While feeling like a prisoner sentenced to paved roads of Yellowstone National Park, I did manage to find a hidden gem completely by accident: Chittenden Road. It’s a dirt road that heads up toward Mount Washburn. On the map it ends with a parking lot far short of the summit, but I would take anything I could.
Just riding the Grand Loop up to Dunraven Pass at 8,878 feet would rate as a decent enough accomplishment in my book. But the Grand Loop intersected with Chittenden Road — too inviting to pass up.
Aside from the Bear amazing facts we learned about all sorts of animals, one of the items that stuck out during our Ranger talk was the fact that a Grizzly sow and her two cubs had been hanging out on the north side of Mount Washburn.
That’s all the information my wife needed to proclaim, “You are not riding up Mount Washburn.” But my daughter Taylor could see the sparkle in my eye when Debbie upped the ante on Washburn.
As is typical, I’m sure, with a lot of relationships, I knew it was time to keep my mouth shut and prepare for my ride. As I donned my helmet, Taylor wandered past and whispered, “You’re going to Mount Washburn, aren’t you?”
I nodded, and reminded her I’m a very cautious bike rider, especially in the wild. As I left, I told Sierra and Taylor that if they didn’t see me until 5 or 6, they could tell Mommy where I was (like she didn’t know).
All Sierra asked was if I had my camera to record the Grizzlies, should I be so lucky to see them.
Since we were down to one cellphone with a low battery, Debbie kept it, and I told her to turn it on after 4 p.m. if I wasn’t back yet.
I rolled out of Canyon Village (7900 elevation) with a Camelbak of water, another bottle on my bike, an apple, Clif bar, first aid kit, bike supplies, two knives and the camera.
Once I turned onto the Grand Loop and began the ascent, I knew it would be a great day. The road offered more width to the right of the white line than the ride through Hayden Valley, and since we were headed uphill, the traffic was more in control, slower and felt immeasurably safer.
The steady, but not overbearing, grade made for great climbing. I stopped about a mile in to take some video, and quickly learned it took too long to find my rhythm and cadence again — thanks to the altitude — so next stop was Dunraven Pass.
When I made it to the pass, I had more than 1,000 feet of climbing in my legs, and they felt surprisingly good since the bike has spent most of our time here on the root. There is a trail from Dunraven Pass that leads up to the summit of Mount Washburn, but, like all trails in National Parks, bikes are not allowed.
So I headed for Chittenden Road. I should say, I headed down. Don’t get me wrong, the speed picked up my spirits and made for some fun, but simple physics reminded me I headed down a path that I would eventually have to come back up to get home.
The downhill went longer and longer and longer. Much farther than I remembered coming up the other side in the truck. When I finally hit Chittenden Road, I knew I’d have to save some significant reserves to get back over Dunraven Pass.
Making it to the top of Dunraven Pass seemed like a good enough accomplishment for the day, so any playing around on a dirt road on the north side of Mount Washburn where a possible grizzly sighting could occur would be gravy.
I quickly realized that the general rule that dirt road grades exceed pavement applied. What I lost in the ability to set a steady beat, I gained with quiet and solitude of no steady string of cars chugging past me.
I had my bear bell ringing on the back of my saddle, and added a cow bell on my handlebar in case I had to make some serious noise. But there seemed to be a car either ascending or descending every few minutes, so I didn’t feel alone and isolated.
I hit the parking lot in what seemed to be no time, but I did note that I had begun to feel the effects of 90 minutes of nonstop climbing in my legs.
Still, I faced the barricade across the dirt road with the huge “DO NOT ENTER” sign, with the parking lot off to the east. I took some video and soaked in the view, when two bike riders appeared from the parking lot.
They were headed up. Is that allowed? Sure, the fit one from Seattle said, we just asked that Ranger. They disappeared up the road after the polite “I’m sure you’ll be passing us soon” nod of respect, and suddenly my ride headed into overtime.
I was in pretty decent riding condition, but by no means in the upper 50 percent of serious cyclists. So when someone says a nice thing like that, well, I know better.
