by Paul Howard
The privilege of such proximity was brief as our highland odyssey continued on a westerly track before curving back south down a steep, rough descent into the headwaters of the Green River. Just before the descent started, Trevor and I came across a large, brown, hairy animal ambling around in a stand of birch saplings. We had just passed a sign that read ‘Grizzly Bear Area: Special Rules Apply’, though it hadn’t deigned to explain what those special rules might be. Fortunately, we didn’t need an impromptu lesson. It was a moose. It considered us briefly with sublime indifference, then continued ambling.
Ahead, Stephen rode as if he were still trying to warm up. In fact, he was intent on ensuring his arrival in Pinedale before the anticipated closing time of the bicycle shop in order to re-true his increasingly buckled rear wheel. In spite of this apparent handicap, he disappeared down the hill like a bat out of hell and then kept going along the valley bottom until he was well out of sight.
For the rest of us laggards, however, the upper reaches of the valley seemed to defy gravity. The route map indicated we should be heading downhill, and the logic of having a river flowing in the same direction as we were cycling seemed incontrovertible. Yet the effort required for each pedal stroke seemed far more than that necessitated by the constant headwind.
I could only presume those involved in the early tie drives along this very same stretch of river were not similarly confounded. Tie drives – where timber from the surrounding mountains was harvested in vast quantities before being driven or floated downriver to be used as ties or sleepers on the ever-expanding railway network – came to the Green River in 1867. Under the impetus of Charles DeLoney, described as a ‘youthful Civil War veteran from Michigan’, the timber harvested that season by 30 men was then driven 130 miles downstream on the flood waters of the following spring to the railhead at Green River City.
The quantity of timber involved in this particular drive, and that of the following year, was lost in the mists of time, but similar drives in Utah provided up to 350,000 ties in a year. Perhaps repentant at the scale of denudation he had caused, DeLoney went on to become Wyoming’s first forest supervisor.
The Green River’s other claim to fame is as the starting point for Major John Wesley Powell’s first descent of the Colorado River through the then uncharted lands around the Grand Canyon. Powell, another Civil War veteran and by this point reduced to only one arm, took it as an affront that, while the country had now been explored from coast to coast, there was still such a vast, unmapped area. Almost completely ignorant of the terrain ahead, and equipped with what were effectively no more than wooden rowing boats, it took Powell and his nine fellow explorers more than three months and innumerable near drownings to reach civilisation again 1,000 miles away in modern-day Arizona. It put our travails into appropriate perspective.
Humbled and subdued, it came as a considerable surprise to find the apparently randomly located ‘The Place Café’ was still alive and kicking. So too, thankfully, were its staff. Stephen had already ordered a late lunch. This was no time for him to demonstrate his otherwise impeccable table manners: it was after 2 p.m. and he still had another 30 miles to cover before he would reach the sanctuary of the bike shop.
Clearly suffering from delusions as much as hunger, I ordered, to universal surprise, a salad. I was sure I had intended to ask for a large bacon-cheeseburger and chips, but both Trevor and Stephen confirmed that the salad that soon arrived was exactly as I had requested. Per arrived and Stephen, having already finished, took his leave. I made unconvincing noises of gustative appreciation; Per and Trevor tucked into their vast burgers with carnivorous relish.
Still bemused, we saddled up once more. Almost immediately, I felt a changed man. Gone was the lethargy of previous days. In its stead I found a renewed, if unfathomable, joie de vivre. I fairly sprinted up the hill after the café. Then came a glorious, sweeping series of gentle descents on smooth tarmac that took us halfway to Pinedale. I couldn’t go fast enough. It was plain, open country and the skies were thick with threatening, leaden clouds. Yet I was in heaven.
This unlikely, salad-fuelled state of grace continued on the gravel trails that ran into town. Given the apparent downturn in the weather, the continued evidence of the impact of recent rains in the slick, gooey surface and overflowing drainage channels should have seemed ominous. But I was carefree. I communed silently with the nearby ranchland and the now-distant Wind River Mountains until I found myself, to my considerable surprise, on the outskirts of Pinedale.
