Terraneous Sea
On my way out of Salt Lake, I noticed graffiti in a parking lot referring to The Sandlot. I’d known it was filmed in Salt Lake, but was it specifically here? I looked it up later, and the answer was no, but it was filmed only a few blocks away.
I’d been to Temple Square twice before and decided to skip it this time. Instead, the folks at Simpson Springs had told me to visit “This Is The Place,” the location at which Brigham Young decided the Mormon Emigration was complete and they’d settle here. It was a nice monument, and it happened to be right on the route.
If you get off the beaten path in the western states, and you read the historical markers, you start to realize how much of the west was settled by Mormons. It’s incredible how they went to some of the most inhospitable, beat-up land and simply made it happen. Prior to their western emigration, they weren’t a particularly “special” group of people in terms of possessing unique skills or talents. They were only a group of ordinary people with a lot of determination and guts.
At one point, leaders of the LDS church petitioned the US for the creation of a new state, to be named “Deseret,” which would have included essentially all of Utah and Nevada, as well as most of Arizona and parts of California, Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico. This obviously never happened, though LDS leaders set up a temporary state government for a few years, which was never recognized.
Trivium: The word “Deseret” doesn’t derive from a word meaning “desert;” it actually means “honeybee.”
Leaving the Salt Lake valley predictably involved a huge climb. Emigration Canyon Road is a local favorite with road cyclists, for good reason. It’s a gorgeous ride, and there’s almost no traffic. As a result, I had good company on my way up, including two cute gals on full suspension mountain bikes.
At one point, most people turned around to head back down to Salt Lake, but of course, I kept going. It got steeper. The hill wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, despite being twice as large as some of the ones in Nevada, and just as steep. So what made it easier? Pavement, as opposed to loose, uneven dirt “roads.”
Late in the day, a big tailwind opened up. I noticed my rear tire was low, but couldn’t figure out why. I pumped it later and it seemed to be holding.
After a day of rest, I only logged 66 miles, making for an early finish. Unfortunately, it was necessary, because the next 80 km (50 miles) were all through privately-owned farmland, leaving nowhere to legally pitch a tent. If I tried, I'd have to hop a barbed wire fence and set up in plain sight, as there were hardly any trees around.
As fortune had it, there was a church in a hamlet known as Upton. All the doors were locked, but its pavilion happened to have a wall on the windward side, making it a perfect shelter against both the strong wind and the heavy rain which came later that afternoon. Throw in an outlet and a water spigot and I considered it a palace.
By morning, the rear tire was nearly flat, and I had no means to fix it. I spent about ten minutes pumping it with my dinky frame pump and hoped for the best.
Less than two hours later, the tire was getting squishy again. This time, I was able to find the pinhole on the outside of the tire, barely large enough to detect, but just large enough to lose air over the course of a few hours. I deflated the tire and made an attempt to pry it off with only one tire lever (I must have lost one along the way). No luck. Tubeless tires are notoriously difficult to mount and remove; it would have been a challenge even with both levers. With only one, it was impossible. I spent another 15 minutes furiously pumping the tire again. This was the best I could do for the next few days, until I got to a bike shop.
Wyoming is famous for its howling wind. It helped more often than not, but it was still annoying. It’s hard to do anything when the air is constantly trying to knock everything over or send it flying. As much as I appreciate a good tailwind, sometimes I wished it were a little weaker.
Wind might be my least favorite element. Almost everything else can be dressed or prepared for, but not wind. There’s nothing you can do about it. And no matter what else is going on, like rain, cold, or hills, wind always makes it even worse.
I didn’t expect much from Granger and got even less. The Pony Express guidebook mentioned free camping in the city park in Granger, specifically pointing out it had bathrooms and potable water. I had also figured a city park meant a couple of picnic tables, nice green grass, and a few trees for shade and to protect you from the wind.
The picnic tables were there, but that was it. The grass was the same dry, brown, scratchy grass you saw in the high desert. No trees at all; no shade and no protection from the wind. The bathrooms were locked and the water was shut off. But it was legal to camp here.
By some miracle, the town had a store, which was about the size of a gas station but only had two shelves of products. They were nice enough to let me fill my water bottle. I headed back over to the park.
The guidebook also failed to mention that the park was directly adjacent to train tracks. During the day, a train went by about once per hour, and I figured it would be less often at night. It was more. About every half hour. It might not have been as bad if the trains didn’t blow their horn five times as they passed through town. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well.
On paper, I should like trains. We all should. They do an unbelievable job moving large amounts of goods, and they do it with only one large vehicle. Compared to using 100+ 18-wheelers to do the same job, a train takes up less space, uses far less energy, and puts less strain on the transportation network. I’d much rather have to sit and wait for one train than share a highway with 100+ trucks.