I also did the math. This is where it got steep and rocky on the road. I’ve been climbing for 90 minutes. They’ve been climbing for 90 seconds. I figured I wouldn’t see them again.
I let them get a big gap, up and around the bend, before I started. Like everything in life, I start slow and easy, and work up to a reasonable pace.
It wasn’t long before I caught the first dude, from Laramie, Wyoming, who didn’t have any real cycling fitness, but made up for it with his determination to stick with his buddy.
I’m sure people have seen us walking bikes up the side of a mountain and wonder, if we’re hiking more than riding, why would we want to lug a bike to the top?
The answer, of course, is for the ride down.
In any event, it wasn’t long before I actually passed Seattle, too, which surprised me because that’s the last thing I wanted to do. That kind of establishes expectations. I hate expectations on my bike.
After a good interval, the first shade came into view. I actually passed up two little tree shade options and went for a section where the road twisted into a grove of Lodgepole Pine.
Once I hit shade, I dismounted for a serious break. I drank a lot of water and dug into my apple. Seattle pulled up for a break, too, and we had a long chat.
Seattle found out that they use this road to take supplies up to the dude who lives up at the fire tower three months out of the year. Every two weeks they chug groceries and such up to him. Cyclists are the real winners.
He told me Laramie didn’t really have any bike experience, so he figured he was on his own. Just as he was about to take off, I noted Laramie, steady and slow walking, had nearly caught him. So he waited.
After another long break, they went for it again. I saw that Laramie wasn’t even in his easiest gearing, so I advised him to try it spinning. They disappeared, riding, together.
I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of playing cat and mouse with these guys for who knows how long. In fact, without their presence, there’s a good chance I would have turned and headed home right then, having gobbled up half of my solid substance.
But the trees offered a nice cool shade, and riding in the forest was a nice break from the sun soaked wide open side of a mountain, so I went for it. In the blink of an eye, the road twisted again, and, exposed the sun soaked wide open side of a mountain.
If that wasn’t bad enough, you could see an unbearably long, straight, steep stretch that, trust me, easily could have been a mile by itself. That appeared to take you two-thirds of the remaining way to the fire tower. The last third must be switchbacks hidden in the cone of the peak.
I saw Seattle and Larmie lounging beneath the final shade of the ride. As I approached, my apple clearly had kicked in, and my engines were humming. So much so that the intimidating stretch ahead looked somewhat doable.
This time I kept the chitchat to a minimum, and set off ahead of them. I figured it was time to allow them to catch me, if nothing else, to give them a little boost in spirits.
Besides, the grade continued to increase and I honestly expected it to be the death of me sooner or later.
I managed a healthy, oh, maybe quarter mile stretch before I saw hit some hikers on descending. I stopped immediately and struck up a conversation.
Is it worth it?
Oh, yes, the older guy said. I never thought about bringing my bike out here. We don’t have hills like this back home in Wisconsin.
Turns out, he lives in New Berlin, about 10 miles from where I grew up in Brookfield.
Small world.
This proved to be my life-saving strategy. Hikers appeared perfectly spaced coming down the mountainside, to allow me to so a short hard interval, then stop for a chat.
Each chat provided some information. The next couple informed me that the large grove of dead trees slicing down the mountainside about halfway up the road was about the halfway point of the entire ride to the top.
They said this was the steepest, and worst part. The next couple rebuffed that note about steepness replying, “I wouldn’t say that.”
The next couple were strictly cheerleaders. You can make it. You got it. A nice gesture, for sure, but I felt like saying, listen, you have no idea what I’ve been through.
At the dead trees, Seattle and Laramie rejoined me as I rested. They refueled and buoyed by my determination to finish this, I took off and hammered the final stretch to the top.
An amazing view greeted me, along with cold, cloudy winds as a front began to move in. No sign of Mama Grizzly and her cubs, so I bundled up for the long haul home.
I made it back in time, but learned the girls had already confessed to Debbie. She just shook her head at me, with a smile.
As usual, the National Parks have a way of surprising me.
Time to ride.
