Read Online Two Wheels on my Wagon by Paul Howard - Free Book Online Page B

through-transport. In spite of this, it has been under relentless pressure from mining companies.
    Aside from its isolation, which on its own was a major preoccupation for cyclists faced with 100 miles of solitude, the valley also represents a unique wildlife habitat, particularly dangerous wildlife. According to Flathead Wild, the group campaigning to have the area classified as a national park, the Upper Flathead supports a greater diversity and abundance of carnivores than any other area in North America. That means not just brown and black bears (there are estimated to be 100 grizzlies alone), but also mountain lions, wolves, wolverines and lynx (there have been no recorded human fatalities caused by these last two creatures, but they both possess lots of sharp teeth and I was keen not to establish a precedent).
    Then there was the fact that the Upper Flathead was new to the Tour Divide this year, having previously been excluded from the official route for being too inaccessible. The area was served by a handful of rideable forest service roads, but there had always been a missing link for through-cyclists. The possibility of such a route had provoked much debate on the Tour Divide website until, two weeks before the start, the following had been posted:
    The preliminary news is in from Flathead reroute scouts, Bill and Kathy Love of Whitefish, MT. The beta can be reduced to one critical word: Singletrack! They spent the greater part of three days sussing out the passes and looking for a connector between Wigwam Forest Service Road and Rabbit-Phillips Forest Service Road. They returned with exalting news: confirmed trail between the two FSRs. It was getting pretty tenuous at two weeks out from TD’s grand depart, so the beta comes as grand relief. 2009 Tour Dividians will, indeed, be rewarded with first tracks along this remote backcountry passage.
    I didn’t know what beta meant, but clearly the real adventure was about to begin.
    At 5 a.m. the alarm sounded. By 5.05 a.m., Cadet had put the coffee machine on as I measured out the cereal bought from the poop-a-scoop section of the supermarket. I congratulated Cadet on what was a cheering, domesticated scene.
    â€˜That don’t offend my sensibilities none,’ he replied, which I took as a sign of approbation.
    Packing after a night under canvas had been something of a trial. The luxury of a roof over our heads meant we were ready to leave in little more than half an hour, except that Cadet had to resign himself to another delayed start after realising he had left his sunglasses in the motel’s reception. Given his decision the previous night to off-load a large proportion of his more essential belongings (bivvy bag, sleeping bag, camping mat) in pursuit of a leaner, meaner set-up this seemed a curious decision.
    â€˜They’re prescription sunglasses. I’d like to see the bear that’s about to eat me,’ he explained, not unreasonably.
    Once again it was below freezing as I rode back to the route. The first hour, as the sky slowly brightened into day, was along a traffic-free main road, then a perfectly smooth spur leading to a vast coal mine. I passed Bruce, who had arrived late into Elkford, and then Rick, both of whom were clearly better at early mornings than me. There was no sign of Deanna, but nor was there evidence of any bears having feasted at the roadside.
    On the approach to Corbin, the pressures facing the Upper Flathead were all too plain to see. The enormous coal mine had provided the metalled road for which I had been hypocritically grateful. It had also lopped off the top of one of the nearby mountains, and created a dense network of access tracks through the neighbouring forest. Then there was Corbin itself, a camp for peripatetic miners of the sort I would have insisted had died out at about the time of the Pony Express had it not been arrayed in front of me. The decomposing remains of mine machinery were hardly picture