US 12: Yellowstone to the Top of the World

It was still dark when I woke; too dark to see what time it was. There didn’t seem to be a moon but I could hear the wind in the pines just outside the window. There were other sounds too – the kind you hear when you’re camping out – except that, we weren’t actually camping out. I lay there for a while thinking about the day’s travel from Yellowstone to the top of the world; and listening to Mel’s muffled snoring. Eventually, I decided that there wasn’t any point to just lying there wide awake. I pulled on jeans; shouldered my jacket; eased out of the room; crept down the stairs to the ground floor and headed towards the exit door. Then I paused for a few moments.

The Canyon Lodge is actually not one lodge. Roads and walking paths connect a number of lodges spread across an accommodation campus. These lead to a central administration facility, incorporating a gift shop, lounge and dining area. After we’d checked in, unloaded, relaxed a bit, and showered, we’d headed across to the dining lounge. And, we’d taken the most direct walking path – through a copse of pines. By the time it occurred to me that there might be bears in Yellowstone, we were about mid-point between lodge and dining hall; and it was dark.

Bears

‘Hey Mate,’ I said. ‘There are bears in Yellowstone aren’t there?’

‘Yep,’

‘Do you reckon they wander around places like this?’ I asked.

‘I reckon they wander around pretty much wherever they want.’

I could see lights through the trees about three hundred yards away and I quickened my pace;  just a tad. Although I’d never seen a real bear in the wild, I’d been to the movies and had a good imagination. The problem, when it’s dark, is that you can’t actually see what’s there; and, when you can’t see, your imagination takes over. After dinner, we’d sat around for a while in the lounge; we had coffee and yarned for an hour or so. When we finally headed back to our lodge, we walked around the road where there were street lights. I’m not exactly sure, though, how lights would have helped if there had been bear.

Early morning . . . and no bears

For a couple of moments, I stood in the hallway, and I weighed up my need for a cigarette. The possibility that there might be a bear wandering around just outside the door gave me pause for thought. But, need for a cigarette eventually took precedence. I pushed open the door; propped it back so that it wouldn’t slam shut and lock me out; seated myself on the porch with my back against the lodge wall; and lit up.

There wasn’t a soul about and no bears in sight either. But, then again, you probably wouldn’t see them unless they wanted you to. Two lights threw a muted glow that extended just beyond a low barrier wall around the porch. Night gradually edged towards morning; and the solid darkness dissolved to reveal other lodges and structures, trees and even motor vehicles. The night noises faded with the onset of incipient daylight, and my imaginings of bears suddenly seemed childish – even foolish.

Roads less travelled

Sitting there in the gradually developing half light, I thought about Yellowstone itself and how we’d got here. After leaving Cheyenne the fastest way to Sturgis would have been to continue north along I-25 until we reached I-90.  This would have taken us into South Dakota and delivered us directly to Sturgis. Instead, we had taken US 20, travelled west and then north west, and had discovered the Tumble Inn; Thermopolis; Cody; and Casper. We’d met a couple of decent blokes on Gold Wings who’d suggested we ride the BearTooth Highway. We’d encountered ‘Grizzly Adams’ and his partner; and they’d taken time out to show us a scenic ride along the North Platte River to Casper. We’d taken roads less travelled and I was sitting, smoking in the half light of an early morning in Yellowstone. So, how did that happen?

A lasting memory

Well, the first time I’d heard the word Yellowstone was before Mel had even been born. After our accident and the death of my mother and brothers, Dad and I were evacuated for urgent emergency hospitalisation. Dad’s legs had been broken and he’d suffered horrendous burns to major areas of his body; and, I had burns and a fractured skull. On discharge from hospital, we’d travelled back to West Australia where Dad convalesced and started a graduated return to work.

He’d met Val Richards, his boss’s daughter, and had quickly been integrated into the Richards family. One evening after dinner in the Richards’ home, we’d been treated to a 16mm movie; a film made by Dad’s soon to be father-in-law on a trip he’d taken to the US. A great deal of detail from that film had faded from memory. What had not faded were the images of his visit to Yellowstone. Perhaps this was, in part, the reason I was sitting outside the Canyon Lodge in the early morning half light. Maybe, I’d wanted to be able to say to myself, ‘I’ve been there’.

