David Peck

CONTINUATION of Chronicles of Rider Dave, Part III
By Dave Peck

On the return trip, we let the horses run through an open meadow. As we reach an all-out gallop, I'm thrilled but getting a bit nervous-there's no stopping my painted beauty. Alongside is my sister with a panicked look on her face as her mount also hits full stride. Seeing her with a death-grip on the horn reminds me of a rag doll flailing in the wind.

After the meadow we move off-trail and bushwhack through the dense woods. Moving down an embankment and into a marshy drainage, my horse brushes against a tree. This seemingly harmless contact triggers my bear spray and releases a blast. Rita takes a direct hit and the cosmic orange cloud settles over all the riders in an instant. The paralyzing effect is immediate. One gal's horse steps into the deepest part of the mud and lunges wildly to free itself. Seeing such chaos among the team, Mike commands everyone off their horses. Order is finally restored amid the persistent bouts of coughing and wheezing. Our eyes still stinging, we ride back to camp and make for the cooler of beer and margaritas. Once again, we enjoy a hearty meal and gather around the campfire for another night of revelry. Before drifting off to sleep, I muse on the day's events and remind myself, "Dave, you're definitely not in Illinois anymore."

Over Too Soon
Our last day of riding is along the edge of Yellowstone Park. It's an epic five-hour journey, a roundabout route back to the Buffalo Horn trailhead. The views are spectacular with virtually no sign of civilization. As we move into the forest, the sky darkens and rain follows. Thunder and lightning from above make me think of The Man From Snowy River. I suppose these conditions are misery for some, but I'm living in a moment of joy and wonderment. Later, a silent moose appears across a ravine. We wind through a heavily timbered landscape with no trail to follow. The forest floor is laced with deadfall, forcing us to weave and hop trees for what seems like hours. There are whispers in the ranks that we're lost, but our capable leader proves the skeptics wrong-we emerge at the trailhead without incident.

Dismounted and gathered around at the 320, our backsides are sore and we're soaked through-but we're glowing from the experience. As we're moving around reminiscing on the weekend's events and saying our fond farewells, I sense a common feeling: everyone wants more of this. And the unspoken thought that moves from one person to the next is, "how do we get back to this alpine wonderland as soon as possible?"

THE END

CONTINUATION OF Chronicles of Rider Dave, Part III
By Dave Peck

Onward and Upward
By mid-morning the day is bright and I'm settling in to my saddle. The trail is sketchy, with mud-covered rocks and narrow, wet bridges, but my horse is sure-footed. A collapsed bridge forces us off-trail and through a creek. I ponder the possible fall of horse and rider, but we all make it across and continue on up the trail. A few minutes later I hear commotion behind me. Looking back, I see a horse with an empty saddle, bucking and gyrating. From my vantage point, I can't tell if the rider is being dragged behind or has been deposited a safe distance from those menacing hooves. Todd, the fallen rider, emerges from the grass, mad as hell but unhurt. I see that his horse is one of those surly-looking ponies-undersized, but strong and ornery. After another scrape between Todd and his mount, a more experienced rider volunteers to swap. Todd is most grateful.

We enter the forest. Trees crowd the single-track. While navigating a more technical section, I get brushed hard against the trees. It becomes evident to me that backcountry horsemen must be in constant danger of puncture wounds-the horse could drive the rider's leg right into a broken tree branch. One of the cowboys sees the potential for disaster and instructs us to put a firm hand on the tree and push away-a simple yet effective technique for preventing trailside impalement.

Base Camp & Ramshorn Lake
After a couple hours, we enter a sub-alpine meadow and see base camp in the distance. A welcome sight. Within a few minutes the group has dismounted and is scoping out the site like curious scouts. I check the mess tent first and then the sleeping accommodations. The cowboy boss, Mike Belderrain, gives us a choice of a cozy cot and woodstove-heated wall tent, or throwing down a sleeping pad in a pup tent. Some eschew both luxuries and declare their intent to sleep under the stars.

Next, I see that the toilet tent is outfitted with double latrines-I wonder who's going to ride shotgun next to me. I know that our city friends aren't going to want to buddy up in this bathroom. Their idea of camping is a stocked hotel suite with steam showers and room service. For my part, I'd rather stroll into the woods when it's time to go.

I'm famished so I return to the mess area to see if lunch is ready. While waiting, I admire the iron cook stove, stocked open shelving, and well-seasoned picnic table. The hungry travelers scarf down sandwiches and chocolate treats, then most remount for a late-afternoon trip to Ramshorn Lake for fishing and sightseeing. Some of us choose to hike this leg for exercise and a change of pace.

Arriving at the lake is a captivating experience. A sea of wildflowers meets emerald green, mirror-like water with a backdrop of dramatic mountains. Like a pearl inside a shell. I'm fascinated by the towering rock battlements to the east, and I grab the binos to scan the mountainside for wildlife. I spot a few bighorn sheep, but they're blended in so well that I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me. Patches of snow glisten in the setting sun. Two of the guests change into some curious-looking waders and waddle into the lake with rods in hand.

Arriving back at camp, we're greeted by the aroma of campfire cooking. Our cook has proven himself a worthy backcountry chef: we devour scrumptious cutthroat trout appetizers and delicious T-bones cooked over a wood fire. I've eaten in lots of restaurants, but I don't think any place I've been can match this atmosphere.

