Author: Bill

Imagine planning a thrilling mountain biking trip, only to find yourself pedaling through a winter wonderland. This is exactly what happened to us on May 6th at Larry Creek. Known as a quick getaway spot for camping and recreation near our home, Larry Creek promised a day of adventure. Little did we know, it had a snowy surprise waiting for us.

We started our journey with excitement, ready to conquer the trails. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and our spirits were high. The idea was simple: a day of mountain biking, exploring the beauty of nature. But as we ventured further, the scenery started to change. Patches of snow appeared on the trail, gradually transforming into a thick, white blanket.

There I was, decked out in my biking gear, staring at a path more suited for a snowmobile than a mountain bike. The situation was comical. Picture us, a group of enthusiastic bikers, pushing our bikes through snow, slipping, sliding, and laughing at the absurdity of it all. It was like Mother Nature played a practical joke on us, and we couldn’t help but join in the laughter.

The snow transformed our biking trip into a spontaneous hiking adventure. We trudged through the snow, enjoying the unexpected turn of events. It wasn’t just about biking anymore; it was about embracing the unexpected, finding joy in the challenges, and making memories in the most unexpected circumstances.

As we made our way back, with snow-covered bikes and chilly toes, we couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. Sure, we didn’t get the biking adventure we planned, but we got something better – a story to tell, a memory to cherish, and a reminder that sometimes, the best adventures are the ones you never see coming.

So, the next time you plan an outdoor adventure, remember our snowy escapade at Larry Creek. You never know what nature has in store for you!

It was the kind of day where the sun seemed to wink at you, suggesting shorts were a good idea, and the breeze—oh that breeze—whispered of adventures waiting just around the corner. On April 29, 2023, the first hot day of the year, I answered the call of the wild, or more specifically, the call of National Forest Trail 072.

Wagonhammer camping was on the itinerary, and let me tell you, it’s the sort of place that gives you the good kind of shivers. The air smelled like freedom, or maybe that was just the absence of city smog. With coordinates like 45.394458, -113.946508 etched into my mind, I felt like an explorer from the olden days, except my trusty steed was a mountain bike with gears instead of a horse.

The Elk Trailhead beckoned, and like any reasonable person who talks to trailheads, I obeyed. The terrain rolled out like a welcome mat made of dirt and rocks, and the hills? They were like slumbering beasts, basking in the warm glow of spring.

Now, the best thing about being on a trail when it’s the first hot day? It’s not just the warmth; it’s the transformation. Flowers you couldn’t pronounce were popping up like nature’s confetti, and the trees—those wise old spectators—seemed to be cheering me on.

But let’s not forget the real hero of the story: the bike. It wasn’t just a mode of transport; it was my partner in crime, a silent ally against the uncharted paths. We had our moments, though. A few times, it decided to nap on the ground, and I can’t say I blamed it. The views were, after all, quite breathtaking.

In the midst of all this, there was a pause—a moment where I stood there, taking a selfie, because if you don’t photograph it, did it really happen? My face must’ve been a picture of joy and a touch of ‘I hope I don’t look too sweaty’.

As the day waned, the campsite became a slice of home. The kind of temporary home that comes with a side of campfire and the best kind of sleep—under the stars.

This wasn’t just a day; it was an odyssey. A reminder that sometimes, the best stories are the ones you pedal through, with the sun on your back and the trail under your wheels. And as I packed up, leaving no trace but my tire marks, I knew I’d be back. Because the trail, much like life, always has more to reveal to those willing to ride it.

Ah, April. The month that’s like your eccentric aunt who bursts into the living room, throws open the curtains, and yells, “Let there be light!” And just like that, the grayscale winter world gets a Technicolor reboot. It’s not just the daffodils and tulips either. It’s as if life itself is putting on a show, with the grand finale being the rekindling of friendships, like those Thursday Night Rides and going down to the Red Barn in Hamilton, Montana.

Picture this: a bunch of us, bundled up in our quirkiest cycling gear (because, why not?), meeting up at the Red Barn. It’s more than just a starting point for our rides; it’s a sanctuary, a hub of laughter and camaraderie. The air is still crisp, but there’s a promise of warmth, a hint of adventures waiting to unfold as the days stretch longer.