So much to see . . . so little time

The thing about a road trip like this, and about life, is that you don’t know what you don’t know. Before we’d embarked on this trip, Yellowstone had just been a name attached to a few old images. That being said, that name was enough to divert us just so that we could say that we’d been there. We had no plan, and really no time if we wanted to make Sturgis, to explore the National Park. Yellowstone had really been no more than a place to stay. A rest-stop before we traversed the BearTooth Highway and pushed on to South Dakota. Once having arrived, however, we’d discovered that Yellowstone was a bit like the Canyonlands; it was a place where you could spend a month without exhausting all the possibilities.

Roche jaune

We’d ridden into a region where Native Americans had lived for eons before the first Anglo-American explorers entered the area. The Indians would, no doubt, have been attracted by the abundance of game; and, the geysers, canyons, and boiling pools of water and mud had probably intrigued them. Unfortunately, on this road trip we weren’t going to see much because we were en route to somewhere else; but I could certainly see the attraction. Perhaps, if the Deuce hadn’t developed a problem back in Utah; if we hadn’t spent a couple of days sorting out the problem; there would have been time to stay in Yellowstone for an extra day or two. But, things just didn’t work out that way; and, there was no point trying to retrieve water that had already flowed under the bridge.

Having said that, I had done some reading before drifting off to sleep. I’d discovered that this National Park is the fountainhead of the Yellowstone River; and that it is from the river that the park derives its name. It is said that French trappers named the river Roche Jaune [Yellow Rock] some time towards the end of the 18th century. This name is likely, however, to have been a transliteration of the Hidatsa name Mi tsi a-da-zi [literally Yellow Rock River]. Given the sulphurous, geothermal activity in the area there was clearly reason for referring to the rocks as yellow. Years later, American trappers translated the French name into English as Yellow Stone. 

Before the settlers came

The human history of this park predates the arrival of Anglo-American Europeans by a massive margin. Artefacts discovered in the area are evidence that Indians had hunted in the region for millennia. During excavation for the Gardiner Post Office, workmen discovered an obsidian arrow dating back approximately 11,000 years. Early Clovis Indians had used significant amounts of the obsidian found in the park to fashion cutting tools and weapons. Archeologists have found Yellowstone obsidian arrowheads as far away as the Mississippi Valley; suggesting that trade existed between the local tribes and those further east.

The first Anglo-American to travel through the region was John Colter; a renowned mountain man. He’d left the Lewis and Clark Expedition to the Pacific, to explore the wilderness with a group of trappers. In 1807, he explored part of the Yellowstone plateau and returned with stories of steaming geysers and bubbling cauldrons. However, doubters accused him of telling tall tales and dubbed the area ‘Colter’s Hell’ because he had a reputation for telling tall tales. Although, over the next forty years, numerous reports from mountain men and trappers told of boiling mud, steaming rivers, and petrified trees, most continued to believe these reports to be largely myth.

Survey expeditions

Then in 1859, Captain William F. Raynolds, a U.S. Army Surveyor, undertook an extended survey of the northern Rockies. After spending the winter in Wyoming, Raynolds and his party, which included Hayden [a naturalist] and Bridger [a guide and mountain man], set off to cross the Continental Divide thereby becoming the first organised survey party to enter the Yellowstone region. The outbreak of the American Civil War essentially put a stop to further explorations until the late 1860s. 

The first detailed expedition to the Yellowstone area was the Cook–Folsom–Peterson Expedition of 1869; it comprised three privately funded explorers. The Folsom party followed the river to Yellowstone Lake and kept detailed journals. Based on this information a group of Montana residents organised the Washburn–Langford–Doane Expedition in 1870. Headed by the surveyor-general of Montana, Henry Washburn, and including Langford [later known as National Park Langford] and an Army detachment commanded by Lieutenant Doane, the group spent a month exploring, collecting specimens and naming sites of interest. The following year, the same party returned to conduct a much more thorough reconnaissance. 

