Signs

One cannot help but notice road signs of any kind when rolling on your bike day in and day out.   Certainly, most are standard, even necessary, but many, those that are of a commercial nature, are frequently the most interesting . . . and even welcoming:

Swan Valley Center - Condon: with all its signs of life!

None could have been more welcoming than this sign last Wednesday evening: "showers / camping". I pushed off from West Glacier on a beautiful morning, following the path previously taken in 2014 among backroads, luckily still the route memorized, arriving in Columbia Falls, then heading south toward and through the very long Swan Valley.  Nestled between two long mountain ranges, the valley contains the Swan River, the valley gradually rising along its length as the water flowed north.  There is very little sign of life in this valley other than a ranch or homestead here and there.  It was a long day, and I had planned to camp at a place I had seen on the internet, only to find it no longer existed. It was getting late, and by this time I was pushing 90 miles and getting a bit gassed.  I decided I needed to prepare to wild camp, even stopping at a closed ranger station to grab some water for that possibility, and scope out upcoming Forest Service roads I could ride to get to the river and camp.  As I headed out southward, anticipating this wild camp in what was broadly advertised at the ranger station as "Bear Country - both Grizzly and Black" (another sign?), I came upon this sign for the Swan Valley Center, and this establishment, the only one of its kind in Condon, Montana at least since the much revered grocery store burned down recently.

Naturally, this was a "sign" - no wild camp necessary!  I stopped.  Ten bucks for a tent site, and four bucks for a shower, and of course, access to this true general store with all its victuals.  Leelani, the proprietor, sold me a few tomatoes and an avocado for my dinner, and tempted me with a huckleberry milkshake, which I gratefully indulged (a protein recharge, after all).  After setting up camp, wolfing my dinner, and taking a badly needed hot shower, she made me that huckleberry milkshake, provided along with her story of moving here form California, gladly trading desert and drought for woods and winter, and now at home.

Barry, an itinerant resident here, with his 60's vintage International Harvester step van and trailer, lives a retired life, having moved around working odd jobs, and tending to the deer here.  He went on about how many deer get killed each year by cars going too fast (I can agree with that statement - 70 miles an hour on two lane roads), and how he saved a fawn, now pregnant, who is a local resident herself, and quite startled me while I was eating dinner, sneaking up on me.

Barry and his pregnant charge

And speaking of speed and signs, there are many signs along these Montana roads that are disquieting in their message, nary a word upon them.  Montana appears to mark where deadly accidents have occurred along roadsides with small white metal crosses atop a red pole.  At first, I considered the normal reaction about these wayside memorials - how sad - even more so when family or friends have adorned these with wreaths or flowers, most often weather beaten.  But most are these very simple markers.  I have seen hundreds of these so far along these roads, visible ghosts casting a pall along the roadway of its dangers.  Clearly, that is the intent, to remind motorists.  And perhaps there may be as many on other roads if all the accidents were marked, but instead are ghost-like invisible, and not the reminder it truly is.  And this, the most decorated multi-death site, fairly recent as the rubber marks on the road were still quite visible, adorned with a hockey glove and stick.

A sad roadside memorial - one of too many

 

But signs continue to entice and entertain.  Riding from the wooded Swan Valley Thursday into the wide open plains, amid rising heat and wearniess, I set little goals along the way, one of which was to stop in Ovando for a break.  In this very tiny hamlet, having ventured off the main road into "town", there was this small establishment: the Stray Bullet:

The Stray Bullet Cafe - Ovando

This could not be passed up - I was the bullet straying from my trajectory and landing here.  A log structure originally built in the late 1800's as the general store, now operates as a small cafe.  I enjoyed the soup and sandwich, but most enjoyed the enormous piece of homemade peach pie with ice cream.  Along with this, sitting at the counter, I was able to learn more of the story.  The cook is also the schoolteacher, and has been for many years.  The school in town has seven students between pre-kindergarten and 8th grade.  I was astounded, for in many places there would be no way to support a school with so few students.  When she started, there were fifty or so.  But the community, primarily built around fifth generation ranching families, have personally funded an endowment to pay the teacher.  This is the story now repeated threefold about Montana communities coming together - whether from Leelani, Barry or now my server/cook.

And what of the stray bullet?  This town was once bustling, with a bank, a few bars, the usual.  One night a fight broke out and the stray bullet went through the store window and embedded in the log walls, where it still sits today.

I finished the day in Lincoln, after having my first flat tire (always on the rear tire it seems) going uphill but 10 miles from town.  Was passed by another biker, who offered help, but continued on his way, indicated his stop also in Lincoln, at the Sportsman Motel.  Once repaired and rolling again, I did the same, and Dave and I met for dinner at the only Mexican place in town, sharing our stories with good local ale and pretty solid Mexican food.

Friday morning I arose early, knowing I had a choice in two possible passes over the continental divide to cross on my way to Helena, and in poetic fashion, chose the one less traveled by - Semple Pass - a gravel road for its duration and (likely) absence of much traffic.  Fifteen miles up to the pass, the last five of which were very steep, in which I muttered endlessly with "Granny" - the lowest possible gear ratio known as the Granny gear.  Marked by one sign "Semple Pass Cross Country Ski Area" I was pleased not to be experiencing snow again, though it was quite cool.

Semple Pass - 6,376'

But one last sign -for now.  I descended from Semple Pass, back down into the wide open plains, where I could see the emerging storm clouds.  These prairies are amazing for their vast openess and big skies.  Thankfully for me, the storms were pushing a very strong tailwind that enabled me to click through the miles gleefully fast, but pausing when I came across this:

Canyon Creek General Store and Post Office, and . . .

The Canyon Creek General Store and Post Office.  There is almost nothing in Canyon Creek - again a ranching community.  As it was about 12:30, I chatted with the proprietor awhile, sitting at an antique table in this very cluttered store, a mix of provisions and antiques - all for sale - watching a regular stream of locals come in and shuffle back to the mailboxes to gather their mail, exchanging a word or two in the process.  And so, in another moment of profound weakness, I was sold a dish of huckleberry ice cream (with syrup), and the story of this place, a general store since the early 1900's. I bought a postcard and mailed it home, and packed in a jar of huckleberry syrup.  That was lunch.

I spun easily through the last 20 or so miles into Helena, glad for a break off the saddle while I await arrival of my biking "bro's" for the rest of the journey.