to Steamboat Springs

 I crawled out of my tent, hands and knees, icy dew flaking off the rainfly, a rocky climb in my near future. We made our oatmeal and peanut butter breakfast, warmed our soup, packed all of our gear onto our bikes and waved my mom away, hoping she would be able to find her own way around the mountain to Steamboat. We inched along up the divide, breath becoming shallower, loose rocks barring our way to an easy climb. We knew we would be following Joe's tire tracks that day, but further up, we noticed a few others as well, the sand holding the patterns enough to tell the others had been through that morning. The map claimed the last two miles would be "a pusher" meaning I would end up either walking my bike up the hill, or crumpled underneath it. I chose the former, unable to concede to the gritty scabs I would likely find myself with if I fought my way up the hill on my pedals. At the top, thinking it a false summit due to the inaccuracy of our Garmin's elevation chart, we rode a little farther, looking around each corner expecting more uphill until we started the even rougher downhill.
     Usually I am ecstatic once we reach the summit, knowing I'll be able to let gravity do the work for me. Most of the time I end up laughing maniacally as if I alone own the mountain, the wind causing my eyes to water and my calves burning from holding the pedals at equal distances to the ground so they won't hit any wayward rocks. However, this downhill hurt. Hurt more than the uphill I couldn't wait to escape. I swear we were riding down a dried up riverbed, the jarring we endured for the six miles down the divide had me riding with my mouth open, believing if I closed my jaw, my teeth would knock my other teeth out. Thinking of it now makes me laugh, wishing I could trade places with my dad so I could have seen the face I had been making. Really, the only thing I can picture is being at the dentist during a routine cleaning when they tell you to open your mouth, and then they expect you to also lift your gums from your teeth like a snarling dog.
     Anyways, when we finally made it down, we came to the Clark General Store. We pulled in, seeing other loaded bikes, saw Joe up on the deck and waved. He came down, commenting on the food inside, asking how the ride down had been and after he joined the other cyclists again, we pedaled off, towards twenty miles of pavement.
     Sometimes after a morning of jolting trail, pavement can be such a lovely reprieve, especially if you are following someone who makes a great windbreak. It can also be monotonous, dull to the point that you play games with yourself. One of the games I play is to see how close I can get to my dad's back tire without getting pelted in the chest by small pebbles. Another is to mimic my dad's gear changes and if I'm able to  coast while he's still pedaling, he loses and I win. With him hitting most of the wind, I usually won, while he would be unaware of any of this taking place.
     After finding my mom in Steamboat, our tents set up in the local KOA next to the creek just outside of town, I checked my phone to find a message from Joe inviting us to a brewpub that night with a group of other cyclists.  I found myself on the city bus at 6:45 that evening, not completely sure where I was heading, and there on the outside of downtown Steamboat, I got off the bus, looked around and saw only a gas station and a closed grocery store. After a ten minute confusion on the side of the road, I realized I had put in the wrong address on my phone and figured out I was only a mile from the restaurant. I walked in, sweating and breathing harder than I should have been. I walked up next to Joe, excitedly waved at him and in that moment every person at the table turned towards me and stared, wondering what this girl, panting and red-cheeked was doing at the corner of their table. Joe pulled me up a chair, introducing me to everyone, giving first name and nationality. At the table were a few Australians, New Zealanders, a couple Canadians, Joe...and then me, the only American. Everyone smiled at me common-placely, asking me if I was riding the trail as well. I made a somewhat affirmative noise and said, "Yeah, I mean pretty much..." They looked at me, and one of the Australians said, "You should just say yes. You're either one of us, or not. Unshowered, or showered." I definitely found myself in the first category most of the time and thanks to the hurried mile I just semi-ran, I discovered myself being patched in to this arbitrarily exclusive club of fuzzy, smell-ridden travelers. I suppose this wasn't necessarily a new club to me, thinking of the state in which I live with my best friend in the summers and the baths I do receive taking place in lakes and rivers. We played pool, all claiming different rules throughout the games and killed time before going to a club playing jazz that night.
     I've figured out something very interesting hanging out with that group of bikepackers that night. People love to give things to young people who look like they live out of their bike. Being included in this group meant I got into the club half off, the bouncer thinking it incredible anyone could travel by bike. I also found out that Australian money apparently can't rip in half, but Canadian money does if you try hard enough. Who knew. We stayed in Steamboat for a couple nights, exploring the town the next day, riding to the breweries, navigating our way away from the thunderstorms and traffic, knowing the days that followed would be high elevation, rugged terrain.

from penitentiary to the UK.

