"Adventure creates unique "moments" for your heart, mind and body.   You never forget the time when you slogged through a downpour along Oregon's coast.  You remember that tornado funnel as you pedaled across Oklahoma.  That special campfire under 14,000-foot peaks in Colorado stands out with shooting stars placing an exclamation point on your day. You remember that trip across Death Valley where you drank four gallons of water in one day, but never peed once.  That night of slumber beneath the 2,500-year-old Redwood giants touched your spirit beyond your imagination.  That night in the Sierras where Canadian geese dropped out of the sky for a final landing pad on the glass-still lake before you.  Other ducks created V-wakes trailing behind them while diving ducks created circles.  With that magical scene, your campfire's embers enchanted you.  While those moments abound on a bicycle adventure, the new day beckons you onward, not to tarry with yesterday—and, for you, another possibility for a unique 'moment' that will live in your body, mind and heart for the rest of your life."  FHW

Up in the morning, we cooked breakfast, folded the tents, loaded our water bottles—and hit a canyon on Route 89 heading toward Livingston, Montana.  

"This is a really nice river to follow up this canyon," said David. "I can't think of a nicer way to ride into the mountains."

"You got that right," I said.  "We're headed toward Neihart, which is an abandoned mining town. It once held 6,000 miners, stores, homes, saloons, bordellos and hotels.  Today, less than 30 people live there with one dry goods store with minimal food.  Yet, those people like their solitude in the mountains."

The road climbed steadily upward into more beautiful fields of wild flowers.  Soon, ranches faded away as the terrain steepened.  Of course, that meant we began grinding along at 4 miles per hour at a 6 percent grade.

At one vista, we enjoyed a gorgeous canyon where the river cut through green forests.  Gray cliff walls rose dramatically up from the river.

"Sure is a pretty sight," said David.  "This is the kind of beauty that Lewis & Clark witnessed every mile of their journey back in 1804.  Sure wish we respected the land better instead of what we're doing to it, today."

"Can't argue," I said.

A placard talked about the mining interests that once savaged the land.  One of the things that bothers me as I ride across this country at 12 mph:  wherever humans invade the land, they rape it for its mineral-metal resources, but then leave rusted buildings, car carcasses, 55-gallon drums of oil and chemicals, and junk strewn across the land.  They enjoyed the money, but they trashed the land.  The only thing to clean it up will be Mother Earth taking a billion years to break down the metals and chemicals—and absorb them back into the planet.

For me, I wish we showed greater respect for the land.  We could create a national clean-up across all 50 states, but unfortunately, I don't see it happening.  Even in my own beautiful State of Colorado, when I climb the 14ers, all I see are abandoned mines with junk left all over the place.  People will walk by it, take pictures and do nothing, and take no action to clean it up.

At one point, we read a placard by Chief Crowfoot, "What is life?  It is the flash of a firefly among the tall grasses at dusk. It is the breath of a buffalo steaming into the crisp autumn air.  It's the little shadows of birds, squirrels and coyotes running across the land until they lose themselves at sunset.  It is the great horned owl hooting in the distance as your campfire embers pulse and glow—giving your eyes such wonders you can't imagine."

For thousands of years, the Indians kept in sync with Nature. They pitched their teepees, killed the wildlife for food, and lived in harmony with Nature.  That time for humanity has long gone.

We reached Neihart with its collection of houses along the road and also, near the Belt River.  A picture at the convenience store showed old buildings along Main Street in 1850.  Today, the same buildings feature warped roofs that caved in, and the sides of the buildings wave from the weight of the years.  Inside, you see an old carriage, steam engine, horse harnesses and all sorts of paraphernalia from the 1800's.

A graphic sign told the story about how the railroad led into Neihart to haul out the silver in 1879 to 1920. The train also brought fish in barrels to stock the lakes in the area to improve fishing for the residents.  

We continued our way up the six percent incline until we rode along a wide saddle ridge.  Even at 7,000 feet, farmers baled hay against a backdrop of mountains, trees, grass and sky.

After 17 miles of climbing that took us four hours, we finally dropped down through a jagged canyon where we stopped at a bar for a fantastic dinner of baked potato, salad and buns.  David ordered fish.

We rolled along until we reached the top of the past at 7,400 feet. Low and behold, in front of us, a ski area with lift chairs that carried skiers to 8,500 feet.  It serviced folks from Great Falls and White Sulphur Springs.

On the way down the pass road, we enjoyed hawks, eagles, black birds, robins, fireweed, blue bells and elegant terrain.

The road followed another river that carried us into White Sulphur Springs where we stopped at the Red Ants Pants store to see my old friend Sarah Colhoun, a lady who created the White Sulphur Music Festival.  We met her six years ago on our Continental Divide Ride of 2013.  She invited a fellow cyclist, Robert, to stay overnight.  We enjoyed dinner, music and laughter. Since then, she's become a phenomenon as she rented a 100-acre field and brought some of the biggest names in country music to that tiny town.  It's much like a Woodstock of the West.

We enjoyed a good night's sleep at Sarah's apartment.  For women who love stylish work pants for women, you might visit her place:  RedAntsPants.com 

By mid-morning, we hit the flat road at 74 miles to Livingston.  We rode through Big Sky with prairie and mountains fencing us to the east and west.  We rolled along until we reached the statue of a mountain man outside Wilsall, Montana.

"That's a heck of a great statue of Thunder Jack," said David. "Let's get some pictures with us in front waving our hands with him."

That night, we ate dinner at the bar and grill in town.  A local directed us to sleep at the fairgrounds.  We pedaled over to the corrals, and pitched the tents in some nice grass. However, an enormous black cloud rolled up from the south.

"That's going to be a nasty storm," David said.

"No kiddin'," I said.  "We better lock down these tents."

We jumped into the tents as the winds blew at 20,30, 40 and then, gusts of 50 mph.  Then, the rain hit, plus hail.  It splatted against my tent with tremendous ferocity.  Then, the 50 mph gusts hit and roared up to 60 mph.  My tent can take winds to 50, but it started to cave in on me at 60 mph gusts.  I laid on my back with my two hands in one corner of the roof of my tent and my two feet in the other corner of the tent.  The winds whipped the tent one way and then the other.  I kept my feet and hands up against the roof of the tent for the next 20 minutes.

"Holy shit," said David.  "Are we doing to survive this storm?"

"That's in doubt," I yelled back.

After 20 minutes, the front passed, the hail and rain stopped, and the air cooled as it calmed down.  I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell fast asleep.

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