Annual ride through Yellowstone

Every year, a bunch of lunatics think the best way to punish their bodies for a slothenly winter is to pedal across Yellowstone National Park in the brief window before the main roads are opened to general vehicular traffic. Recently, I've been one of them.

We parked in Gardiner on Friday night. I had a late leave because Overland Expo was finishing up proofing their 280-page annual Sourcebook before going to print the following week, and drove alone in my van. Since getting the new van, I haven't had much opportunity to camp in it or even drive it more than down the road to a hockey game or to take Bruce for a hike, so it was nice to get reacclimatized with all the updates I'd made over the winter and remember what unfinished projects I still had.

In the morning, we grabbed coffee before driving to the edge of the park where the annual group of ultimate frisbee players were also preparing their pilgrimage. It was a cold morning after weeks of springlike weather, and the sky promised storms. We packed our bikes with food, camping gear (even though we planned on staying in cabins), and changes in clothes. The first few miles are all uphill. Every year, for some reason, the road goes up, without fail. Miraculously, though, the friendship always makes the climb go by easily and it really doesn't feel hard. We climbed up in the rain from thick forest into an open field with the frisbee players forming a human tunnel with their arms to celebrate each rider who made it up the climb. They aren't really our crew but are fun to ride with, dressed in costumes and turning the weekend into a party.

The day was gray even after the rains subsided, but the wind was significant. I'm no meteorologist but would say it was probably around 50-60 miles per hour, mostly headwinds. The sort of wind that makes you have to pedal hard just to descend a mountain, leaning down to be more aero just to move forward. The sort of wind that occasionally shifts direction for a moment and threatens to knock your bike from the road. The sort of wind you can't help but laugh into.

No wildlife came to greet us, save for a few tough corvidae and a couple hungry hawks. It was a helpful reminder that the gift of Yellowstone isn't a veritable theme park just a few hours from home, a place where animals are fenced and corralled into interacting with us in some capacity. After riding so close by buffalo last year, it was almost a nice change of pace to be humbled by the expanse of the park, to know how much wildness lurked and hunted and hid just beyond the treeline or deeper into the woods, never to be seen. It's the hope of Bigfoot, who can live forever in the thick folds of forest, evolved to need so little that would bring them in contact with humans.

By the end of the day, we were tired and worn from hours riding against the wind. Corbett and Jared both took off for small adventures on a side road and got detoured by snow. As we waited for them, it began to hail.

Cold, wet, and now getting pelted, we headed to the hotel once Jared caught up, confident Corbett would know how to find us.

Over beer and burritos, the whole group back together, everyone regaled each other with tales of our individual excursions, whether booking at the wrong hotel (me), carrying a loaded bike over one's head through waist-deep snow, or riding 50 miles in the wind with a chronic illness. With so many "real" problems in the world, it's cathartic to give our small woes a space to spread chips across the table.

The next morning's weather was clear and still, but cold. The temperature dipped into the low 20s Fahrenheit so we wore most of our clothes as we headed out after breakfast. Pedaling out of the park on the first day, the last eight or so miles felt for some like a slog, riding along a flat, tree-lined road with no views, no change in cadence, just the peacefulness of the woods striated with gusts of wind cutting through the trees — which makes those side quests even more understandable, however ill-fated. Riding northbound on Sunday, however, the flat introduction to the park was a welcome on-ramp. It's a barely noticeable ascent compared to the immediate dramatic climb.

Eventually, the road had a pull-out for the cars that will soon be flooding the road for the next six months. Some cyclists on a day trip from West Yellowstone, where we'd spent the night, were at the edge and looking out across the nearby river. I rode up them quietly and the man pointed to a giant black wolf standing in the shadow of the trees lining the riverbank just across from us.

"He was just about seven yards from me a moment ago when I stepped out onto the boardwalk, and I almost soiled my pants," he managed to whisper his exclamation, "I'm glad he crossed the river but my God he's beautiful."

"Are you sure it's the same one?"

"Oh I hope so, otherwise I'll have to crap my pants." We talked a while longer before they rode along back toward West Yellowstone and I pointed my bike in the general direction of Gardiner. But directly in between me and the rest of the ride was another cyclist, stopped and looked at another spot in the river.

