Montana Ride 2006, Day 5 - Lake Alva to Big Creek CG
I didn't sleep all that well, mostly because the pillow I'd chosen -- a mesh bag full of clean, folded socks -- was too lumpy to be comfortable. I did a lot of tossing and turning, and the sleeping bag was a bit too warm. So, I was a bit slow getting up, and didn't actually emerge from my nylon hotel room until after 9. I took my time with breakfast, then got my camp packed up. I was pleased to see that my hanging food trick had indeed prevented any bears from stealing my pic-a-nic basket. Actually, speaking of cartoon animals, the chipmunks reminded me distinctly of Chip and Dale, in the way they would chase after each other, squeaking loudly. I guessed that they were squabbling over territory, or the chaser was after the chasee's morsel of food. Whatever the reason, I must have seen a dozen chipmunk chases while I was at Lake Alva. Finally I got all my gear put away again, and strapped to the bike. I had filled up my various water containers from the tap at the campground, since I wasn't sure whether my next camping site, Big Creek, would have water or not. I had chosen Big Creek the night before as a good next location. Kintla Lake looked really appealing until I realized that it required the traversal of 18 or so miles of dirt road. Not something I really wanted to tackle on my little road bike with lots of weight loaded atop it. Next time, I'll have to bring a KLR650. Off and Moving Again
I was pleased to see that my route would take me north on highway 83. It continued being pleasant for many more miles. The vegetation was getting a bit more familiar as I went north, tending more toward tall trees, and less toward grassland. I had planned my route to take me through Kalispell and Whitefish, with the idea that I'd eat lunch in Kalispell, and buy dinner supplies in Whitefish. As I approached Kalispell, it became more and more apparent that I was heading towards tourist territory.
The road got wider, and the speed limit slowed. A forest of billboards arrived on the scene, advertising things which didn't even make sense to me. Now the sides of the road were bordered by dodgy-looking carlots and industrial business parks. Soon I had obviously entered Kalispell proper, and there was nothing but stripmall-laden suburbia as far as I could see. It Must Be About Lunch TimeThen, I was into downtown, with taller buildings (3-4 stories at most). At some point in here, a gent on a Burgman 650 scooter pulled up next to me, and at length asked where I was headed. I said, "camping... but first, lunch." I was about to ask him if he knew of any good places to eat in Kalispell, when he turned to me and said, "I know this great place ahead, if you like burritos." I nodded my assent, and he said, "they have them in Spokane, Seattle, Portland, Boise, and here. It's called queue-dee-oh-bee-ay." Ah. There's a Qdoba 10 minutes walk from my house, but I appreciated his help, so I took him up on his offer to guide me there. "I'm headed right there, myself, follow me." We ended up chatting at each stoplight. It turned out his name was Phil, and he lived in Kalispell. He explained to me, "Montana has two seasons: winter, and road construction," as we approached a number of large, orange vehicles surrounded by flashing lights. He knew Seattle somewhat, having relatives who lived there.
I departed from my lunch stop, but quickly returned when I realized I'd left my Camelbak behind. Finally "all there," I proceeded on to near Whitefish. Now, to Find Something for Dinner, and Somewhere to SleepAs I got close, though, it became apparent that I wasn't going to miss anything by skipping Whitefish, so I stopped at the first supermarket I spotted for dinner makings. I was able to come up with some good sandwich ingredients, since they had a full service deli which would sell me a few slices of cheese and a single roll. It's very hard to shop for just one meal for one person. Everything is sized in multiples. Shopping done, I turned around, and turned left onto the road heading for Glacier. That highway passed through Hungry Horse, and how could I possibly go through Hungry Horse, Montana without getting some postcards? As I was packing up and getting ready to continue, a couple rolled up on Harleys, and we had a brief conversation, in which they highly recommended Going to the Sun Road -- I had previously had one "for" and one "against" vote on that road, so this tipped me in favor of doing it. I mentally added it to the list of things to do before leaving Montana. I found it interesting, through the course of the trip, how many Harley (or Harley imitator) bikes I saw. I probably passed 150-200 motorcycles going the other way on my trip, but only a small handful of them weren't Harleys. Of that handful, most were Goldwings, and I saw a few sport or sport-touring bikes (including a Ducati ST3). Say whatever you like about Harley riders, but there are an awful lot of them out on the road, with nary a sportbike around.
