Part IV "Finding The Groove"

I woke before daybreak. The alarm was silent and it was still dark outside. A quick glance at my clock told me I had some time to loll in the sack, however; I was feeling well rested and excited about the day's ride. Anyone who's has gone on extensive trips, whether by motorcycle, automobile, on foot, whatever the means, will understand what I say about getting in the groove. Think about it. The first couple of days of travel you're still finding your feet. Getting your mojo in sync with the rhythm of movement. I had just come from work within the last thirty-six hours and my head was not in vacation space as it were. There is really no way to find this pace other than surrender yourself to the process and let time take it's course. Once in the groove you operate on a kind of auto-pilot. The bike runs smoother. The load packs and unpacks easier. Your clothes feel more comfortable and your dealings with people are loose and laid back. You can't make this happen it has to happen on it's own accord and you will know when the groove has found you.

OK. Let's dispense with the ethereal musings and get some meat on the plate.

I made a quick breakfast of oatmeal, orange and a pot of tea. Sitting there, as the sun began to peek through the trees, my hot cup of tea made for good company. Breaking camp took some time as I was not in the groove yet. So after some fumbling, rolling and stowing I got the bike loaded, said good-bye to the park and I was on my way by 6:45.

The day before was cold and this morning was no exception. The air had a sharp, crisp bite to it hinting that autumn was much closer than we anticipate. A quick gas stop in Cranbrook and I headed east to Crow's Nest Pass. I have always enjoyed going through Crows Nest Pass. You approach through the mountains and everything becomes compressed into this narrow pipe like gap between the mountains. There are a couple of roads and a train track all squeezed into this pass. As soon as you enter it it spits you out into the Alberta foothills. The landscape opens up, the hills change to a khaki brown and the sky opens up to a vastness only found on the prairies. The enjoyment is short-lived as you approach Pincher Creek and see all the wind generators standing like alien beings across the landscape. They are there for a reason and soon the winds hit you. They are strong and unforgiving as they batter you and your machine from side to side with no mercy. On the upside the air grew considerably warmer as you drop down onto the flatlands. By the time I got to Fort McLeod it was peel off the leather jacket, ditch the full-face helmet in favour of an open one and get down to eating some miles up.

The bike easily breezed into Lethbridge where I turned south on Highway 4 and made a bee-line to Montana. The winds were roaring and the air was a furnace. I've ridden across Mojave Desert during the Santa Ana Winds yet these Albertan blasts put them to shame. It was akin to riding with a hairdryer blasting in your face. The border crossing at Sweet Grass, Montana was uneventful save for the extremely cold and sarcastic border guard. I know these folks have a tough job to do with a lot of responsibility but would it hurt not to go out of the way to be so rude?

All the way south I was getting peppered by grasshoppers splattering themselves all over my helmet, face and body. At one point an errant bee joined the mix and slammed itself into me, surviving just long enough to place one last defiant sting on my throat. Thanks. It seems no bike trip for me is complete without sustaining at least one bee sting. This reminds me of a friend Sue, from work, who rides a Yamaha and looks after the fish tank. OK. Most of you know who I'm talking about? Well a couple of years ago we were on a group ride to the Okanagan and on the way home a bee flew into Sue's shirt while she's riding along and stayed long enough to put three or four owies on her. Funny now but not so at the time.

All this wind and heat was taking it's toll. I tried to drink as much water as I could and stay as covered up as possible but the day was draining me the further south I rode. When I got to a crossroads called Craig, I spotted a small campground and decided to call it a night. Twelve dollars in another self-registration box scored me a campsite right on the bank of the Missouri River. It was a popular fishing hangout with anglers from all over the western states come to fish for the local trout. Too tired to eat, I downed another bottle of water and hit the sack.

                                                    Dawn On The Missouri River
                                                    Craig, Montana                                                               

The next day I woke up revitalised and rested by 5:30 AM. There's no time like the present so I was up, fed and packed much quicker that the day before. I was beginning to find the groove. Its cold again but I didn't seem to mind as much this morning. A few deer lingered in the ditches and I kept a wary eye on them lest they dart out across the road in front of me. By midday the temperature was up into the high nineties. Funnily enough today was one of the nicest rides I'd had in a some time. The road was in great condition. There were no other vehicles. The turns and twist were rhythmic  and the bike was in it's element so I let the big dog run. If any of you readers find yourself in North-Central Montana check out Hwy 12. I came across this as suggested by my GPS. I have an aversion to the Inter-State of the Inter-Slab as I will refer to it from now on. Hwy 12 meanders through canyons, dense forests and open rolling plaines. As well as the usual Mule Deer there was an abundance of antelope grazing on the prairie grass.

I made my way down through the blistering heat to Little Big Horn. I took a couple of hours to go to the visitor centre and take the interpretive drive along the hillsides, stopping to peer over the top of a knoll and down to where General Custer made his fateful last stand. The National Monument is well done and very informative. There are stones erected throughout the entire area where three major battles were fought. These  stones are named markers denoting who the indivual soldier or native warrior was and where they fell in battle. The day was getting on so I downed a couple of bottles of water and hit the road. Oh in case you're wondering, the thermometer at the visitor centre read 101 degreed Farenheit. Ouch!

Much to my pleasure the trusty GPS plotted another path sans Inter-Slab. Not that I'm a slave to the GPS. I still do the old map on the tank routine, I just like the added information it provides and sometimes can save you a lot of aggravation. This was not to be the case a few days later which I'll describe in a future post. The afternoon ride was a pretty fast rip across the south-eastern hills of Montana, clipping off the north-east corner of Wyoming and on into South Dakota. This road, US 212, delivered quality riding with little to no other vehicles as well as wonderful rolling prairie vistas.

Feeling pretty wasted I rolled into Spearfish, South Dakota and opted for a motel. A hot shower, and a cold beer, not neccessarily in that order, put the grin back on my chops. All-in-all it was a 905 km day and frankly my backside was witness to the punishment. I updated the blog, did some emails, yakked with my gal and called it a day. A wonderful day.