It’s barely 6pm on June 18th, and the air is still thick with that summer heat… a blessed relief from the absolute inferno we’ve been dealing with down in the valley all day. Mo is behind me, struggling a bit on the access road, her water bottle already half-empty. I swear, I was born for this stuff. The mountain and me, we’ve got this understanding. Mo? She’s more of a determined struggler, but hey, love makes you do dumb things, like voluntarily biking up nearly 8,000 feet of Montana elevation when you’d rather be watching F1 on the big screen.
The climb starts gentle, winding through the Lolo National Forest, but soon, the incline kicks up, and I can hear Mo’s breathing getting heavier. I slow down a bit, pretending I need to adjust my gear. “Did you know Point Six has a prominence of about 440 feet?” she huffs, mostly to distract herself from the burning. I laugh. “I knew you were gonna start dropping mountain stats the second you got tired.” She’s not wrong. I know her too well.
The higher we go, the quieter it gets… just wind and the crunch of our tires on loose rock. The Montana Snowbowl ski area sprawls below us, looking kinda naked without its winter coat. There were once plans to expand the ski runs all the way up here, but that never panned out. Probably for the best, honestly… there’s something magic about how untouched this part of the mountain feels.
A mile or so from the summit, we stop to catch our breath (okay, she stops—I could keep going forever, but I’m not gonna be that person). “We’re at about 1.12 miles of isolation from the nearest taller peak,” Mo says between gulps of water. I smirk. “And how does that make you feel?” She thinks about it for a second. “Small. But, like…in a good way.” Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky to find someone who cares about nerdy mountain facts as much as she does.
Near the top, the wind picks up, funneled by the ridgeline. Thank god for that breeze. Somewhere up here, there’s a weather station, quietly collecting data on wind speed, temperature, and whatever else weather stations track. Mo would probably know the exact sensors they use. She’s probably mentally recording the data herself for some project I’ll hear about later.
Then, finally, we reach the summit. The valley spreads out below us, a patchwork of green, gold, and the deep blue of distant lakes, all soaking up that magic evening light. I can practically see the heat waves still rising from town. I glance at Mo, her face flushed with effort, hair stuck to her forehead, and I feel this weird rush of… something. Pride? Love? Whatever it is, it’s good.
“This,” she says, breathing hard, “was a terrible idea.”
I grin. “You love terrible ideas.”
She’s right. She does. Especially when they involve me.
And especially when they come with a 4,000-foot downhill ride back to the car before dark. Now we’re talking.
Boneshakerbike 
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