Suddenly aware of my obnoxious state and, more particularly, that of my bike, I stopped at a car wash. A pair of youthful cowboys with a huge pick-up belied their brash, overbearing exteriors and offered me the remnants of the time they had already paid for. They asked where I was from.
‘England. And you?’
‘Pinedale born and raised,’ they said in a way that made it clear they had neither been required nor desired to venture much further afield.
Yet opinions of Pinedale were divergent. After locating Per, Trevor and Stephen, who had succeeded in fixing his wheel but only through the expedient of doing it himself, it being too complex a task for the hardware store-cum-bike shop, we headed along the main drag to find somewhere to eat. It could never be called a charming town, though it possessed the answers to all our immediate needs.
As if to prove the point, we settled on a Chinese restaurant, though we could have chosen Indian (as in the country of that name, rather than original natives of Pinedale), Mexican or burgers from any number of diners. The couple at the next table were travelling retirees. They had come to Pinedale to assess its merits for relatives who were also intent on perpetuating the American tradition of relocating when drawing a pension.
‘We won’t recommend they come here. It’s too open and windy and there are no trees.’
From our brief experience to date, it was difficult to argue. Certainly, our route into town could not have been called picturesque. The town itself had an unfinished air, perhaps associated with recent expansion on the back of the discovery of substantial oil deposits in the vicinity; we had passed several dowdy motels, disreputable-looking even, and had in the end been thankful that they were full, block-booked by rig workers.
Then the waiter added his implied denunciation of his adopted home town, or perhaps just of his current employment in the family business. In a strong Chinese accent and in very broken English he expressed a powerful yearning to join us on our journey (or at least undertake a similar trip – it was the adventure he sought, not necessarily our company). To have travelled so far from his native land yet still seem so unsatisfied was disturbing to see.
Nevertheless, an after-dinner exploration of the town gave a different, homelier impression. I had no qualms leaving my bike unlocked outside the municipal library. Access to computers and the Internet was free. I read more welcome messages of support from home, including a suggestion that a group rendition of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’ might nicely complement our Thomas the Tank Engine misadventures.
The residential streets nearby were tidy and green, with well-kept lawns and immaculate yards. Buoyed by this discovery, I returned to the hotel to find the others in thrall to the television. Michael Jackson had died. I sought solace – from the intrusion of MTV rather than Wacko’s untimely demise – in my copy of the Western Wyoming Penny Pincher. Along with adverts for drive-thru’ liquor stores and an open house for alpacas, one particular request caught my eye.
‘WANTED. 12-ga pump or semi-auto shotgun, ugly condition preferred.’
Perhaps Pinedale wasn’t quite so homely after all.
CHAPTER 18
ENCOUNTER WITH A COWBOY
DAY 15
Unsurprisingly, our accommodation in Pinedale was not a patch on that at Brooks Lake. It had the great benefit, however, of a kitchen. We made the most of the facilities. Between us we had assembled quite a feast: cereals; toast with a variety of spreads; porridge; yoghurt; and fresh fruit.
There was also fruit juice and coffee. All that was missing was Radio 4. Instead we had MTV still blaring away in the other room.
Our motivations for such excess – to save money and time compared to eating elsewhere – had been legitimate. But neither goal was fulfilled. We had each bought more food than was needed and as a result we remained rooted to the spot, indulgently gluttonous, for far longer than was strictly necessary to set us up for a day’s riding. After half an hour, even the excuse that we needed to build up our reserves as we were once again heading into a vast area of nothingness – there was no grocery guaranteed to provide anything useful for the next 220 miles – was running a bit thin.