The only thing is the noise. The train itself is loud enough, but less than the amount you’d get from 100+ trucks. If they could only lay off the freakin’ horn, people would be much more in support of trains. You’d have less people demanding that trains be kept out of their neighborhood, if not the entire town. People might actually welcome trains, glad to have reduced traffic. Instead, we get BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!! BWAAAA!!! BWAAA!!!! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!
It’s not the engineer’s fault; not only is blowing the horn required by law, it’s even required they blow it a specific number of times, for a particularly long duration (two long, two short, one extra long). This is ridiculous. It’s not like we require 18-wheelers to incessantly honk every time they drive through an intersection or use a highway onramp; why do we subject ourselves to this? Why can’t we require engineers to blow the horn only if there’s something on the track, or at least only if there are cars at the intersection? Do they have to blow it at all hours of the night, no matter what?
Chronic exposure to loud noise is currently putting an estimated one-third of Americans at heightened risk for hypertension, stroke, and heart attack. The law requiring trains to blow horns at ear-splitting volume has probably cost more lives than it’s saved.
After a sleepless night in Granger, Teeder’s rear tire was entirely flat, and it was getting harder and harder to get the pump to put any air in the tire. I suspected both problems had something to do with the sealant. Tubeless tires are supposed to get new sealant about once per year, and I’d most recently added sealant about 1.5 years prior. Chances are new sealant would stop the air from leaking out the pinhole, and the old sealant may have also gunked up the valve.
The route crossed the continental divide in a nondescript, mostly flat area, on a dirt road with no sign. It’s entirely anti-climatic, and unless you’re watching a GPS map like a hawk, you won’t notice when it happens.
The Pony Express has only 26,944 meters (88,401 feet) of climbing, which is roughly 59% as much as the Great Divide route and 45% as much as the Western Wildlands route. Naturally, the Pony Express mail route was drawn in order to avoid as many mountains as possible, whereas both the Great Divide and Western Wildlands bikepacking routes were drawn essentially with the goal of embracing the mountains.
For most of the eastern half of the route, not only was I following the Pony Express, I was also following the Oregon Trail, California Trail, and Mormon Emigration. They took the same route for the same reasons: relatively flat land and access to water.
Even on the “easiest” route possible, it couldn’t have been easy. The constant exposure to sun, the day-to-day monotony of walking from sunup to sundown, the isolation, and the sameness of the land must have driven people crazy. I go a little nuts out here, and I can cover 160+ km (100+ miles) each day, at least enough to make it to the next town. In years past, most of these towns didn’t exist yet, and even if they had, the average trail emigrant only managed 20-25 km/day (12-15 miles/day). It could be days before seeing anyone, and weeks before seeing more than a few people at a time.
The Great Plains, which extend into Wyoming and Colorado, are sometimes referred to as a terraneous ocean, and the wagons were called “prairie schooners.” When you ride through it, you can see why. For hundreds of miles, it can be nearly featureless. In that way, it reminded me of West Texas, another place where distances are vast.
In order to keep track of what distance a wagon had covered each day, the people walking alongside it would simply count how many times the wheel went around. Some back of the envelope math tells me that number would have been about 500 times per mile, so in a typical 15-mile day, someone simply had to count 7,500 rotations, theoretically without losing track. It'd be easy enough to lose your mind traveling through these areas on foot, and that only adds another layer to it.
In late afternoon, I hitchhiked 20 miles off-route to Lander, which had not one, but two bike shops. As suspected, poor sealant was causing the tire issue. They spent probably 20 minutes on it, and eventually charged $12, including both labor and the sealant itself. In a similar situation, a doctor would charge $400 for the labor and $150 for the medical supplies, and you'd spend 15 of those 20 minutes waiting to see the doctor.
Like Granger, Lander allowed camping in the city park, but the difference was night and day. Multiple bathrooms with flush toilets. Plenty of water spigots and drinking fountains. Two large pavilions, each with outlets and lots of tables. Thick, soft, green grass, wonderful for camping on. Adjacent to a creek, instead of a train track, which made for soothing sounds at night. Huge shade trees everywhere! They clearly put effort into this, and it showed. It was something a small town could be proud of.
As evening approached, I was hanging out underneath a pavilion, charging my phone, when a large group showed up, mostly teenagers. A couple adults approached and asked what was up with the loaded bike. I told them.
“You hungry? We’ll definitely have a few extra burgers, you’re more than welcome to join us!”
Don’t mind if I do!
The gang was a youth group from a nearby LDS church. I waited until all the teenagers had gone through; there was still plenty left at that point. Burgers, fruit, potato salad, and homemade fudge brownies. Much like at Simpson Springs, it was great to have food which wasn’t dry and cold, and equally great to have friendly company.