     We left Rawlins, WY anxious to make it to Colorado. The days before, we were buffeted by the winds through the Great Basin, seeing nothing but cows and shrubs, three cars within hundreds of miles. We ate our paltry breakfast sandwiches at the local cafe, made our way to the starting point just  past the next Divide crossing, past the Teton reservoir, it's water silty and rough from the wind blowing over the mountains. We passed Aspen Alley, Aspen trees lining a mile long stretch of road, golden canopy, initials carved in every tree along the way, couples professing their lasting love, the trees' bark folding in around the gashes.
     Halfway through the day we passed  over the border, not even noticing we had done so, and twenty miles later, we waited for my dad just past the closed lodge we were supposed to be meeting at. After a half an hour, my mom cocked her head to the side, looking in the side mirror, noticing someone coming up the road on bike. "Is that him?" I pivoted around in the front seat, noting the meandering pace of the packed down biker. "No. That is definitely not him." The biker came riding up beside us, shirtless with a grin spreading across his face. He pointed at the bikes on the back of the truck, "You're doing the trail as well?" he said in a lisping British drawl. We looked at each other, my mother pointed to me, "Well, yeah...she is. Pretty much." We asked him if he could use any water and declining politely he wished us well and went on his way.
      Forty minutes later, my dad wind burnt and drained got in the truck and directed us to a primitive camping site shown on the trail map. When we pulled onto the road where the supposed sites were, we looked around in confusion only seeing trampled down prairie grass, the ground hard and undulating underneath. "This is the nice camping site they mentioned?" We drove a little ways up the dirt road, until it became narrow and the grade steepened. We backtracked, trying to find an alternative to the night that would be spent lying on small mounds of packed roots and dirt. As we backed the truck closer to the turn, we noticed a cleared spot to the right of us with even ground and a  recently used fire pit. We pulled the truck in, shrugging and setting up the tents and a new fire pit that would not be surrounded by dried grass and leaves.
      We all looked up towards the road where we heard the rustling of bags and tires over gravel. My dad waved as the Englishman rode past us, "I'm not sure there's any decent campsites up that way," he called to the man. He rode about a quarter of a mile up the road, rotating his head in that same desperate way we had when we saw the mashed down grass. My dad walked towards him. "You can share this site with us up here, there's plenty of room." The man pedaled back towards us, swinging his long leg over the seat and walked his bike up into the  site where we had begun to set up. He introduced himself as Joe, shaking my parents' hands, cordial and relieved to have found a spot for the night. When we got the fire started and the chairs and coolers set out, Joe brought his little pot with water over, asked if we minded him using a part of the fire. Knowing what was coming, I squinted up to my mom, looked back at the squatting Joe, "You're welcome to join us for dinner. We have potatoes and all kinds of meat and vegetables." "VEGETABLES?!" Joe cheeped in a way that made it seem inconceivable that there would be fresh food this far in on the trail. "Oh my goodness," he said, "I was just going to have my Kraft dinner, but potatoes and vegetables sound lovely." "Do you drink beer, Joe?" My mother asked delicately. His eyes widened, the edges of his lips turning upward, "Oh! Yes!" We sat around the fire, talking and drinking, shooing Joe off of the beer cooler every twenty minutes for refreshers until the dark set in around us, the fire burning to coals, the lantern's incandescence creating a circle only wide enough for the four of us. The next morning, I woke hearing tires rolling past my tent, thank yous and goodbyes ringing through the cold, knowing we would most likely not see the jovial cyclist again.

 "sheep jam"

 great basin

aspen alley

Yellowstone.

  We sat at breakfast one morning in Wise River, MT listening to the Scottish owner of the 3-in-1 motel/restaurant/casino tell stories of the Divide racers coming through in the middle of the night, knocking on their door at odd hours, their beards frosted and lips blue, hoping for a place to get warm. He told us of the riders that would come through for breakfast, wolf down six pancakes, fourteen eggs, guys that were thin as the rails running alongside the dirt roads. After he walked away, we all looked down at our plates, two eggs, toast, bacon and hash browns, all of us bloated from our meager attempt at a “Divide breakfast.” We sat there bleary-eyed and consumed with tracing our fingers along the lines on the map, contemplating where we would meet up, seeing no distinct town for the next couple of days. As my dad slipped the next map on the table, I caught sight of a town outside our trail limits, the hometown of a favorite author. Pocatello, Idaho, a place I thought was home to him only in his narratives, but alas, it was real! After a few hours in the backseat headed south, the landscape reminiscent of Manitoba, my mom looked back to me, "So. Are you ready to see Idaho? We're thinking of staying the night in Pocatello." I couldn't believe it. I sat in the back for another hour with the stupid smile plastered on my face, my eyes scanning the farmland for some hint of what caused the crude genius of all the works I love. 