TO BE CONTINUED

Chronicles of Rider Dave PART I

by dave peck

I wake up in Big Sky crust-eyed and weary from my high-speed race across Montana. I'm banged up with burning muscles and trail rash. Yesterday's bike ride in the Black Hills and an over-the-bars crash in the Badlands the night before add to my weakened condition. A day earlier I'd left my family in Illinois, then blitzed through Wisconisin and Iowa in my minivan, dreaming of the life ahead. It's late May and we're relocating to Montana seeking adventure after a decision to leave a hectic life in the Chicago suburbs. My mind is abuzz with anticipation about our future. Where will we live? Will I find work? Where will my children go to school? What is the mountain biking like? Leaving our jobs and moving a family to the Wild West is unlike anything we've done before. But our recent trip to ski the Bozeman-area mountains cleared up any doubt-we were moving to Montana, come what may.
After shaking off the cobwebs, my first impulse is to find a trailhead and begin probing the backcountry. I hit a local restaurant for some strong coffee and huevos rancheros, then head out the door with a purpose. My book on Bozeman-area mountain bike trails leads me to Porcupine Ridge Trail. I mount the bike and take off.
The first few minutes are deceptive; I'm thinking, this is a breeze. But the grade soon steepens and I begin to feel the effects of being 7,000 feet above my comfort zone. The double-track splits, then splits again and again. Now I have the additional concern of retracing my path through this maze. Several miles later, I plunge down a steep, exposed pitch with tires slapping the rocky single-track. I enter a dense stand of firs where I see the trail interrupted by a stream crossing. Instead of splashing through, I skid to a complete stop and quickly look around. I'm not alone. Fifty feet away, the eyes of a bull moose are trained on me. I cautiously pick up my bike and walk through the water to the nearest tree. The moose goes back to grazing and I quietly exit. Two more hours of climbing single-track in alpine meadows, and I'm at an intersection with a sign pointing me back to the trailhead. I shift into my big ring for a long, white-knuckle descent.
What a day! My first Montana bike ride has proven rich in spectacular scenery and laced with lenging terrain. On the way back to Big Sky, I stop for groceries and overhear some chatter about a bear. Apparently a grizzly mauled an elk calf near the highway, close enough that shopkeepers could hear the calf wailing. I remind myself that I'm not in Illinois anymore.
The next day I blast off to Bozeman in search of more single-track. I ask around and am pointed to Bangtail Divide. This ride has myriad challenges. I start out with wet feet when I miss my mark at a stream crossing. Climb, climb, climb. The switchbacks seem endless, but I've found my rhythm. I keep my head down and my weight centered. If you can maintain traction with your rear wheel, climbing on a mountain bike can be enjoyable-but if it's loose rock with stumps and roots littering the trail, the joy can quickly turn to agony. I've heard bike racers refer to the experience as "an exercise in pain management."
The climbing is relentless. I've just about reached my limit but I resist the urge to get off and walk. Finally surmounting the ridge, I pick up speed and begin to ride aggressively. The terrain here is undulating and ideally suited to a cyclist from the Midwest. Incredible views of the Bridgers and the Crazies up here. As I weave down a rocky hillside, a coiled snake appears in my path. I try to veer around but my wheel goes into a rut, instantly stopping the bike and pitching me over the bars. Dazed from hitting headfirst, I take stock of my other body parts and find abrasions on my knees, elbow, and hip. My right hand aches, but seems to work. I look up the hill at the snake-still coiled, undisturbed and oblivious to me and my wreck. I remount my rig, cautious about getting up too much speed again. The trail has turned rocky and narrow in the turns. I plummet down and down, eventually finding the parking area at Bracket Creek. I think this is what they call an epic ride.
Day three takes me to Twin Cabin Trail in Big Sky. The only person in the parking lot is a leather-covered dude on horseback. He rides up to me and in a gravelly voice says, "You know there's bear up there?" "Yes sir," I say. "I have a bear bell." He glares at me while I stand there in cycling shorts, holding my bell. I might as well have been wearing a leotard.
I take off, but the horseman's warning has spooked me. Fifteen minutes up the trail, I realize that I've left my pack, with flat tire kit and pepper spray inside, hanging from the roof rack of the van. I consider going ahead without it but instead wheel around and sprint back to get it. My ride starts and then starts again.
The terrain is mostly single-track in open meadows with great vistas. Far ahead, I spot a large herd of elk. At the top of each rise, I expect to close the gap but they sense my presence and keep moving away. Seeing the elk has calmed me and I start to enjoy the ride. Heading up, up, up, I notice that my bike is a little out of sorts. Yesterday's crash bent my right brake lever and put a couple of small dents in the aluminum frame. Bummer.
Shaded by loosely placed trees, I approach the summit. It's thick with brush. Getting edgy again, I begin talking to myself out loud. I'm creating as much noise as a solo rider can make. As I urge my metallic steed over a small rise, I see three large animals moving quickly across my path 150 yards out. When the largest one stops and rises up on its rear haunch, I suddenly realize the full impact of the moment. It's a sow grizzly bear with two cubs in tow.
In an instant, I unclip my pedals and jump off the bike while reaching for my spray. I think about grabbing the camera in my pack but my gut tells me to pay close attention to these animals. With a loud snort, the sow leads the cubs away-but not before raising up and snorting at me a second time. It's one of those riveting moments where you don‘t know what to do except watch. At the same time, I'm considering my exit strategy. The bears quickly leave my sight but this comes as little comfort. I'm so rattled from the encounter that I can't continue. I wheel around and head back in a daze, arriving in the parking lot numb, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
I've just discovered what many people already know about this place. It is so
rewarding to ride here. There's a prize at almost every turn: white-capped mountain peaks, alpine lakes, glowing wildflowers, and the huge thrill of encountering wildlife. You get a sense of being in the wilderness even when you're close to the road.
It's a different world here.