Never Winter
Off-season biking at Lewis & Clark Caverns.
In most mountain towns around the West, it’s common to hear about diehard skiers who carve turns every month of the year. It’s possible around Bozeman, too, with a little effort. September is typically the hardest, requiring a hike high up the Beartooth Plateau or Spanish Peaks, all for just two or three jump-turns on the only remaining patch of snow. Last winter, though, my co-worker Simon and I had a different permutation: we’d mountain bike every month of the year.
It was mid-February, and thus far a mild snow season; we’d separately ridden local trails without issue in December and early January. But a few recent storms had made things challenging. Lamenting the situation together over a pot of coffee in the office, we decided it could be worth checking out Lewis & Clark Caverns State Park on the next sunny day. Sure enough, the weekend rolled around and it was full-on bluebird. Shoving aside the pile of skis in Simon’s truck, we nestled in our bikes and a cooler of beer.
We pulled into the parking lot to find the south-facing trails bone-dry.
Driving along the Jefferson, we noticed ice dams clogging the river, sending sheets of ice skittering on top of each other and buckling into photo-worthy pressure ridges. “We’re actually going biking?” I asked Simon. “Oh, it’ll be fine, man,” he scoffed.
Turns out, he was right—per usual. We pulled into the parking lot to find the south-facing trails bone-dry. A couple of Simon’s buddies were planning to meet us a little later, so we did a short warm-up ride, getting a feel for our bikes again after a month out of the saddle. At one point, Simon set up ahead of me for a photo on a big banked turn. Trying to throw in a little style for the photo, I crouched low into the turn, but lost my balance and veered off the trail. Attempting to dump speed, I hit my brakes too hard and nearly went ass over teakettle. Somehow, though, I stayed in control, only to subsequently smoke a big boulder on the edge of the trail. Behind his camera, I could see Simon laughing as he tried to document the whole ordeal.
Soon, his friends showed up and unloaded their bikes off a snowmobile sled deck—another reminder that it was, in fact, February. Together, the four of us slogged up the south side of the classic Caverns loop, all feeling utterly out of biking shape. But still, it was good to get the blood moving, and to feel the sun hitting our legs and necks, which were pale from two months tucked under ski gear.
We stopped on top for a snack, then cinched our helmets for what was sure to be an icy decent down the north side. It was in surprisingly good condition, but there were a handful of slippery spots that sent us all skittering toward the rocks. Nobody went down, though, and we hooted and hollered as we slid around the corners.
It was good to get the blood moving, and to feel the sun hitting our legs and necks, which were pale from two months tucked under ski gear
After another short climb, we regrouped before the last downhill—a smooth, south-facing descent. We took turns coasting a big corner, relishing in the last dry dirt we would see all winter.
Back at the trailhead, we packed the bikes back onto the trucks, peeled our shirts, and cracked the cooler. We hung out until the sun dipped behind the mountains, then hit the road back to town—another month of biking under our belts. Already, though, we were planning for March. What would it be—the Elkhorns? Copper City? Helena? Only time would tell.