Finally, we summoned the courage to depart. As we did, it started to rain. Heavily. Stephen passed up the chance to purchase a pair of waterproof overtrousers. In spite of the weather and our previous experience, Stephen’s reluctance didn’t seem unreasonable. It was inspired in part by budgetary constraints created by having left his previous job (something to do with IT in the car industry) and not yet having started his new one (something else to do with IT in the power industry). It was also inspired by a near-pathological aversion to carrying superfluous gear – he had the lightest load of all of us – and a dogged belief that things would come right in the end. What’s more, by the end of the day we hoped to be in the Great Divide Basin, the first desert of the trip.
It was more of a surprise that a shop selling such items was open before 7 a.m. in an otherwise still somnolent Pinedale, a town of below average annual precipitation in one of the driest states in the US. Clearly the proprietor was either a fool or an opportunist: in the same way as an ice-cream seller in the Arctic would have only a short season, he had deduced that the most had to be made of such infrequent windows of good fortune.
The first 35 miles of the day were on paved roads, the first 17 on US Highway 191. The rain intensified from heavy to diluvian. It was now on a par with our descent into Lima. The road was covered in standing water. It was like riding through a cold shower. We were assailed by rain from above, spray from below and splashes to our sides from passing vehicles.
By the time we turned off the main road, the situation was grim. In full kit, I was uncomfortably cold. Stephen was in a far worse condition. At 26 he was the youngest in our group, but was already toughened by considerable experience: he had hiked the complete Appalachian Trail, the world’s longest footpath, without a break, and was more of a mountain biker than the other three of us put together. What’s more, his incredible energy levels had been amply illustrated by the speed at which he had cycled the previous day and his aversion to a television-free motel room. Yet he still had no waterproof trousers, and what passed for his waterproof top was really in breach of the trades descriptions act – it was a top, but that was it.
Imagining how I would have felt in Stephen’s shoes – and, more pertinently, shorts and top – hypothermia seemed a distinct possibility. The few ranches passed early in the day had now dissipated into nothingness. Self-sufficiency would be the only option, yet for one still just warm enough to pedal the prospect of stopping in such vile conditions seemed anathema. I cursed the waterproof-clothing salesman in Pinedale for not having been more persuasive.
More selfishly, having lugged a full set of waterproofs with me for over 1,000 miles to avoid just such an eventuality, the thought of having to stop and prolong my own discomfort to accommodate somebody else’s oversight seemed to be asking a lot of my generosity of spirit. What’s more, no self-respecting Yorkshireman would let a drop of rain catch them out; they’d never venture outside if they did. Then again, Stephen wasn’t from Yorkshire. He hailed instead from the much balmier climes of Mississippi. It crossed my mind that it could well be the case that no self-respecting Mississippian would be caught out in quite such conditions anywhere other than on the Tour Divide; or in hurricane season.
Besides, Stephen was doing a confoundingly good job of demonstrating that all my suppositions about hypothermia were hypothetical, or a vicarious projection of my own hypochondria, or both. Although manifestly cold and damp, he continued to ride uncomplainingly. The history of exposure to rain might not be shared, but his commitment to the old Yorkshire dictum ‘mustn’t grumble’ was to the manner born.
Then, as if to put all such debate to an end, after three hours of incessant downpour, the rain came to an abrupt halt. The sky was still battleship grey, the road was still made of brown glue, but it was dry. We were grateful for small mercies.
In fact, the dirt roads were not impassable, just unpleasant. It looked like we were riding through a thick layer of peanut butter. I imagined it felt pretty similar too. This proved to be a useful analogy. By applying my natural sandwich preference for smooth, rather than crunchy, to the road surface, I found progress was improved. The ‘smooth peanut butter’ tracks tended to look slippery and treacherous but were in fact watery in nature and often concealed a hard-packed base on which reasonable progress could be made. In contrast, the ‘crunchy’ areas looked outwardly appealing because of the traction hinted at by the nuts (sorry, stones) in the general gooiness, but were in fact too stodgy to be palatable; I mean, cycleable.