"Look there," she whispered. "Absolutely stunning."

I looked, but not where she was pointing, because I'm bad at that. Instead, I saw a wolf pup fording a shallow section of river where it forked for a brief moment for a tiny island. Then again, the same way my dog Broose will sometimes ford the river by our house in the shallow spots when she wants to chase more deer, tiptoeing where she can and swimming until her claws scrape rocks again. The pup made it to the other side and was joined by a sibling. They didn't quite frolic, but pounced around in the water for a while.

My gaze eventually met the line drawn by the woman and I noticed the wolf she'd been awstruck by. A mammoth white floof lay in the shade of a short tree, watching her cubs. Where on earth could my legs possibly take me but to this spot, to watch this family? The dad (I presume) was making his way over to the rest of the small pack. Eventually, begrudgingly, I left them to their wild peace and privacy.

They owe us nothing but their own survival, not a view or an encounter or a howl. We owe them the planet and the privacy to live out their days on it the way nature is designed.

Just a few moments later, we came to a traffic jam of the frisbee players and some other young cyclists — college students visiting from Bozeman. on the side of the rode were buffalo. No big threat, as we'd ridden by buffalo last year, but these ones poured into the street just up a ways, in front of the mass of cyclists. For the most part, everyone was well behaved, but a few people, including a guy on an eBike presumably not with the main crowd, tried to bully their way past the big creatures and were swiftly humbled. My friends and I stayed back and kept our distance, chatting with the young riders in the back, even as some of the ones up front yelled at us to get into the other lane of the road as if they were going to try to convince the buffalo to move along and the large animals' main concerns were traffic violations for crossing over the double yellow.

Eventually, a car came along, the bulls in front gave up their post, and allowed us safe passage with a subtle but benign side-eye or two.

About ten miles up the rode, another herd. This time, a bus and a small group of the cyclists pushed the buffalo up the road. We stayed behind for a while, choosing instead to give them some space and eat our lunch. By the time we got to the buffalo, the cyclists had scooted past thanks to another vehicle pull-out and the buffalo were wedged into a narrow section of the road with a mountainside on one side and a sheer drop on the other. So we sat in the rode, drank a beer, and waited it out.

Eventually, a car came along and ever... so.... carefully... (it was a small car) inched its way through the herd. David followed close behind, using the car as a buffer as well as a way to gauge the buffalo's reactions. I, in turn, watched their reaction to him, and when there was none, I scampered past with my bike between me and the animals, not making eye contact, hoping to still be alive to make it to the other side. Our friends were soon joined by some of the other ultimate frisbee riders and collectively made a steady, slow line, careful not to startle or otherwise bring any attention to themselves at all.

Everyone across, we remounted and rode away slowly, leaving the buffalo to their own slow and safe journey to wider roads.

And so it was for the remainder of the ride. The sun was bright and we got sunburns despite the temperature staying just above freezing. Buffalo seemed to frolic in the still air and continued to cross our path every few miles, babies scattered among their packs just to make us queasy with fear, their shining coats shimmering to look almost like herds of white buffalo running along the planes.

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It was a mirage, of course. White buffalo are rare, and sacred. However, just last summer, one was born right in this park. Named Wakan Ali, which means Return Sacred in Lakota, was born following the severe winter of 2023-2024 which was deadly for many animals including the buffalo. Last winter was mild, which may present its own dangers with increased risk of fire and drought. It felt holy and sacred to see so many buffalo in the area, and so many babies. It felt a bit wrong, too, to be in their home. But at least my small pack, we tried to be as impactless as possible, flawed as we are. And while the concept of National Parks itself is fraught in my heart, with this land not belonging to the nation that stole it, I still honor the protection the parks provide for the animals of all sizes, for the corvids and eagles and wolves and butterflies, even the microscopic living beings that miraculously survive the near-boiling sulfuric waters of the Hot Springs.

We made it to our vehicles with just one flat tire (my bike), packed up and warmed our hands before driving off into the sunset to meet up for a cut or three of pizza in town before heading home to our city with no buffalo and no wolves, but plenty of pups and corvids, also worth protecting.