A National Park

Then in 1871, Ferdinand Hayden directed the first government sponsored exploration and investigation. He took with him William Jackson, a pioneering photographer, and Thomas Moran, a brilliant landscape artist. The images provided by these two were the first visual evidence of Yellowstone’s wonders; and it was largely this evidence that caught the attention of the US Congress.

Early in 1872, Congress set aside 1,221,773 acres of public land straddling the territories of Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho as America’s first National Park. President Ulysses S Grant [Pictured] signed the Yellowstone Bill into law in late 1872. The Yellowstone Act designated the region as a public pleasuring-ground, which would be preserved from injury or spoliation of all timber, mineral deposits, natural curiosities, or wonders within.

Given that the nation had been hell bent on exploiting the West, the creation of a National Park was exceptional. It is likely that a majority supported the establishment of a National Park because they believed the rugged, isolated area to be of little economic value. Whatever the motivation, the Yellowstone Act popularised the idea of preserving tracts of land for use as public parks. Although Congress has subsequently designated dozens of other National Parks, Yellowstone was the first in the US; and quite possibly the world.

Breakfast . . . but only just

I’d taken my Ipad with me when I’d snuck out for a cigarette, and had become so absorbed reading all this stuff that a bear could have come and ripped my head off. Time had slipped away on me a little, and just then Mel wandered out.

‘So, there you are,’ he said. ‘I thought a bear might have got you,’ he said with a smirk.

‘Mate, has anyone told you yet?’ I queried.

‘Told me what?’

‘Nobody likes a smartass!’

We both laughed and wandered across to the food hall for breakfast. The food, while not great, was typical of meals in resort accommodation where there is essentially a captive audience. So far in our travels we had found breakfast in diners to be pretty good and generally very reasonably priced. The Canyon Lodge food hall, in contrast, was a cafeteria type arrangement; satisfactory at best, with coffee that Mel found undrinkable.

On the road again

After packing, loading and checking out, we fired up and headed along North Rim Drive until we approached Grand Loop Road. As we neared this road we pulled into a service centre, refuelled and checked engine, primary, and gearbox fluids. That done, we headed out and cruised beside the Yellowstone River until we reached the Northeast Entrance Road junction. The air was crisp and clear, and the sky almost cloud free. Our motorcycles thumped along in easily unison with the exhausts echoing from the pine forest that bordered the road. At the junction with Northeast Entrance Road [US 212], we turned right and accelerated on towards Cooke City and the BearTooth Highway.

Yellowstone to the top of the world . . . almost

It is said that a woman, planning a summer vacation, wrote to the CBS Network travel correspondent Charles Kuralt to ask his advice as to what he considered to be America’s most beautiful highway. Kuralt’s response was that the most beautiful road in America was U.S. 212: the Beartooth Highway. 

This Highway, from one end at the Northeastern Entrance of Yellowstone National Park to the other, just outside Red Lodge, is sixty-seven miles long [108 kilometres]. According to tourist brochures, BearTooth Highway offers an incredible high-country driving experience. It traverses some of the most rugged mountains in the lower forty-eight States, with twenty peaks exceeding 12,000 feet [3,600 meters]. In 2002, the Federal Highway Administration designated a large portion of the highway an All-American Road; because of the corridor’s historical, cultural, and scenic significance.

Built between 1931 and 1936 as an approach to Yellowstone, the Beartooth Highway is said to be an economic lifeline; it connects the resort towns of Cooke City and Red Lodge. 

Along the Yellowstone River

It was mid-morning; forests bordered our road; and so we were in shade and the air had a chilled edge. We’d left Grant Village at 7,825 feet [2,385 metres] and, following the path of the Yellowstone River, had descended steadily. We knew, though, that before long we would commence our ascent to BearTooth Pass. Granite Peak, at 12,799 feet [3,901 metres], is the highest point of the BearTooth Mountains and while we would not reach that altitude, we would traverse the Pass at 10,947 feet [3,337 metres].

At this point it might be salutary, to provide a bit of useless information about altitude and temperature. Years earlier while training for a pilot’s licence, I’d learned that,on average, temperature drops 2℃ for every thousand feet altitude increase. This meant that when we traversed BearTooth Pass, the ambient air temperature would be 21.8℃ [71.2℉] lower than whatever the temperature was at sea level. We would, in fact, be traversing the Pass in the context of a temperature close to zero.

