Forrest Gump Has Got Nothing On This Guy

Miles City to Silver Gate, Montana, 255 miles.
I woke up and hit the road, riding past Billings on the main highway (94). There were smooth rolling hills with scrub that turned into sparse trees over eroded badlands, finally becoming beautiful carved rock from the Yellowstone river’s windings, hinting at the delights ahead in the park. I saw abandoned cars, cattle trains, and huge stockpiles of round hay bails laying around.

Along the way I noticed a guy walking the opposite direction along the freeway. He was lugging a bedroll and backpack, and looked more than a little out of place. I felt an overwhelming urge to talk to him and cut across the median and rode back towards him. He was stopped on the side of the road, shirtless, straw hat tied up under his jaw, his bags beside him. His face was tanned and leathery and he sported a bushy beard. He said his name was Mike Curry, and he was 59 years old. He’d walked around the USA for almost twenty years, from one side to the other. He used to have a place to go for a while, and would crash in his mom’s basement , but she passed on about ten years before. He said he doesn’t like to work much, and when he realized that he just started roaming. By then he’d crossed the country maybe twelve times.

“I used to go end to end but not much anymore.” He told me. He spoke lucidly, and seemed to have his wits about him. He asked if I smoked, and when I said no he found a cigarette on himself and pulled the filter out of it and began to smoke it. I asked him a lot of questions and he answered them all in a friendly manner. He said if people showed interest in him and were nice to him, he was always polite and honest with them. He told me tennis shoes are the best for walking long distances-he’d used about 60 pairs of shoes doing his walks. He washes his face and keeps his socks clean, but he stopped brushing his teeth when he was thirty. “About three years later I started having real problems.” He confided. “I got an abscess and it hurt for a while but after three months it went away.” He’d lost all his molars. “I probably chew my food too much.” He told me. “When my tooth hurt real bad I found a dollar and bought some aspirin. I took ten and you know what? It really works!” These days when he’s in pain he takes about six aspirin every two hours. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that an abscess can lead to a much more serious infection, or even death. By that time he’d moved on to another subject anyway.

“Every three four years somebody slugs me. Probably started with my dad, he and my brother used to hit me, not closed fist, but you know. My brother hit me once didn’t even hurt.” The police of various towns have hassled him, especially when he drinks. That’s part of the reason why he doesn’t go from coast to coast anymore. There are towns where he’s had experiences that have soured him, and he won’t go back. He got quiet on that subject and so I asked him about animals he’s seen. He immediately perked up.

“I was on Cameron pass, about twelve thousand feet up, going from Denver to Salt Lake and I saw a moose. He was as black as this bag,” he said, pointing at my Givi case. “They don’t stay that way all year, get brown you know, but this one was big and black. ‘Bout as big as an elk I’d say.” He also once saw a black bear. “He just walked up to where we were, was with Jim, this buddy of mine, and was working for the forestry service. It was us and a bunch of Indians, trying to make some money—I was never too good at making money—and then this bear comes up and sat down, tame looking as can be.” He moved his hands animatedly as he told the story. “He was watching us to see if we’d feed him. I thought about it but he could’ve ate all our lunches and not even been full.”

“I saw a rattler once, not much anymore these days they pretty much killed ‘em all off. Anyway I saw him in the road and heard him rattle and I kind “whoop,” stepped to the side you know,” He smiled a brown-toothed grin as he mimicked his little evasive hop, “and I kicked some dirt on him. Then I just walked around him.”

Considering Mike’s situation, I offered him some money, which he seemed very happy to accept. I also offered him some first aid supplies.

“Don’t need it,” He told me. “Never get sick.” Apparently he’d forgotten our conversation five minutes ago where he told me about his life-threatening tooth infection. But he was adamant. He wouldn’t even take some non-aspirin pain killers. I also offered him a small can of pepper spray for defense from wild animals, or from people. He wouldn’t take it. He didn’t even carry a knife for defense. “But I can give as good as I get,” he assured me.

I could smell pine for miles before I entered the Beartooth National Forest. I was riding down the Beartooth Highway, a winding, picturesque passage claimed to be the most beautiful in America by Charles Kuralt. I climbed up the mountainside, but there was a construction crew there halting traffic. I waited on line to take the Beartooth pass. A guide truck led us for safety past the construction workers, along a curving switchback laden road that transitions from a forest ecosystem to sparse alpine tundra in just a few miles. It was like the Scottish Highlands up there.

A sign read: “This is Bear Country!” I had to admit with all the bear hype I'd half expected that they be lying in wait, ready to come pouncing off the hillsides to sideswipe bikers clean off their motorcycles. But I never saw any bears in or near Yellowstone. There was flat open tundra and moss, freezing cold lakes, and glacial ice up in the 12,000 foot peaks. I entered and then left Wyoming in about 45 minutes. A breathtaking ride. They were perfect roads until the top where there was gravel as they did the roadwork. What views. Saw several “whistle pigs,” a.k.a. marmots; they like to sun on the road. They look like a beaver with a bushy tail. They loves the high plains, and they whistles and shriek when you go by, probably to warn you off.

In Silvergate, just outside Yellowstone, I rented a room for the night when I saw a biker roll up on his BMW in front of the hotel. His name was Bill, and we got to talking. He’d been riding since he was 15, had a daughter, and had been divorced twice. He was taking a tour around on his bike, and seemed like a pretty nice guy. He told me that if I was ever up around Aspen to look him up, he’d let me stay up there if I passed through. I felt bad that he was going to look for camping, as it was pretty chilly up in the hills. There was an extra bed in the room and I invited him to use it. By way of thanks he bought me dinner up the road in Cooke City, where I’d passed earlier and gotten gas. We drank and ate and played pool. We talked about what had gone down in Cody, Wyoming, the Hells Angels rally that went through there. The buzz was that some bikers had accosted the sheriff’s daughter. It sounded like the plot for a bad A-team episode. [I have since researched this incident and have found no mention of it. Must have been hearsay. This link is to the Wyoming Highway Patrol’s official report on the week’s events.]

posted by goat hill dreamer @ 3:03 PM