Words and photos by Alex B

The route:

The first weeks after I arrived in Bozeman were full of dreams of a bikepacking trip. The mountains, the public land, and the remote dirt roads were just begging to be explored and strung together into elaborate multi-day trips.

And that was my goal, ultimately – to do it big.

I started poking around familiar corners of the internet and found Joe Cruz’s “Three Ranges in Cowboy Country”. His 571-mile loop started and ended in Billings, MT and gained 43,000ft; he suggested 7-9 days for the route. I dreamed of a route where I could be dropped off and ride home, so I utilized a considerable section of his loop to create my Three Ranges Modified, which began in Sheridan, WY and finished in Bozeman, MT. My route was 422 miles and gained 31,000ft; I planned to finish in 5 days. On paper, it looked like I was basically asking myself to push the hardest pace he would advise.

Seems fine.

The bike:

I brought two bikes with me to Bozeman – my Bombtrack Beyond+ and my T*** Crockett that received a facelift and became reborn as The Rocket. (Thanks Edrie for designing the paint scheme!) The original route description suggested an all-road bike, and talked a lot about paved climbs. I swapped The Rocket to a 34 chainring and an 11-42 cassette, put it through its paces all spring, and rounded out my bike bag and backcountry camping gear. My bike weighed about 45lbs at the start of the ride, and I had the capacity to carry 5.5L of water.

The trip:

Day 0 of the trip involved Julia and I driving out to Sheridan, WY and spending a night at a comfy hotel for maximum relaxation and fueling. We just missed the rodeo days happening in Sheridan, but we did get some great beer and a surprisingly good Japanese hibachi meal. We elected against the full hibachi experience, maybe that would have been a good energy to take with me.

Day 1 started with a sad hotel breakfast with the snowbirds visiting town.

Note to self: definitely get a huge diner or café breakfast before starting my next big trip.

The plan for the first day was a 95 mile traverse of the Big Horn Mountains, and I had elected to climb an adjacent gravel road instead of the paved climb the route suggested further north. The start of the climb was steep, double digit percentages for 15 miles. I quickly realized I would surely blow up trying to ride it, so I hopped off, put on my Tevas, and walked. Consider me #influenced by Lachlan. The road was in good shape, I could hop on and ride pretty easily, and I zoned out to an aggressive mix of Idles and Hella.

The section of the road at the top of the ridge that connected back to the paved road was incredible – rolling, punchy, fast descents, and plenty of water to be found. It’s a really cool biome up in the Big Horns; 10/10 would recommend. I definitely bonked at a bed and breakfast thing but they sold me snacks and I recovered enough to drag myself to the precipice of my day’s descent just as the sun was hitting the horizon. I don’t have any photos, because there isn’t a good way to take a photo hurtling down a mountain descent at 50mph. But believe me, the sky was amazing.

Day 1 ended at the edge of the Big Horn Lake, which looked a lot more like a little river. But what’s new out here?

Day 2 started relatively smoothly, although my inability to get out of camp before 8:45 was not a good omen. Since the day’s route was “only 66 miles”, I assumed it would be an easier day than others.

Ha.

I rode 20 flat road miles into Lovell for a resupply of food and water. I chowed down outside the grocery store, shoved a can of Spaghetti O’s into a pocket and moved on.

Riding north from Lovell, I found the remote dirt climb through the Pryor Mountains that would be my nemesis. It was about 12:30, 95[deg], and dry as a bone on the east side of the mountain. I very quickly realized that the quality and grade of the road would force me to walk most of the climb, at least 15 miles was my guess. I once again put on my sandals and my sun hat, and trudged my way up the climb. But this time, I really pushed my body to the limit. I nearly overheated many times, needing to sneak into the smallest patches of shade to hydrate and catch my breath.

Pace was slow, and I knew halfway through that I would need to stretch my water, but my mindset was that the only way was up. I moved as fast as I could over the varied terrain – pushing up a sandy section of mountain, remounting to ride where possible, walking steep rocky descents. At about hour 4 of full-on hiking, I rolled my ankle pretty badly as I was transitioning from riding to walking. I didn’t realize it at the time, with adrenaline pushing me forward, but my ankle wasn’t going to allow me to make it all the way to Bozeman.

I pushed up and over the Pryor Mountains in the most dramatic way. The rocky, desolate terrain gave way to a verdant, rolling meadow spotted with wild horses grazing in the twilight. I came across a small cabin seemingly out of nowhere, later learning it is a preserved historic site called “Pen’s Cabin”.

Desperately hopeful that there would be a pump or water source, I poked around inside the cabin. It was essentially empty, but there was a small plastic water bottle sitting half empty on a small wooden table. I guzzled it, smashed the bottle into my frame bag, and moved on.

To my dismay, at the far end of the meadow there was a road gated with a bright red gate. My intended route down the opposite side of the mountain, and what I assumed was the most direct route toward drinking water, was “Closed due to fire activity”.

Gulp.

I pondered what to do for only a moment before deciding that my primary concern was water, and I would go down as far as the road allowed in search of it.

It got dark as I descended the smoother and much more evenly graded west side of the mountain. I had many rim strikes as I plowed through chunkier sections of roads – I wasn’t about to scrub speed after walking uphill all day. I kept my ears open for running water, and after about 40 minutes of descending I found it.

I slammed on my brakes, filled every vessel I owned, and made a hasty camp in the middle of the road.

That night, I didn’t sleep comfortably. My ankle swelled and ached as the adrenaline surge wore off, and my mind raced over my current predicament.

Was I on a road that would lead me to safety? Was there a wildfire between me and civilization?

I dreamed many disjointed dreams about coming across firefighters, or being found and chastised by forest rangers. I shivered from camping at a higher elevation than I intended. I wondered if I had pushed myself too far.

Morning came on Day 3 with a quiet moment of realization and reckoning with reality. My ankle was very swollen and not at all comfortable to walk on. I felt empty even though I had taken in a decent amount of calories. I couldn’t drink enough water to feel hydrated, and I drank too much too fast and felt mildly nauseous.

I packed up as quickly as I could hobble, clear on two things: I would need assistance getting home, and down the mountain felt like the best option.

I descended a road that continued to grow more well maintained, until I reached the back side of another red gate. It appeared that the road I had been on had been closed “out of an abundance of caution”, or for some other unknown reason that wasn’t an active fire. A weight left my chest and I continued on, actually enjoying the next 10 miles of descending into the valley below.

I eventually got cell service, called Julia and my roommate, and made a rescue plan. 90 minutes of hot, windy gravel road riding later, I rolled, thoroughly cooked, into the town of Bridger, MT. I made two trips to the grocery store for luxuries like chips, canned peaches, iced tea, and a seven-pound bag of ice. After about two and a half days of pushing my body to its limit, my only cares in the world were eating real food and melting that entire bag of ice onto the concrete slab of a picnic shelter as I iced my ankle.

As I lay in the cold water, I enjoyed realizing that the little voice that rang in my head the previous day had been right: “You can’t be this uncomfortable forever.”.