Cooke City

We throttled back just before entering Cooke City and then decided to stop. Although we’d not been on the road long, any excuse would do for a coffee; and, in my case, a smoke. Given that Mel has never smoked and is actually vehemently opposed to the habit, he’s remarkably tolerant of my vice.

There had been multiple times when Mel had slowed and pulled off into some shaded area. And then he’d say ‘I thought it might be time for a smoke’. While stopped on this occasion, I took the opportunity to pull on a sweater; heave on my jacket and get out Mel’s leather gauntlets. Although it was nowhere near cold enough to be wearing this stuff, I had every confidence that it would get increasingly cold from this point on.

Tight corners and switch-backs

The road climbed fairly quickly after Cooke City. Increasingly we found ourselves working our gearboxes in order to negotiate the not so gentle corners and switchbacks. We traversed Colter Pass at 8,000 feet [2,438  metres] and found that we’d left the pine forests behind. This was pretty much open country with low, wiry shrubbery as ground cover for almost as far as the eye could see. Ferns crouched in the lee of rocks and boulders; moss thrived in cracks and crevices; and, a stiff wind blew from the south. It was cold and I was pleased that I had donned the jumper; but I knew that we had not experienced the worst of it. There was still another two and a half thousand feet to climb before we reached BareTooth Pass.

Beartooth Pass

Our V-Twins worked hard in the thin atmosphere and the bark of our exhausts was strident; it echoed against the slopes that soared upward from the margins of the road. As we continued upward, I tried to imagine what it must have been like building this road. Although we battling a strong wind, the sky was clear with a few scattered clouds, and the sun was shining. What it would be like during a storm with gale force winds was just beyond my ability to imagine.

Finally, we crested the plateau which is BearTooth Pass, and pulled off into the rest area and car park. It was bitterly cold. While the temperature was probably not below zero, the wind chill made it feel positively arctic. Though it was late summer, deep snow drifts remained in the lee of large granite outcrops and on distant slopes. When we hauled off our leather gauntlets so that we could take photographs, numbness crept into our fingers; and the arthritis in my hands and shoulders let me know that the years really had marched on a pace.

The going up was worth the coming down

We should have stayed longer because the views were absolutely breathtaking; blue mountain ranges towered in the distance wherever we looked; roads like pencil lines against the green valley seemed an unbelievable long way down; and in the distance peaks towered way above our level. We should have stayed but it was just too cold.

Returning to our motorcycles, I was only too pleased to warm my hands on top of the rocker-boxes. We didn’t talk as much as we usually did. We just climbed aboard; fired up, pulled back onto the highway; and, traversed the plateau before commencing the long descent to the flatland and Red Lodge.

Shortly after commencing our descent, we noticed that we’d ridden out of the worst of the wind. We pulled off at a turnout to photograph what appeared to be a sculptured pyramid rising from between granite mountains. Carved by eons of glacial activity, its unique shape was what motivated the Crow to call it ‘bear’s tooth’; which is, of course, how the mountain range and highway got their name.

A white-knuckle ride

As we continued down, we crossed the 45th parallel; meaning that we were exactly halfway between the equator and the pole. It felt as though we were hovering above the earth with a birds-eye view of Montana’s alpine country. We proceeded cautiously because large sections of the highway were guardrail free. As we negotiated countless switch-backs, I tried not to imagine going over the edge and disappearing down several thousand feet.

Now, I consider myself to be a better-than-average motorcycle rider. But, without trying and without effort, my brother can leave me struggling to keep pace. He is a truly talented motorcyclist. He can pick lines through corners with unerring accuracy; and then lay his motorcycle over until the pipes send out showers of sparks. Well before entering a corner, he will have shifted down to avoid locking up the rear wheel. Then, when only halfway though a curve, he will be tapping the throttle and powering away into the distance. Having said all that, even Mel was cautious as we worked our way down the range.

