After a week of decent weather, I watched the sky darken as I broke camp Saturday morning. A cold rain pelted me as I rode toward Old Faithful. Then it turned to hail. My face stung, visibility was terrible, and my hands burned in the sodden leather gloves. Twenty six miles to Old Faithful past signs that marked the continental divide. The ice that pelted me on the east slope would eventually find the Gulf of Mexico and west of the divide it was destined for the Pacific. But today it was meant for me.
There is a look in the eye of guys who are driving minivans that says "I wish I was on a Harley." And there is a look in the eye of women at diners in tiny towns that says "Do you have room for me?" I know those looks well by now. But I didn't see those looks yesterday. No, this was a day for the blue haired ladies just off the tour buses to look at me with a glance that says "You don't look so smart now, do ya?"
At the Old Faithful Lodge I found cellular service and checked the weather. The road to Jackson Hole looked to be soggy with misery. I charted a coarse to lower elevation in Pocatello ID. Just before climbing back on the bike I made a last check at the front desk for cancellations. The sweetest words any woman has ever said to me are "We have one, sir, should I grab it for you?"
I ate trout, chatted with couples from Utah and Germany, and slept dry and warm. Don't ask the price, it was worth every cent.
Here is a video of Old Faithful erupting at sunrise:
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