This particular blog entry is different than previous entries. I submitted the essay below to a podcast series - The Dirtbag Diaries - that I found myself listening to nearly every day while riding alone along the Divide. In addition to their full length episodes in which outdoor enthusiasts of all kinds are interviewed to share their stories of community, adventure, challenge, and self-discovery, they periodically release “Shorts” - 15 minute long self-narrated essays submitted by listeners. I saw that they were accepting submissions, so I drafted one up to shoot my shot. Below is that shot - encapsulating the first bikepacking adventure of the summer of 2020. Enjoy!

A Solo Divide

In the weeks leading up to what was supposed to be another summer of the same old story for Matt and me, everything changed. We worked full time for an adventure travel company, and the summer was by far our busiest season. In mid-May, our company announced it was cancelling all summer trips due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Like millions around the country, the majority of our office was now out of a job. We contemplated what to do. On one hand, we felt pressure to ride out the pandemic from the safety and financial security of home. On the other hand, we were tempted by opportunity. We had a free summer for the first time in years. Since we first got into biking, we’d fantasized about riding along the Great Divide Mountain Bike Trail, a 2,700 mile route from Canada to Mexico. Would this be the summer we actually do it?

Matt and I had become best friends over the previous three years while working and living together in western Massachusetts. Through those years, we discovered a passion for biking. It started with post-work rides around town in the rolling hills of the Berkshires, discovering new lookout points, steep backroad climbs, and the thrilling downhills that followed. We agreed that there was nothing quite like gliding through a landscape, hearing only the whir of your bike, the wind rushing past your ears. Other friends joined us here and there, but Matt and I were the constants. We always pushed one another to get out and ride just a little farther, maybe just a little faster, and through that mutual reliance and encouragement our experience on the bikes grew. As we became more confident, our rides stretched farther and farther from home, and soon enough we were planning our first bikepacking adventure - a 4 day loop through the backroads of Vermont that we completed together in the late summer of 2019.

Matt and I talked through the risks of setting off on an adventure in the midst of a pandemic. We’d primarily be tent camping, and we’d minimize interactions with other people. When we did have to enter towns to resupply, we’d wear masks and have hand sanitizer at the ready. We concluded that our goals for the summer - minimize time in populated areas and maximize time in remote places in the outdoors - were in line with the CDC’s guidelines to minimize transmission of the virus. There were also financial considerations. We both had some money saved from a few years of work, and our landlord had graciously offered to let us break our lease when we needed to. We thought we could make it work. Still, my conscience pressed me:

“An adventure during a pandemic? Really?”

Friends and family weighed in:

“When will you have time to do something like this again?”

“Why would you ever even want to do something like that?”

“What a story that would be!”

“You mean you don’t want to just watch Netflix on the couch with me?” (my sister)

“Bring a gun.” (my grandma)

We were torn. Then, we got the push we needed. I woke up one morning to see that I’d been tagged in an instagram photo by our friend Emily. A Montana based organization, Adventure Scientists, was looking for volunteer cyclists to ride through Montana to assist in a study on wildlife-vehicle collisions in the state. Matt, Emily and I applied that day, and were accepted shortly thereafter. Our task? Photograph and document roadkill we encountered along the Beartooth highway in southwest Montana - often described as one of the most scenic mountain passes in America. Photographing dead animals in the name of science? Finally - putting that Environmental Management degree to good use!

In the days immediately after accepting our new roles as dead wildlife photographers, Matt, Emily and I organized a week-long bikepacking route that would take us through the Beartooth and Pryor mountains of Montana and Bighorn mountains of Wyoming (Thanks, Bikepacking.com!). The three of us would ride together that week, and then Matt and I would break off and organize ourselves to ride a 1,400 mile section of the Divide from northern Montana to Colorado.

Less than a week after that instagram tag, Matt and I were sitting in his fully packed Jeep Grand Cherokee, our beloved gravel bikes strapped securely to the roof rack. We aimed ourselves in the direction of the sky scraping mountains and vast plains of the American west we’d heard and read so much about. We smiled as we hit the gas. We were off.

