simply did not spend enough time trying to familiarize myself with the function before I left, the Bluetooth connection with the phone app I am trying to used to control it is dodgy, and I suspect that the speeds I am traveling are too high for it to remain reliably focused ahead of me...  but I vow to get video as I crossed the Missouri, as this is a moment that Pirsig has emphasized in the narrative and I know that the terrain is going to change dramatically after the crossing. This will also be my first time in "reservation territory" and I am looking forward just seeing what that will feel like, in this time of political upheaval, partisan division,  conversations about race, etc.  out of procreation I cannot help but reflect on the fact that before any other divisions occurred, our nation, as we know it today,  was built on the backs of the native populations we displaced. As a white man traveling into "Indian" territory I'm mildly apprehensive but fascinated to see what the culture looks like in the 21st-century.  

I cross the Missouri at Mobridge, just as Pirsig did,  and as I wind my way up the bank on the far side change in the terrain is dramatic. Every mile I travel west from the Missouri I'm increasingly aware of being in the High Plains. I'm entering the landscape that shaped the mythos of the American West. I seek lodging in Lemmon, where Pirsig stayed, but nothing is available, and so I move on until I can find a room. I find a room just a little further on in Hettinger,  and bunk down for the night; from Hettinger, I will move into Montana on the following day. At a gas station in Hettinger, I meet Marcus and John, two fellow travelers, who are also on cycles and tracing the Pirsig route for this, the fiftieth anniversary of the original ride.

The Missouri comes into sight

Now, that's a pretty river...

Look: Hills!!!

Also - I finally saw cows.

THE HIGH COUNTRY.

7/13/18 (Originally)

Okay. Two things.This is the first post I am attempting to write using voice to text; and I am doing this post out of order because I want to get it down as quickly as I can - there are several posts still being edited that come between the "bang bang kiss kiss" post and this. Also, if you are reading this first please notice that I have finished editing "bang bang kiss kiss" and added photographs. Yes, I know that it has been almost a week - I'm just exhausted. God, am I exhausted.

I realize now, thinking about it, that yesterday is a day I have been anticipating since I first conceived of this journey. Although Pirsig does not mention it by name, it is clear from reading the book that the route they follow take them over the Beartooth Pass. Now, if you are motorcyclist, you know that the Beartooth Highway is on the the "top three roads to ride" list of any motorcyclist. The Tail of the Dragon on the border between North Carolina and Tennessee is another, and the third will vary, probably, depending on where the motorcyclist lives. I have now ridden two of the three, and I can tell you, with no lack of certainty, that if I had to do one again (and again) it would be the Beartooth Highway. One of the challenges of riding the highway, is, of course, that it is only possible about three months out of the year: when we traversed the pass, I saw some of the heavy machinery, off to the side of the road, that they used to clear the pass when it becomes possible, and let me tell you: that is some seriously heavy equipment. But, anyway, I have been posting (on Facebook) some shares from "ZMMQuality: On Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" a Facebook page to which I belong.

Photo of Chris, John and Sylvia at Beartooth Pass
ZMM Quality

They have been posting every day since the anniversary of the beginning of Pirsig's ride and there is a photo there from their time, going across the Beartooth pass. Pirsig really launches into the philosophical portion of the book at this point, and it becomes clear that he is drawing an analogy between the "High Country" and what he calls the "High Country of the Mind"

It all makes sense now.

In this place, one has access to what C.S. Lewis referred to as "The Numinous" - a sense of the divine that transcends morality, and simply inspires awe (and, if one is lucky, I think, gratitude).

Red Lodge - a charming "frontier" town.

Yesterday began cool, (what a relief!) I had stopped in Laurel, but I made my way to Red Lodge

John and Marcus at breakfast. I was late, and they were very patient.

to meet Elspeth Payne's friend Randy, and to meet the two other motorcyclists with whom I have occasionally joined on the road: Marcus and John. We are taking different approaches to following Pirsig's passage, but we are also equally aghast that we have not found any other motorcyclists following Pirsig's  route, as far as we can tell on the 50th anniversary of the ride. I suppose we three are the ultimate effete  ninnies of the motorcycling world.  At any rate, on the recommendation of Randy, we all met at the red Lodge Café for a 

hearty breakfast. I hope I remembered to get a photograph of the unbelievably tacky sign outside the café. We enjoyed our breakfast and Randy joined us when we were near completion. We all sat and chatted (as I have been unable to with anyone else - more on that later -  about the state of world affairs. And then Marcus and John headed off on their bikes immediately. I took a brief tour of Red Lodge with Randy who was kind enough to direct me to a Trail outfitters, where I could get a bedroll - I have been traveling with only a sleeping pad to put it inside my tent, and do not have a sleeping bag and Randy was concerned that my neck would be exposed on our trip over the pass, so I am now the proud owner of a BUFF - (Google it).

Randy in front of the bank that Butch Cassidy utterly failed to rob.

But I was also fortunate enough to get a sort of backpackers quilt that I can use as a bed cover should I decide to camp - which, given the cost of motel rooms in this part of the world, I think I will be doing soon.


At any rate, as I noted in the previous blog post I was, upon arriving in Laurel, able to discern the mountains in the distance above the foothills: a ghostly shadow, delineating what I realized would be the first real mountains I have ever seen in my life, hovering over the clear outlines of the foothills. As one nears Red Lodge, they grow in one's field of view precipitously, but, at first for someone who has lived in Central Maryland and traveled extensively up-and-down West Virginia, my response was "meh" - I've seen mountains before.

This looks like West Virginia - what's the big dea-

Oh.

Oh.

They just keep getting bigger.

And bigger.

It doesn't take long for that "meh" impression to be completely and forever dispelled - as we begin to rise up, the majesty of the mountains surrounding us is genuinely awe-inspiring - and those who know me know: I don't say that easily. Additionally,  the realization that we are going to be climbing those (on a motorcycle) is a little bit terrifying. But, the Beartooth Highway is as enjoyable a road for a motorcyclist as one can imagine.

And I realize that if only briefly, on this entire journey,  for ONE day I am going to be the envy of every motorcyclist here. I have endured a constantly sore butt, horrible back spasms and pain,
joint aches and pains in my elbows and shoulders, you name it, all because I chose to bring the bike I brought, that most motorcyclists, who have chosen far more suitable machines for their long-distance trek, do not have to endure - but for one brief day, I am going to be traveling the roads for which my machine was actually designed. And I lick my chops with anticipation.

Beyond that,  words literally fail - something else that will sound odd, coming from me... but:

Following will be the pictures that I was able to take with my phone while I travel the highway, bridged the Pass and came back down. There will be far better photos up on the photograph site, because for the first time, I regularly employed my grown-up camera, and getting those to the web will be more time consuming than this post permits.

Nothing else can possibly do justice to the vistas surrounding the roads I traveled. It is simply one of the two most beautiful places I have ever been (the other being The Dingle Peninsula of Ireland, and parenthetically, in many ways for the same reasons)

But for now I'm going to shut up. I leave you to the photographs.

This is one of those times that I missed a real opportunity - this couple was lovely (they took the picture of me above - and they live in Peoria. I am going THROUGH Peoria - on the way home, in theory - so if I had gotten contact info, I could have met up with them, assuming they were home before me. 

I'm thinking of doing a picture book of the journey - if I do, this will be the last page: sunset selfie.

            (Note: it did...)