The park was extremely pleasant, with a thick forest of tall trees rising up on either side of the road. Some sections of road were bordered by the spindly, skeletal remains of trees left behind after a large fire several years ago. Then, I passed by a boarded-up toll booth, and wondered why I was leaving the park. Oh, I had misread -- the Big Creek campground is outside of Glacier by a very tiny amount, just to the west of the park boundary. I got to highway 486, and turned left.
There wasn't any other traffic, so I simply took to riding wherever I could find a smooth patch of gravel. It wasn't really the safest choice, since it meant I was riding in the "oncoming" lane some of the time, and had to traverse sections of loose gravel, but it did seem to work. I got confused by a sign, which said "Big Cr. ->", and turned up a road I needn't have turned on. I probably drove half a mile up it before I flagged down a passing park ranger and asked him if I was headed the right direction for the campground. He said that no, I'd turned off just before it. I was coming to the same conclusion, reading through my campground book, but it was very helpful to have confirmation from someone who knew the area. I turned around, and trundled back down the road. I turned back onto 486 and sure enough, within a few hundred feet, I found the sign for the campground. Finally, the CampgroundMy first sight inside the campground was of the campground host's area -- a depressing collection of cars, bicycles, ATVs, and a dilapidated RV. I paused at the information sign, where there was a handprinted sign on a bright yellow sheet of paper: "WARNING! There has been recent bear activity in this area! All food and garbage must be properly stored!" This was in addition to the printed material on how to safely store food and warnings against attracting bears.
I was briefly transported back to my youth, when my family would go backpacking or boating, either situation bringing us into contact with large, rock-skipping-friendly bodies of water, and plenty of skippable rocks. My brother and I would have contests of skipping prowess. There were two contests: most skips, and largest first skip. They were necessarily separate, since to get a big initial skip, the rock always seemed to use up most of its energy in the first jump. I don't think either of us ever "won," or even really got very serious about competing, it was just fun to skip rocks. I returned to my camp, and paid my fee before setting everything else up. I was glad to have a sandwich for dinner, since that was far less aromatic than cooking something up. Setting up the bear bag was much easier this time, but once I got the rope over the tree limb, I couldn't find a place to tie it off! Finally, I realized that I had an excellent mobile anchor handy, so I wheeled the motorcycle over underneath my chosen tree, and tied the cord off to a handlebar.
I found a reasonable return path, and headed back to my camp. It was getting darker as the sun sank below the hilltops around me, and I finished up my postcard-writing and note-taking by the light of my headlamp. With the departure of the light, I decided it must be bedtime, and curled up in my sleeping bag with my book and a small flashlight. You Aren't Afraid of Monsters, Are You?
Then, I heard what I could have sworn were human footsteps, within a few feet of my tent. They came from the river, passed by my tent, and left in the direction of the ridge I'd climbed earlier. I was wide awake and holding my breath. It was so dark that no human could have seen a thing, so I'm guessing I was actually hearing a deer or bear, alternating feet so that I was only hearing one footstep sound per movement. Well, so much for sleeping. I continued laying there, figuring that if whatever it was hadn't messed with me yet, I was probably safe. Surely that animal smelled me. I mean, I could smell myself, and my sense of smell is 1/20th that of most wild animals. A number of hours later, I was startled again by a low grunting noise from the direction of the river (also, coincidentally, the direction where my food bag was tied up, anchored to my motorcycle). This was followed by another large animal passing by on the same path as the first. My imagination produced the image of my motorcycle being knocked over and crushed by a hungry bear. Again, nothing untoward actually happened, but between the bright yellow "BEARS!" signs at the camp entrance and what had just happened, I was not feeling very sanguine. I must have eventually drifted off to sleep, because soon it was light out, and I was waking up from a nightmare. The nightmare was a poorly constructed political parable, in which aliens invaded the earth by offering us clever technology in exchange for us voting them leaders of earth. Once thus installed, they simply killed us all off, 'cause hey, they were the elected leaders, right? My role was as the only sane person on the planet, trying to talk sense into anyone before the election, and trying to lead a rebellion after it. I have a vague sense that Milhouse, the snivelling friend of Bart from the Simpsons, was my only ally in the rebellion. It was a weird, but profoundly disturbing dream.
Created by Ian Johnston. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
