July 2 - Self-Therapy

[Adele]

I am still 40 miles from a Montana ghost town where I intend to stay the night when I realize that I'm sick of spinning my pedals around in endless circles.

Gazing ahead, the slim ribbon of road unfurls endlessly before my front wheel. The flawless blue sky should lift my spirits, but instead I only feel worse because now I feel guilty for not appreciating the perfect sun and the snow-capped mountains ringing round every vantage of the horizon

Time for some self-therapy.

"Why are you in such a crappy mood?" I question myself.

Well, first, you woke up late because you couldn't put down "War and Peace" until midnight, then you left camp at an unnaturally late hour for a cycle tourist. You feel bad because your competitive mind knows that other bike tourists are already halfway through their day's journey and you've just brushed your teeth.

Second, you just visited a site of absolute tragedy: the Big Hole National Battlefield where the US army ambushed and killed a record number of Nez Perce as they fled their homeland in Eastern Oregon.

Third, there is a headwind, that invisible beast that makes you feel like a sluggish fool.

Fourth, you really didn't want to leave camp this morning and were irritated to have to shut up "War and Peace" into your pannier just as the heroine's life was about to fall apart.

The problem with biking all day, day after day, is that once my mind finds something to chew on, no matter how trivial, there is little to distract this train of thought and so it festers for hours. Never do I have this amount of time to ponder back home in my busy everyday life. I've found that the great emptiness of my surroundings while I cycle can give me space to untangle thoughts either for good or for ill.

As I pull up to Brock on his bicycle and we take a breather, he admits to having a rough day of it, too. I try his strategy for the next few hours: plug in.
Snap Judgement, the Sprocket podcast, and On Being lift me from the endless spinning circles of my mind and give me something fresh to think over.

A crisp Big Sky IPA also helps. We linger for almost an hour at the bar of Jackson Hot Springs lodge. "You should stay here", the friendly elderly gentleman bartender tells us. "You can pitch your tent and enjoy the hot springs."

Although quitting now sounds tempting, the 98 degree hot spring doesn't, and I tell him that we'd just feel bad about ourselves if we didn't make our self-inflicted goal of the ghost town, Bannick.

28 miles and one more big climb later, Brock and I set up our tent by chattering Grasshopper Creek, then meander down the gravel road to explore Bannick.

Once a town of 3,000 people and the territorial capital of Montana in the 1860s, Bannick now lies silent and empty. Its main street boasts a large brick hotel, a Masonic lodge and school, multiple saloons, stores, and Hurdy Gurdy houses where off-the-job miners could dance with the girls for 50 cents a dance.

In 1862, gold was found in Grasshopper creek and the hopefuls flooded in. Soon, the town turned ugly as men shot each other in the street in broad daylight and roving bands stole prospectors gold.

The town's population had dwindled to nothing by the 1940s, and now a campground serves as an excellent base from which to stroll through the once bustling streets.