Red Lodge

Once we emerged from the lower slopes we found ourselves on open, flat farming land. We were still riding at a little over five and a half thousand feet [1,697 metres] but, after the BearTooth, it seemed a bit like riding at sea level. The sun was shining, the sky fairly cloud free, and there was almost no wind; so we cracked open our throttles for an easy ride into Red Lodge.

With the BearTooth Highway behind us, we throttled back, geared down and cruised sedately into town. Nestled among rolling hills and age old granite buttes, Red Lodge is a town with character and historical colour. Mel needed a coffee and something to eat and I needed a coffee and a smoke; so we parked just outside the Pollard Hotel and wandered up the street in search of a cafe. 

Not worth the paper they’re written on

The US Government had signed a treaty with the Crow Nation in September of 1851, ceding the area now containing Red Lodge to the Crow. However, rich deposits of coal had been discovered in 1866, and gold was discovered in 1870. Given that the land ceded turned out to be immensely valuable, the government in 1880 negotiated another treaty with the Crow which allowed the area to be settled. A Post Office was established on Dec 9, 1884, and a rail line was constructed into the town. Coal shipments out of the area by rail commenced in June 1889. 

New boundaries were again drawn up for the Crow Reservation in 1892, and this effectively opened up the whole area to settlement. From then on until the 1930s, coal mining defined the town. New settlers seeking employment came to Red Lodge from Britain and Europe during the second half of the 19th century. By 1892 the population had reached 1,180. At the turn of the century, Red Lodge had twenty saloons and a reputation for violent and riotous living. At the end of the first decade of the new century, the population had grown to five thousand.

Bootleg . . . the best economic stimulus

Then, the Wall Street Crash of 1929 ushered in the Great Depression and most mines were forced to close. To offset the downturn, Red Lodge took to manufacturing bootleg liquor labeled ‘Syrup’. So successful was this bootleg enterprise that it became the economic mainstay of the town. By 1930, Red Lodge Syrup is reported to have been sold as far away as Chicago and San Francisco. Then, in 1931, work began on the BearTooth Highway linking Red Lodge to Yellowstone National Park. 

I liked the idea of a town with twenty saloons and riotous living. But sadly, it seemed that we’d arrived about ninety years too late. Disappointing and all as this was, I thought the town was attractive in a yesteryear sort of way; I wouldn’t have minded staying. But, it was early afternoon and Billing was only about sixty miles away; it would be an easy ride into Sturgis the next day. So, when we had finished with our coffee, we refuelled, checked fluids and headed north on US 212.

Billings, Montana

It was a perfect afternoon to be on the road. We were travelling north east with the sun at our backs; the weather was neither hot nor cold; there was virtually no wind; and, we were travelling along a valley that traced the course of Rock Creek. At Rockville we picked up Clarks Fork Yellowstone River and continued along the valley. Then at Laurel, we joined Interstate 90 for a relatively short cruise into Billings.

I’d decided that I liked Montana: spectacular scenery; great motorcycle roads; a mix of green open country and majestic towing mountains that seemed to be a backdrop to everything. I could definitely live there; well, in the summer anyway, in winter the place would probably be feet deep in show.

End of the day

We stayed on I-90, bypassed the city centre, and at the first exit after the CBD, we spotted accommodation. We took the exit and found a Days Inn with their Vacancy sign illuminated. Then, with accommodation secured, motorcycles parked, and key card in hand, we unloaded and headed up to our room.

It had been a truly magnificent day’s riding right from the get-go in Yellowstone. There aren’t too many times in life when I find myself completely at a loss for words. My visit to the Grand Canyon had been one of those times and I had just experienced another one. Beartooth Pass is breathtaking: quite literally, because at just under eleven thousand feet, the air is pretty thin; but, also metaphorically. Words simply cannot do justice to the vistas, the grandeur or the scale. I have no doubt that, at the time, this highway must have been something of an engineering marvel; but, it is rendered insignificant, almost trivial by the massive mountain ranges that seem to go on forever. If you are ever in Wyoming, Montana or Idaho, do yourself a favour and ride the BearTooth Highway.

Just a thought . . .

Take the journey, soar like an eagle

there are so many roads to explore

but so little time.

Click to continue reading: US 13 Little BigHorn Massacre to the City of Presidents