The first pedal stroke is like a declaration of freedom. We’ve been cooped up all winter, binge-watching shows and convincing ourselves that hot cocoa is a food group. But now, we’re out in the open, with nothing but the open road, a chain of twinkling bike lights, and the soft murmur of conversation.

As we ride, the landscape shifts. It’s like watching the world wake up from a long nap. The bare, skeletal trees are now dressed in vibrant greens, pinks, and whites. The fields, once a monochrome tapestry, are dotted with wildflowers that seem to cheer us on. And let’s not forget the sunsets. Oh, those Montana sunsets! They paint the sky in shades of orange, pink, and purple, turning our ride into a journey through a living canvas.

But it’s not just the scenery that makes these rides special. It’s the people. There’s something about sharing a trail that turns acquaintances into friends. Conversations flow as easily as the river we often ride beside. We talk about everything and nothing – the new cafe in town, the book someone just can’t put down, the silly antics of pets. These rides weave threads of connection, turning a group of cyclists into a tapestry of community.

As we circle back to the Red Barn, there’s a sense of accomplishment, a shared joy in the simple act of riding together. It’s not about the distance covered or the pace. It’s about the laughter, the stories shared, the silent moments of appreciation for the beauty around us, and the promise of many more rides to come. Then back to Missoula and the TNR.

In the end, it’s these moments that color our lives. April may bring the physical blooms, but it’s the laughter, the pedal strokes, and the shared sunsets that paint our world in the most vivid hues. Here’s to many more Thursday nights, many more rides, and a friendship that grows richer with each passing mile.

It was just another Thursday, or so I thought, as I peered out the window. The sun dipped low, kissing the horizon with a fiery passion only a sunset could muster. There, against the silhouette of mountains and the painted sky, my trusty bike awaited the next day’s adventures.

Cut to the chase, and there I was, gearing up for a pre-summer escapade. Missoula, Montana, with its trails that snake through the awakening woods, beckoned me with its siren’s call. The scent of pine and earth under the warming sun was intoxicating. Each pedal stroke was a verse in the poem of spring, each breath a chorus of life returning.

But life, with its irrepressible humor, always has a way of keeping you grounded. Literally. In the midst of all this poetic springtime glory, there it was—a sight that could make a statue giggle. The universal symbol of ‘oops’ – the humble yet ever-so-famous plumber’s crack. Spotted during a pit stop at the local gas station, it was a stark, hilarious contrast to the day’s earlier elegance.

It’s these moments, the butt cracks of life juxtaposed with the majesty of sunsets, that make the mundane magical. So, as I await and anticipate the full bloom of summer here in Missoula, I’m reminded to laugh at the little things and to ride the trails of life with the wind in my hair and a smile on my face. After all, isn’t that what makes any ordinary day into something extraordinary?

It was our last day, a day that wore a cloak of regularity, but beneath it, Hell’s Gate State Park was waiting to whisper ancient secrets through its rock formations. The Snake River, a silent witness to history, offered us a pathway to these stone sentinels, its waters a guide to the heart of Lewiston’s rugged beauty.

We had tread upon many a trail before, but nothing quite like this—the rocks stood like nature’s library, each layer a page from a time we could only dream of. As we hiked, the air was thick with the scent of pine and the sound of our boots against the dirt. It was as though each step was a note in a symphony, the crescendo building with the sight of the towering cliffs that loomed ahead.

Lunchtime found us at a rest area, an unassuming pitstop that soon felt like a banquet hall under the open sky. With sandwiches in hand, and hearts full of the morning’s silent conversations with nature, we dined like royalty in the company of whispering trees and the distant, yet ever-present, murmur of the river.

This wasn’t just a farewell to Lewiston, but a nod to the unexpected chapters that often go unwritten in travel itineraries. As we journeyed home to Missoula, our minds replayed the day, finding joy in the simple act of recalling the sights, the sounds, and the rock-solid serenity that graced our last day at Hell’s Gate.

And so, as the road stretched out before us, it was clear that every end is just a disguised beginning, and every rock, a storyteller waiting for a listener.