A moderate climb led to a slightly higher plateau than the land through which we had been cycling and provided, according to the guidebook, ‘some of the emptiest, biggest, most dramatic views imaginable’. Just imagining the area ever experiencing sunshine, let alone views, was sufficient challenge. The ascent also signalled the first of three back-to-back crossings of the Continental Divide, the last of which presaged our entry into the Great Divide Basin proper. It was an intimidating prospect.
The basin was effectively a great hole in the Continental Divide, which split into two at the end of the Wind River Range before reconvening not far north of the Colorado border. What little surface water there was in the area drained into the basin, where it then either percolated into the parched soil or evaporated, rather than ending up in either the Pacific or Atlantic oceans. In an area with so little rainfall it had become a desert. In wetter climes it could well have been a lake with no outlet; it was not difficult to see why. It covered 4,000 square miles, and had a human population of 500, who were comfortably outnumbered by wild horses and pronghorn antelope.
Fortunately, we had the rest of the afternoon to acclimatise ourselves to its unique charms before having to take the plunge and bisect it. First came another section of paved road as we headed through the famous South Pass, symbolic heart of the westward expansion of the United States, though our gentle descent to it out of broad plains rendered its geographical pre-eminence less obvious. A small visitor centre and several informative signs were all that marked the spot.
The South Pass, in which you are now located, is perhaps the most significant transportation gateway in the Rocky Mountains. Indians, mountain men, Oregon Trail emigrants, Pony Express riders, and miners all recognized the value of this passageway straddling the Continental Divide. Bounded by the Wind River Range on the north and the Antelope Hills on the south, the pass offered overland travellers a broad, relatively level corridor between the Atlantic and Pacific watersheds.
Uncharacteristically, this rather undersold the erstwhile significance of the pass. Although discovered as long ago as 1811, South Pass was then ‘lost’ again to white men until 1824. In fact, it was not until 1832 that the first rag-tag caravan of settlers and missionaries, opportunists and proponents of the sordid doctrine of Manifest Destiny passed this way. After this slow start, however, the die was rapidly cast. In the next 37 years, until the opening of the first US transcontinental railroad in 1869 sounded its death knell, anything up to a staggering 500,000 people were estimated to have emigrated through South Pass and along the Oregon, California, Mormon and Bozeman Trails. More than 200,000 of these intrepid souls were in the 1860s alone. In a land which even now seemed remote and inaccessible, this was a veritable motorway of its day.
It was fascinating stuff, and I had an inkling of how so
many US tourists must feel when visiting Europe and being confronted with so much ‘history’. But we were not history snobs. Of equal import were the capacious and heated restrooms, complete with hot-air hand driers under which we could thaw our frozen extremities after another intemperate cloudburst had preceded our arrival.
Warmed and informed, we saddled up. The next goal was Atlantic City, 15 miles further on, for an early tea. First, though, we rode through South Pass City, a restored and preserved example of a frontier mining town. Like the pass itself, the city had seen more productive days, though not until the passage of emigrants had begun to wane. It was founded in 1867 after the discovery of gold in the area and gained fame and notoriety two years later when it passed the first legislation in the US allowing women to vote and hold office. Such prominence waxed only briefly, however, until the deposits began to dry up. Now it was little more than an outdoor museum. Nevertheless, it was an outdoor museum in its original setting, which should not be taken for granted. In the 1960s, the town only narrowly survived being purchased by a California theme park and shipped wholesale to the west coast.
Continuing the conservation theme, up the hill from the town were the restored remains of the Carissa goldmine, the site of the original gold strike. As recently as 1980 it had once again been considered for possible reopening, but was now the property of the State of Wyoming and was destined to mine tourist gold rather than more natural seams.
A few miles later we finally arrived in Atlantic City. Where South Pass City had been mummified and turned into an exhibit, Atlantic City was still clinging to life as a genuine ghost town. For the second time in the trip, we rode past a sign that said ‘Population 50’.
