The day started with a 20+-mile long ride on a griddle-flat, yardstick-straight road up the Madison River Valley under a hanging somber sky. I could see at least three miles ahead. On my left knife-edged mountains rose with their cirques and arêtes dusted in snow. Across the valley on the right lay a blanket-crumple of green mountains. In between, the valley offered little but pasture. Nary a tree broke the skyline. Yet here and there a house squatted in the middle of the nothingness with nothing around it, not a tree or shrub. What is it like to live in such an exposed house when the winter storms howl up the valley?
Wal-Mart, McDonalds and Alberston’s trucks wooshed by, foretelling what perhaps lay ahead in West Yellowstone. The impact of their airwash rocked me. I’d much prefer to be bathed in the sweet piney airwash of an Oregon logging truck.
I stopped to watch a trio of fly fishermen in the Madison. They cast upstream and quickly one of them had a hit. He worked the fish for several minutes before hoisting a nice sized rainbow for his pals to see. They reminded me of two fishing friends, Jim and Matt, although I've never seen either of them land a fish.
The day ended with me once again racing to beat another downpour. Today I succeeded.
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