Though it was getting late and cold and rainy, that’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before, and usually we’ll stubbornly soldier on a few hundred more miles. Deciding to stop for the night in Cooke City was an unusually smart choice in a long career of un-smart ones. (It must’ve been Abi’s idea) Not only was the food in this little town excellent, the flow of beverages plentiful and the scenery varied and fascinating, but as it turned out, Cooke City was the only place with vacancies within a hundred miles when we went through. Two hours later, that changed as every room in town was taken.

While enjoying a fine, postprandial Montecristo Number Two, and sipping some fine single malt digestion aid, we watched as a poor guy, with a poor girlfriend on the pillion, slowly rode past. By then, it was dark, late, raining and cold. Half an hour later, we watched as they slowly rode by the other way. I empathized with his predicament; to one side of Cooke City lies forty-five barren miles of the Beartooth Pass Highway, no fun in the dark, and by then no doubt below freezing and snowy at the top, and to the other, Yellowstone. Being Labor Day weekend, the National Park accommodations were no doubt full. Feeling bad, I said to Abi, “You know, we’ve got plenty of extra room. If that poor bastard passes by again, we should try and help save his relationship…”

But, the poor souls never passed again, so we didn’t rack up any Karma points. Those Karma points would have come in handy the next morning, because we woke up to this sight:

It was cold, so we did this:

When Tired Eyes Aren’t Smiling…

Then we headed out toward Yellowstone National Park through this soupy excuse for a road:

At this point, I have to say that, for next year’s Epic Ride, Edelweiss in someplace warm was sounding better and better. Then I remembered – An adventure doesn’t seem like an adventure when you’re actually having it.

And what an adventure the rest of the day would be.

Yellowstone was stunning. Chilly, sure. Cloudy, definitely. But stunning.

Then it was time for yet another first, this time witnessing Old Faithful do its thing.

Obviously, I was thrilled.

We sat on the cold metal bleachers surrounding Old Faithful with a few hundred other shivering but interested folks, as the little, unimpressive mound smoked and belched steam in little, unimpressive spurts.

Then, exactly on time, Old Faithful got excited, and spouted steaming hot beer all over the crowd.

Funny thing about it was people sat there waiting half an hour in the cold for the show, but got up and walked away before the five minute spectacle was over.

Part of the reason everyone left early was no doubt the very dark, ominous cloud that came in over the mountain. The line of rain falling could clearly be seen, and by the time Dark Meat and I made it back to the bikes, the shower began.

But the shower wasn’t from the normal rain clouds that constantly follow me, it was much different, much worse.

Hail.

Now we were in a similar predicament as that poor guy the night before. Stuck in a National Park, miles from the exit, more miles from a town with hotels, rapidly running out of daylight, and, just for good measure, now the rain is freezing.

Awesome!

Using the most scientifically advanced decisional-based method available (flipping a coin) we decided to chance leaving the park. Jackson was less than 100 miles south, and there would be 100% more available rooms in Jackson than in Yellowstone, no doubt about it. We got on the road, hoping the hail would pass, but that hope was futile.

Visors steamed up, gloves, jackets, pants and boots got wet and then froze as the altitude rose to over 8400 feet and the temperature plummeted to 32 degrees.

And it got better. When the hail stopped, the snow – YES! SNOW ON THE FIRST DAY OF SEPTEMBER! – started.

The ride was every bit as much fun as it looked. Leaving the park, we chanced on the Flagg Ranch, which, surprisingly, had available cabins. The reason for the availability? The price was so unbelievably high.

But still, any port in a storm, even a really overpriced one. Happy to be alive and thrilled to have a room, we gladly got off our bikes and parked them for the night.

The heat was turned up high as it would go, and the room looked as if a clothing bomb just exploded as we walked down to the Flagg Ranch bar to overpay for a wee bit o’ the single malt. It was only then that we could sit and reflect on what an adventure our day had been. We started laughing uncontrollably, a mixture of tension release and reaction to our blind luck and stupidity as we hoisted a toast to the ‘Coldest Day Ever.’

The next installment of The Epic Ride can be found here.

Author: frenchy