     We drove through, only catching glimpses of storefronts and the eyes of the truck drivers passing through the city. My mom caught my eyes in the mirror. "Not how you pictured it, huh?" No. Not at all. We drove back through, back onto the interstate, up towards the Wyoming border. 

In Ashton, we restocked on beer and ice, searching for a place to camp for the night so that we could start riding in the morning. On our way out Mesa Falls Scenic Byway, we passed semi-trucks piled high with dirt covered potatoes and we entertained ourselves by scanning the shoulders of the road, wanting to add to our potato supply, my dad consuming them as if they were candy. We drove twenty miles before we noticed the signs that we were entering Yellowstone and somewhere along the way, we ran into a Ranger, informing us that the road we were searching for to get back on the trail was closed until the following Friday which meant another bypass. Luckily, the fastest way to get back where we needed to be was driving through Yellowstone and Teton National Parks. 

      After stopping at the ranger's station, the older man's fingers tapping against the forest maps, we made our way to  a lakeside lodge. A man in a pickup truck waving us over, telling us about the grizzly bear up ahead, "Just take your next right and you'll see it before the bridge." Instead we saw a moose swimming across the water as we pulled up to the lodge, calling for it's mate, wandering through the woods on the other shore. The next day, we drove through Yellowstone, unable to ride because of the shoulders of the roads, the tourists looking everywhere but the road they were driving on. We continuously pulled over, ready to pull the bikes from the back of the truck, but as we would look from car to car, we decided it would be too dangerous...most likely we would be hit by a passing RV rather than accosted by a bison. 

from Helena...

In the mornings, I have to sit up in my sleeping bag, cross my legs, rest my head in my hands, close my eyes tight and trace our steps to where we are currently camped. Sometimes I skip towns that we’ve stopped at, wondering how we made it so many miles in that one day before I remember my yearning for ice cream in Lincoln two nights before and I’ll add that in as a waypoint. The trails all pass as one, all the gravel, all the rocks barring our way from a smooth ride, but it becomes hypnotic the way you ease your tires around the softball sized stones, up the washouts, around roots and bushes, rubbing against the barbed wire to keep from the tire sucking mud on the edges of the puddles. I sat down yesterday on a bank leading into a creek, rubbing the grease and dirt from my calf, finally noticing all the bruises running from ankle to thigh, how I thought it was only muscle soreness I was feeling.

For hours we climb, next to the sage and cow tracks. We break the miles down by making it to the next shaded spot, the next wooded area where the wind might finally die off, the next crest of the hill. My dad watches the Garmin, the elevation screen ticking up the numbers. He’ll look over at me after ten miles, “We’re now at 7,600ft.” The breath I’ve been regulating for the past couple hours always whooshes out of me at that point, exasperated as I try and calculate how many vertical feet we are supposed to be climbing for the day and I know we’ve only just passed halfway. At our highest points, we always look higher, wondering why they wouldn’t just take us to the very top if they’re going to take us that high at all. At the end of the days, we message my mom telling her where we’ll be and where we should meet and there she’ll be with the truck, whisking us off to the campground she’s found us for the night, our tents set up with dinner and new local beer in the coolers.

The day before yesterday we started in Helena, MT and made our way to Butte. At the beginning of our ride, we hit construction on the road we were on, and being an extremely large project with three bridges being built, the pilot truck put our bikes in the back and ushered us inside, giving us a ride through the flat four miles of our ride. After saying our goodbyes, we started climbing some of the roughest trail of the ride. On the map, it reads, “a rough four-wheel-drive track, next two miles-plus are steep and rough.” This is where the infamous Lava Mountain Trail tries to tear you as a rider from your bike as much as possible. Two feet deep water ditches run down the middle of the trail, roots sticking up half a foot bump your front wheel up, threatening to overturn you on the already steepening trail. My dad and I seem to have a terrible habit of taking pictures at the false summit, leaving another half mile of climbing, me usually whimpering at the sight of it and my dad cheerfully riding on, his pedals rotating at an annoyingly steadfast pace. The rides down are always short and acrobatic in nature. A steep drop on one side, rock face on the other, the gravel awash under our front tires, where most descents I find myself in what I like to refer to as my “Tour de France-speed-crouch” where I tuck my knees into my frame, feeling the water move around inside my camelback that’s zipped inside my frame bag, my fingers fluttering on the brakes, my torso parallel to the ground.