On the way to Jeffrey City, I found myself at a highway rest area, where I met a motorcyclist named Frosty, who turned out to be a bike touring veteran. Frosty has bike toured over 100,000 miles, which is almost three times as much as I have, and he's published eight books about the subject, some of them rather successfully. I’ve “published” one, and have sold less than 50 copies. I ought to learn a thing or two from him.
At the same aid station, I met a gal named Bunny. She was cute. And from Texas. And into trail running. And showed a few Aspy signs like myself. I liked her, and somewhat uncharacteristically, I was bold enough to ask for her contact info. I hoped I’d see her again.
Only about an hour later, I saw her again! In Jeffrey City, there was a local artist named Monk King Bird selling pottery. I saw a familiar blue Subaru parked outside and remembered Bunny had mentioned she’s an artist herself. I stopped in, in part to look at the pottery, but mostly to look at Bunny.
Monk King Bird told us he’d gotten his nickname when someone made a wood carving sign for him, but misspelled “Mockingbird,” his original nickname. Instead of tossing out the sign, he decided to roll with it. As it turned out, it was a good decision, because if you do a Google search for “Mockingbird,” you’d never find the local artist you were looking for, but if you Google “Monk King Bird,” you’ll find him.
Bunny and I shared a sweaty hug and parted once more, me for a church basement, her for a hotel in Colorado. I hoped I’d see her again.
Jeffrey City is a town of only 40 people, which is dramatically less than its peak population of 4,500 in the 1970s. During its heyday, Jeffrey City was entirely dependent on a nearby uranium mine. During the boom, a high school was built with an Olympic-size swimming pool and three gymnasia. Later, a new method for mining uranium was invented, and it didn’t require human labor. In 1982, the mine was closed, and within a few years, 95% of the population had left. All that remains of Jeffrey City is a row of houses, a roadhouse, a pottery studio, and a baptist church, the latter of which allows cyclists to spend the night in the basement.
To be fair, the word “basement” doesn’t quite do it justice; it included a full kitchen, two bathrooms with showers, four bedrooms with inflatable mattresses, and a basketball court. Due to its location on the TransAmerica route (a popular coast-to-coast bike touring route), the church hosts anywhere from 400-700 cyclists each year, most of them in the summer. According to the elders, who dropped by in the afternoon, donations left by cyclists are a big part of what keeps the church afloat.
Cyclists are encouraged to sign both a guestbook and the wall of the basketball court, which was almost entirely full of signatures, drawings, and cycling-inspired philosophy. I signed the guestbook, but not the wall. I couldn’t think of anything worth writing, and I’m a terrible artist.
Later, two more cyclists would arrive, first Eric, and then Copeland. Both were doing a section of the TransAmerica route, headed west. Copeland had started not long ago, in Colorado, and would eventually head down the coast from Oregon into San Francisco.
The three of us went to the local dive bar/restaurant in town. I finally had a cup of chili, after missing out on having one in the first three states. I suppose I could still salvage Nebraska and Kansas, but I've failed in my mission to have a cup of chili in every state. For the record, this one was only okay. My own chili at home is much better.
Eric picked up the check, which was awesome of him.
Before leaving the next morning, Eric shared his mantra with me: “Those who give have everything, and those who withhold have nothing.” I don't disagree. I shared with him one of my own: “Do, and then you will understand.” Just as fitting, especially for bike touring, is another I've come up with along the way: “One of the greatest lessons you can learn from hiking and biking, if you're willing to learn it, is how little we need, rather than how much.”
In our everyday lives, we’re constantly bombarded with messages telling us we need more. Eat this food, drive this car, wear these clothes, take these drugs, buy this insurance. After hearing this all the time, we begin to internalize it, and we believe our problems would be solved if only we had another thing. But sometimes a problem can’t be solved that way. It’s not always about adding more positives; sometimes what you need to do is get rid of the negativity. You need less bad, not more good. Some of us are dying of thirst, but just as many are drowning. Some of us need to purge, not consume.
On that note, my favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. It’s one of the only ones which doesn’t involve much decoration, has few (if any) songs, and unlike most holidays, doesn’t encourage you to go out and buy a bunch of stuff. All you have to do is cook food and eat it, preferably in good company, which is something many of us already do on a daily basis. And instead of “Buy all this stuff and make it the BEST HOLIDAY EVER!” Thanksgiving’s message is “Let’s be thankful for the gifts we already have.”
For travelers on the Oregon and California Trail, Independence Rock was about halfway into the trip. It got its name because travelers were supposed to make it there by Independence Day if they wanted to finish the journey before winter. On the rock, you can still find people's names, carved into it 150+ years ago.