Beyond our excitement to explore a new area and engage in some environmental stewardship, we figured this first 400 mile, week-long loop would function as a perfect ‘dry run’ as Matt and I looked ahead to the Divide. High elevations, unpredictable and varied weather, grizzly bear country, extended time in the backcountry, sparse resupply options, and three separate 15+ mile climbs would put our bikepacking skills to the test. While Emily was also an experienced cyclist as a former bike tour leader, these challenges would be new for all of us.

I couldn’t wait to embark on this unexpected summer journey with these teammates of mine.

In my experience, adventures and accomplishment always seemed to revolve around teamwork. I played team sports growing up, and I spent college summers co-leading outdoor adventure trips for the same company where I then worked full time. Whether I was on a sports field, in an office, or exploring the outdoors, I was always most comfortable in a team environment. I’d become accustomed to always having a teammate or co-leader to rely on; someone to share an experience with, whether that meant problem solving a challenging situation or reveling in the feeling of a goal achieved.

As we packed up our bikes at a campsite just outside of Red Lodge, a Montana ski town at the base of the Beartooth mountains, Matt, Emily and I laughed with anxious energy as we joked through half-serious questions. How am I supposed to pack this pan onto my bike? Do I have all the layers I’ll need? So, uh...what’s your favorite kind of roadkill?

We were as excited as we were nervous to head into the unknown. We craned our necks to look up at the bluebird sky above us, and then looked out to see the tops of the Beartooth Mountains in the distance. Hearts pounding, we pointed our bikes in that direction. “What a story this will be!” one of us exclaimed. We smiled at one another as we took our first pedal strokes. We were off.

We could not have asked for a better balance of challenge and reward over that first week. Over our first 20 miles up into the Beartooths, we gained over a mile of elevation to max out at nearly 11,000 feet. Frequent stops to photograph the endless rocky, snow capped peaks and the occasional dead critter helped us set a healthy pace. Big climbs? Check that one off of the ‘nervous’ list. Throughout the week, we continued to check items off that list. We powered through 55 straight miles of open plains in a steady, cold rain. We got caught in a snowstorm at 10,000 feet. Adverse weather? Check it off the list. We were forced to take an unplanned extra night as a result of gnarlier than expected 4x4 roads. Route adjustments on the fly? Check.

We bounced from mountains to valleys and back again, passing through the vivid green grasses of alpine environments and the bone dry desert landscapes where red clay soil was a constant threat to clogging up our drivetrains. In the midst of rolling green peaks in the Bighorns, we spent a chilly night staring up at a crystal clear view of the Milky Way, then woke up to descend into the swirling reds and browns of the desert that had been staring up at us from 5,000 vertical feet below. Atop the Pryors, we biked alongside dozens of wild mustangs as they grazed through fields dotted with blue, purple, and yellow mountain flowers. Surreal, blissful moments that more than balanced out the hiccups in between. The three of us agreed - the reward is always worth the push.

Leading us down a long descent out of the Pryor mountains toward the end of that week, Matt skidded to a stop just before a bend in the narrow dirt road. He signaled for Emily and me to stop behind him. Last in line, I rolled up to my friends with giddy excitement after coasting downhill for nearly 5 straight miles, catching an occasional glimpse of the endless Montana plains through the thick pine trees. I assumed Matt had stopped to set up an action photo, as we’d done many times before. My heart leapt into my throat as he calmly instructed us to drop our bikes, grab our bear spray, and back up slowly - he’d just locked eyes with a grizzly cub that had darted back into the trees as Matt slammed his brakes. Seconds later, no more than 25 yards from where Matt had initially come to a stop, we watched the cub scamper across the road toward where we could only assume mama bear was waiting. We backed way up, and waited. After some time, bear spray in hand, we proceeded slowly through the danger zone. Our heart rates remained elevated for the next few miles until we were off the mountain and clear of the forest. Grizzly bear encounter? Check...but maybe we’d leave that one on the ‘nervous’ list.

**Will break for Grizzly bears…note the long skid mark where Matt came to an abrupt stop.**

We were all smiles as we looped back into Red Lodge. We were thrown curveballs over the course of the past week, and we’d dealt with them. I felt more confident on the bike, and more confident in my ability to plan and execute an extended bikepacking trip. We all did. We’d been forced right up against the wall of where we felt comfortable, and we’d successfully broken through. I felt my apprehension from the beginning of the summer shift towards quiet confidence as Matt’s and my collective experience and preparedness grew.