In Helena, we stayed at the lovely Super 8, relishing in the washed out flickering light of the TV, the sitcom Modern Family on a marathon run through the episodes.  That night, my dad and I visited the Lewis & Clark Brewing Company and Blackfoot River Brewery. We are both religiously unvaried when it comes to choosing the type of beer we want at each brewery. My dad ordering scotch ales if available, and if not then a red ale usually being in order.  I however will always order the IPA. At the Lewis & Clark Brewery, I tried their Double Dry Hopped IPA which was good, but much preferred the unfiltered citrusy zing of the IPA at Blackfoot River Brewery where the popcorn was buttery and the dry air wafted through the open garage door of the upstairs deck.

Yesterday, after our climb up Fleecer Ridge, we began our steep, rocky descent where the map highly recommends walking. My dad and I had to try to ride it down just to be able to say we gave it a go. About two hundred feet down, our brakes failing us miserably, I toppled down over a rough patch of sage held down by chunks of slate, the rest of the trail littered with loose pieces of the thin rock. A hundred feet from where I fell, I looked down where my dad was positioned amidst the branches of a lone spruce tree along the trail, his bike turned on its side. We laughed, shook our heads and barely made the way down on foot without wiping out again. At the bottom of the hill, there was a short, steep dip and then a pass over a creek where I took another digger and ended up with the bike on top of me, my legs every which way, my headphones wrapped around me, connecting me to the iPod latched to my handlebars.

On our way from Butte to Wise River, our main backdrop was barren fields dotted with black and brown cows. Every few miles, we would pass an outcropping of rock, where I would always look up, checking for any perched felines, or lumbering bears. Yesterday, I came around a turn, looked up to my left and there beside me was a large black animal. I yelped, almost leaping sideways on my bike, figuring out moments afterward the large animal was only a relaxed cow, staring at me with large brown eyes, unceremoniously chewing on its grass as I settled my heartbeat. 

In the Canada section, before the snowstorm, we met a hiker from Toronto, on his way from Canmore, Alberta to Banff. He had asked if we had encountered any bears along the way and we shook our heads, and asked him in return, noticing the bear mace looped around his wrist. He smiled, said no bears and no mountain lions. He went on, “You know, my buddy said to me before I left that if I encountered a mountain lion on the trail, if I saw him in a tree, or whatnot then I shouldn’t turn around and keep walking, I should keep my eyes on it.” He laughed. “Like if I saw a mountain lion lurking above me in a tree, I would just nod to it and be on my way! I’d be walking backwards for the next mile and a half with my eyes on the thing.”

The morning we left Condon, we met John Denver, a fellow Divide rider, going the opposite way, about a week from his ending point. As he asked us pointed questions, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows, he shifted his weight on his bike, slowly crunching the stones under his tires. We shared trail conditions, places to stay, wishing each other well and went on our way with a slight, yet convinced notion of the type of person willing to take on the trail by themselves.

                                                                    past Helena, above the reservoir

                                                              the "rough four-wheel-drive track"

                                                             

   abandoned Merry Widow Mine- near Butte

                                               

                                                             top of Fleecer Ridge

                            dirt lines from splashing through creeks and then wiping out

                                                                    John F. Denver

Polebridge to Whitefish

    The start from Polebridge was quite similar to that of the day before where we climbed the other side of Whitefish Pass up to Red Meadow Lake. About a half mile from the top of the pass, we heard a truck start sounding incredibly like my father's truck that my mom was supposed to meet us with in Whitefish. Riding around the corner, we saw the red of the truck bed, noticed the lime green handlebars of my mother's bike latched on the back. We stopped, knocked on the window, her head flying up, her eyes widened innocently. "Mom, what're you doing up here?" She looked around, "Oh, I was just doing a little bit of reading." We found out that as she drove along the road ahead of us, she became more and more distressed that our backwoods trail was harboring something quite sinister, so she wanted to make sure we would be okay. As we came around the lake, followed by the pursuant truck, we saw two women and a small dog carrying a paddle boat across the road and into the lake, both women armed with revolvers belted to their hips and off we went, seemingly oblivious along the densely forested track with our bear mace and knives.