I couldn't help but see a parallel between the names carved in Independence Rock and all the names written on the wall of the church hostel I'd stayed in the night before. Now I wish I'd added my own name to the wall, only I never can think of anything good to write, I'm not good at drawing anything either, and writing my name and nothing else seems lame.
For some reason, I’d thought Independence Rock was white. It’s not; it’s more of a pinkish-gray. At first, I couldn’t figure out why I thought it was white, and then I remembered: It was white in the computer game.
Appearance-wise, Independence Rock reminded me of Enchanted Rock in Texas, which history aside, is an even greater sight. There's essentially no granite in Texas except for Enchanted Rock, separated from any other granite by over 1,000 miles. The whole thing is an entire square mile in size (640 acres, or 2.6 square km), and looks like a giant shield placed on top of the landscape. On top, there are vernal pools, some of which contain species which live only in one specific pool, and nowhere else on Earth. Incredible.
The pioneer trails, like the Oregon Trail, California Trail, and Mormon Emigration, peaked around 1850, about a decade before the Pony Express was established. A result, there was essentially no communication between where they were from and where they were going. When they left their homes and headed west, not only would they not see their loved ones again, they would probably never even hear from them again, not even once. That’s a lot to leave behind. It took a mentality which most of us probably no longer have.
Or do we? In 2021, there was a semi-serious poll about interest in one-way tickets to Mars. 25% of respondents said yes. In all of us, there's a calling to explore the frontier, to see what's on the other side of the horizon. We're a nomadic, adaptable species, and the open road still beckons. The only territories which remain unexplored are the ocean floor and outer space. Someday, we’ll venture forward once more into a new era of great exploration, by choice or by necessity.
Generations from now, our descendants will be astonished to know that in the past, all humans lived on the same planet, known as Earth. How fragile and dangerous that would seem. What if something had happened to that planet? What if an asteroid hit it? What if we had done irreparable damage to the planet, accidentally, or knowingly? What if we ran out of a key resource, and we couldn't simply go to some other planet to get some more?
It'll be a while before that happens. In the meantime, Earth is all we've got. We have to take those questions seriously now.
The landscape in Wyoming could sometimes be mistaken for that in Nevada, 10 days and two states ago. Still dry, still lots of sagebrush. Still lots of open land. The difference was subtle, but you noticed it when you spend all day looking at nothing else. It was getting a bit greener as you went further east, which was a welcome change.
In 2022, I ran a “backyard” ultramarathon, aka a last-runner-standing race. After 23 hours, I won. The third place finisher had tapped out after 16 hours, though he still looked strong and easily could’ve kept going. After the race, he told me to look him up if I was ever in Casper. So I did.
Justin and I mostly hung out and talked about ultramarathons. We also went out for tacos. As it turned out, Justin was running a 100-miler exactly one week after my stay in Casper. I was surprised he wasn't on a strict diet already. He would go on to finish his race in under 24 hours, a braggable accomplishment in races of that distance. I told him if he’s ever in Texas again, look me up. We ought to run together sometime.
Originally, the plan was to get from Casper to Glendo State Park in a single day, and since it was a Saturday night, I considered it prudent to book a campsite in advance. If you were driving from Casper to Glendo, it would be about 100 km (60 miles), and there would be a few rolling hills at best. The Pony Express route, however, sends you up two 2,000-foot climbs, back to back, and totals over 180 km (110 miles).
And there was a headwind.
At about 2:00 PM, I reconsidered. I had finished the first hill, but even going down the back side of it was tough, thanks to the wind. I would have kept going if it weren't for the headwind. Instead, I bailed out and headed north into the city of Douglas, where there was free camping in a city park. I was able to cancel my reservation in Glendo State Park for a partial refund. In the end, I paid $8 for a campsite I didn't use. I'll take that loss.
Sometimes I wonder if I want it easier or not. In the moment, of course you want it to be easier, but as a general rule, the easiest days are the least memorable. It's been all the difficult days which have made for the fondest memories, counterintuitive as that might be. Rare is the day which is easy, fun, and memorable. That combination is the Holy Grail of bike touring, and arguably, of life in general. Only a few times has that ever happened; the Katy Trail is a prime example. Most rail-trails are. The same could be said about the bike tour I did in Germany, which was almost entirely on dedicated bike paths. There ought to be more of those.
As it turned out, Douglas, home of the jackalopes, was celebrating Jackalope Days. Had I continued to Glendo, I would’ve spent the afternoon and evening tormenting myself with a monster climb and a devastating headwind, and instead, I was treated to live music, a swap meet, a car show, and a street dance. And two different people bought me a beer. I made the right call.