Welcome to this fourth part of my series on biking across the USA. In this section, I ride across the arid plains of Wyoming and have my first skirmishes with the Rocky Mountains.
Day 64 – Thursday 14th July
I wake at 2:30am with my heart pounding. Today is the day I climb Devil’s Tower. We need to leave early to beat the heat, but I still have 90 minutes to toss and turn before my alarm eventually goes off.
My guide, Geoff, picks me up from the campground, and together we drive to the base of the tower. This close the smooth phonolite columns are resolved into creased, lichen-covered rock, split by long fault lines. The first pitch is low-angled, but then we hit the real crack climbing and I’m forced to jam hands, fists and feet into jagged, gaping holes.
I’m ok on the normal route, but by the time Geoff suggests we rappel down to tackle a trickier line called El Cracko Diablo, I’m feeling the strain. The sun swings round to bake the south face with unrelenting rays. My hands are slick with sweat and two fingertips are leaking blood from their nail beds when I finally haul myself onto the summit.
Day 66 – Saturday 16th July
I stir groggily on the concrete floor of the garage where I spent the night. Rachel, my host, works an obscenely early morning shift at Starbucks and is revving up her engine outside. My salami has leaked orange fat all over my lunchbox, so I decide to dispose of it.
Beyond Gillette, the country is arid and unpopulated. At one point I pass a sign for a settlement named Recluse. I reach a bar set completely alone amid the desolation. It’s locked, so I sit on a bench outside dipping bagels into lukewarm tomato soup.
The temperature climbs and there’s no shade for miles. Sweat begins pouring off me, and I’m grateful when I roll into the air-conditioned gas station that also serves as the village’s only food store and restaurant and bar. That night I stay in a ranch decorated with a skeletal bike rider built from sun-bleached horse and alpaca bones.
Day 68 – Monday 18th July
John’s cat spends the sultry night following me around the house and trying to snuggle up next to me. I am pleased to receive a gift of two old socks with the toe end cut out. These I soak in water and pull up around my Nalgenes to provide evaporative cooling.
From Buffalo, it’s a formidable twenty-five miles of climbing to reach the Powder River Pass at 9,600ft. I chug along in my granny gear making steady progress through the morning. In the final stretches, the pine trees thin along with the oxygen, and I find my leg muscles starting to scream.
I limp finally to the lip of the pass and survey the tumbling slopes of shattered rock. Thankfully, it’s all downhill from there to my campground at Meadowlark Lake. There’s no shower, so I beat a path to the bank and wade over slimy pebbles until I find a spot deep enough for total immersion.
Day 70 – Wednesday 20th July
Behind me, the Bighorn mountains are a fading memory, but ahead the Rockies emerge from the semi-desert plains. A rider heading east resolves gradually out of the middle distance. Her name is Anna, and she’s from Belgium.
We trade stories from the road, and she even gives me her ticket to the Buffalo Bill Museum in Cody. The gift seems sufficiently fortuitous that I feel compelled to visit the museum, though not before inhaling a chicken burrito and several pints of mountain dew. Inside, I read all about the life of that bane of the bovines, William Frederick Cody.
There’s also a natural history section featuring stuffed specimens of bear, elk, wolf, eagle, and all manner of creatures that inhabit Yellowstone. Lastly, I visit the gun exhibit, containing (so the tannoy tells me) one of the largest collections of firearms in the US. Within, a group of children are preparing for adult life on the continent by shooting electronic targets with a replica handgun.
Day 72 – Friday 22nd July
At the checkpoint, I hand over $80 for an Annual Park Pass, and just like that I’m over the threshold into Yellowstone National Park. Water gushes everywhere and great groves of pine carpet the mountains that guard this eastern frontier.
My enthusiasm at finally reaching the park is replaced by the grim resolve demanded by a long, steep climb. The payoff is in the glorious, sweeping descent down to Yellowstone Lake. I feel as though I have entered the world’s last great wilderness, protected by its high mountain walls, where nature is yet free to roam.
Evidence of volcanic activity is everywhere. To the right of the lake, a couple of research scientists are carrying probes towards a bubbling pool. Further along, a wooden sign announces the mud volcano, where acidity has liquefied the soil and sulphurous gases steam incessantly. I camp up at Canyon Village and though the night is pleasantly cool, my dreams are full of grizzlies padding through the darkness on stealthy paws.