      Returning to civilization meant reaching Whitefish, MT, home of a treasured ski resort and for us, a brewery! On our jump from Canada to the U.S., we had decided we would make it a little more fun for us by stopping at the local breweries along the way and being as the brewery in Eureka was only open four days a week, our first was located in Whitefish. The Great Northern Brewing Company is a large glass paned industrial type building right in the heart of downtown. The beer, we found, satisfied our need for microbrew draft wholesomeness and left us mellowed out as we dealt with the older woman on guard at the local campground.
      In the morning, my mother and I shuffled over to the three dollar/ six minute showers. I put in the coins, the shower starting immediately, reached my hand in, shrieked and pulled it out, colder than it was in my 36 degree tent. Three minutes later, the water was tepid. My mom calling over to me, this shower is great! Somehow her water was twenty degrees warmer than mine just three feet away. Afterwards, as she regaled me with the story of the night, looking across at the woman with three wandering cats, her hands flying wildly, "At three am, there was this cat shrieking in the woods and then just like that it was right there, right next to our tent and the next thing I knew, there was the bear mace in my hand and the knife in your father's, him crouching just outside his sleeping bag waiting for this wild animal to pounce." Even now, they tell me it had to have been a mountain lion, there being no way that a house cat could make such a sound, and me sleeping so soundly having no idea what they were talking about.

 red meadow lake

 towards whitefish 

 eighteen miles until whitefish

finally there, beer'd up and getting the fire started. 

love my sister.

Eureka to Polebridge

     My dad called it the Lake Tear of the Clouds Maneuver, our bypass from Canmore, Alberta to Eureka, Montana. The weather being what it was, we all decided that Canada would be a bad idea, especially since the freezing temperatures was in the forecast for longer than we planned to be there for. Our pass back into the states was uneventful, our bear mace strapped to our bikes right in plain sight, the border patrolman noticing only that we were ready to be back in the country, our eager/ exhausted faces all turned towards him, giving him grateful smiles.

      As we made our way into Eureka, unable to submit ourselves to the multiple seedy hotels along Hwy 93, we headed west six miles towards a town called Rexford. After driving past the turn off for it multiple times, mistaking it for an RV park entrance, we drove down in, scoffing at the idea of finding a place to stay in a town so small. My dad hauled himself out of the truck, into the mercantile to inquire about nearby accommodations, my mom and I shaking our heads at his aimless attempt. After a few minutes, my dad and a stout, burly man walk out of the store, passing in front of the truck and into the building next door. After outbursts of, "There's no way!" and "It can't be!" my dad and the man walk out of the building, both pleased with themselves. As they got the room ready, we went to the neighboring restaurant, feasting on homemade fried chicken and chargrilled ribeyes. Once we sauntered over to the room, fishing our overnight bags from the back of the truck, the burly man renting us the room came out of the store, stood behind my parents with their heads still in the cabin of the truck and waited. I watched as he stood there awkwardly, waiting for my parents to notice his presence and most likely would have until I couldn't take it anymore and called to them, "Uhm, guys," nodding my head to the man. He smiled, scratched his cheek and said, "Hey, I just wanted to thank you guys for coming in the store." We all grinned at him, our eyes wide at the surprise of the hospitality of this man and the hidden gem that what we at first thought was only an RV park. 

Our second day on the trail started in Eureka. That morning, we climbed a few miles out of town, flattened out around mile ten and started climbing again up towards Whitefish Pass. As we wove our way along the gravelly, craggy road, we crested the top of the pass and found ourselves in the middle of the beastly mountains, a portion of the trees on our right side leveled where an avalanche had come through the previous winter. The ride down the pass gave us the speed we lost on the climb up and in no time we found ourselves in the small town of Polebridge. A cabin with two double beds and a roaring fire waited for us, all our bags and food deposited within, my mother proudly displaying our home for the night.

                                             view from canmore, alberta motel after day one. 

rock scaling along the highway

 rexford, mt

 eureka, mt before the start of the climb

 avalanche aftermath

 whitefish divide

Day One.