Matt and I said goodbye to Emily, and drove off to spend the next two weeks living out of the Jeep to regroup before heading north for the Divide. We spent our days exploring the wide open spaces of the West; riding, swimming, relaxing, and, for Matt, the occasional fly fishing outing. All the while, planning for the Divide continued - ordering maps, detailing daily mileage estimates, and making note of resupply opportunities.

And then, Matt got hurt.

Enroute to our final staging area for the Divide in Boulder, Colorado, we stopped to visit a former housemate of ours and went out day a day ride. Halfway through that ride, Matt commented that his lower back was tight. He popped a couple of ibuprofen, and we continued onwards. Over the final half of the ride, his discomfort only worsened. By the time we finished, the pain had become severe.

Matt spent the next couple days more or less confined to our friend’s couch, as even moving around the apartment was a struggle. He was holding out hope for a quick recovery, but I was already beginning to wrap my head around the thought that Matt’s summer of riding had come to an end. As we arrived in Boulder, where we planned to leave his car with my aunt and uncle, Matt’s back had not improved. He accepted the reality that he wouldn’t be riding the Divide.

My head was spinning as I thought about what to do. Matt and I took on biking challenges together - it’s what we’d always done. It was all I knew. I had suddenly realized how much I’d come to take Matt’s company for granted. Calling this all off would be easy. Friends and family would understand. My reasoning would go unquestioned.

I felt frustrated by the situation. Riding the Divide was something I’d dreamed about - but never in that dream did I see myself riding alone. I questioned myself - did I have what it took to push on alone? Did I even want to? Would it be a selfish decision to continue, knowing Matt had had his heart set on this as well? As I envisioned a solo ride - my first ever solo adventure - seemingly infinite ‘what if’s’ gave me pause. What if I planned incorrectly and ran out of food? What if I had a mechanical problem that left me stranded? What would I do with nobody to talk to, nobody to eat with, nobody to celebrate with when zipping down a glorious downhill on the backside of a mountain pass? Without a friend to share this adventure with, I felt my confidence slipping.

I’d always been fascinated by stories of solo adventure - those who had backpacked alone through Europe, or thru hiked some stretch of wilderness on their own. To me, the thought of doing something entirely alone had always been a novelty. What a concept - to have a story of adventure and self growth that is yours, and yours alone. What might a person learn about themself? Sure, stories provided some answers to that question, but hearing a story and living an experience are different. What might I learn about myself? I felt equally intimidated and exhilarated by the opportunity before me. Countless others clearly had the gumption to pull something like this off, but did I?

Then I reminded myself - I’d spent the past few years slowly building up my hard skills. With Matt and Emily, I’d put those skills to the test - gnarly 4x4 roads, the entire spectrum of weather, high elevations, big climbs, backcountry nights, sparse resupply options - we’d done it all. Heck, I’d even lived through a grizzly encounter. I’d gone over every detail of our planned section of the Divide route. I talked it over with Matt, who only reinforced the decision that my heart had already made. On the day that Matt made arrangements to fly home to give his back time to recover, I booked my one way flight to Montana.

Four days after I dropped Matt off at the Denver airport to fly home, I landed in Kalispell, Montana. Questions bounced around my head as I unboxed and assembled my bike in the baggage claim area of the tiny airport. Do I have everything I’ll need? Did I really successfully pack all this gear on my bike when I staged it in Boulder yesterday? I have how far until my next resupply opportunity? I thought back to just a few weeks ago, when Matt, Emily and I asked ourselves similar questions before our ride. I reminded myself what the three of us had agreed - the reward was always worth the push. Why should this be any different?

I was as excited as I was nervous about heading into the unknown. I looked up at the bluebird sky above me, and then out toward the mountains on the horizon. My heart pounding, I pointed my bike toward those mountains. A few miles of relatively flat riding before my first climb. Seven miles up. I smiled - that’s less than half of what I’d done on that first day with Matt and Emily. Time to write your own story, I thought. I took my first pedal stroke, alone. I was off.

See the full photo gallery

Story of the Divide coming soon!

**Ready to roll from the Kalispel, MT airport.**

Bikepacking the West

Great Divide Mountain Bike Route

Williamstown Overnighter