     Today was our first official day on the trail. We woke up this morning, thawing from the cold of the night. Once we got packed, stomachs racked by nerves, but still empty, we got to the trailhead. We got all our gear hooked to our bikes: tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pad, shoes and clothes all packed, we heated up our soup we would eat for lunch, boiled water for oatmeal and stood at the back of the truck shoveling the gooey goodness in as fast as possible. As we started off, the rain pattered down on our helmets, freezing the tips of our toes, our fingers. After we split from my mom so that she could go back to the truck and meet us at the campground further down the trail, the rain started falling a bit harder, the trail a washout of softball sized rocks and gritty gravel.
     After a few more miles of climbing, the rain changed from a soft chill hitting my cheeks to pellet-like snowflakes. I laughed thinking of the sixty mile target we had set for ourselves the night before. Sixty miles on paved road, we found, is a different thing altogether than sixty miles would be on a winding backwoods trail: 31 degrees, unceasing snow, elevation of 5300ft. So utterly different. Yet, we rode on, calling out to the bears that were always just on the other side of the curve. When the trail would arch back on itself, my father ahead of me, I would hear a barking. Thinking it was wolves, or some kind of animal I was unfamiliar with, I would whip my head up, my eyes scanning the woods close on my left side. After awhile I found that my dad had taken up yelling, "AYE! AYOBEARS!" sounding very much like the sound I heard a few miles before.
     At mile ten, my father stopped, the tip of his nose red and spattered with the mud coming up from the front tire. "So. There's the ranger's station in a mile and a half. Once we get there, we can eat a snack and get warmed up little." I was ecstatic, especially since my last full thought before stopping was, well if a grizzly does come try and eat me, all I have to do is polish it off, skin it and then I could wear its fur for warmth. Thinking of it now, I realize my mind turns a bit dark when I'm cold, but as we got to the so called "ranger's station," we saw a building consisting of two doors. One for the men's room, one to the ladies'. I stopped, my dad already under the cover of the overhang, my face sinking into itself as I stumbled off my bike. I looked at him incredulous, "This?!" Pointing a wobbling finger at the door. "Does it smell?" He nodded. "Oh yes." I staggered over to the other side of the shed, pulling the door open, rushing inside and hunching over, squeezing my iced toes as hard as I could. As we sat inside this women's room, miles from any type of warmth, we chuckled, which came out as a disbelieving, uneasy sound. We sipped our soup, warmed our toes and used the satellite phone to message my mother that we wouldn't be making it sixty miles in this weather.
     Instead, peeling ourselves from the shelter of the bathroom, we rode south five more miles leading us to the first campground of the Divide trail. Once there, guiding our bikes in front of a sign directing new campers to the manager's office, we looked around, saw that the office was in a top-of-the-line RV, hiding under a skin of snow. After knocking on the door multiple times, we huddled under their garage/lean-to, messaging my mother again telling her exactly where we were. Ten minutes later, we were setting up the tent with shaking hands and jerky, insect-like movements. We warmed ourselves by the Windburner stove we use to boil water in and waited. And waited.
     An hour and a half of speculation whether she actually received our messages at all, excited moments spent checking the sporadic cars that would drive past along the mountain road that would release all the heat we had created from our chilly little shelter, and outlining what we were going to do if she didn't find us, the truck pulled up. My dad unzipped the tent, the both of us already submitting to the idea that it was most likely not her at all when he said, "It's her! It's her!" He unzipped the tent the rest of the way so I could see. "REALLY!?" I squealed, surprising even myself in the small space. We clambered out of the sopping tent, rushed to the truck, her smile taking over the lower half of her face. She got out and said, "I can't believe I found you guys! I totally wouldn't have if I hadn't completely Forrest Gumped my way here!" She walked around to the back of the truck, pulling items off the tail gate. I walked around to the passenger side and there, on the ground she had two cases of beer and she stood there behind them, that same smile plastered on her face, "Well, I tried finding an IPA for you because I know how you are, but I couldn't find one, so I got this kind instead, I hope it's okay." I looked at her, nodded, spluttered something like, "Yes, yes. Beer. Good. Cool," and pulled the rear door open, climbed in and shut the door. As we all got in, turned the heat up high, we laughed and talked over each other's accounts of the day.
     It turned out my mom found us by accident. She asked a local how to get to the Peter Lougheed Provincial Park (which really wasn't where we were at all, by my misdirection) and he told her to just go up over the mountain. At the time, she nodded and smiled, all the while scoffing at his recommendation of just traversing over this mountainside dirt road in the middle of a snowstorm, but there she was, climbing along, next to the steepest drop I've ever seen alongside a road, up and over the mountain. When we pulled up into the motel, my mom and I were giddy at the thought of sleeping in an actual bed, being able to shower without worrying about your wet hair freezing into long blond icicles, my dad commenting towards the end of our pizza dinner that it felt incredible to be able to fall asleep without the worry of something crashing through your tent in the middle of the night.

 mile five, before snow. 

 mile ten, during snow.

 ranger's station.

 our home away from home...