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Shit works
Jun 12, 2023
“In any situation, there is always a next best step. This next best step is not always clear or obvious, but it is always within reach. There are invisible doorways around us at every moment, and each doorway is a threshold to a possible future. Possibilities must be found, invented, created, coaxed, manifested, discovered.” -School of the Possible
There was a fork in the road, so I stopped to check the map. That’s when I realized that my phone was missing. I went about checking underneath the car’s seats. I emptied my bags and searched my stuff. No phone. Shit.
It was pouring rain, I was in an unfamiliar mountain range southwest of Helena about fifteen miles from a paved road. I turned around and retraced my route. I had gotten out of the car a few times while poking up side roads but didn’t remember having the phone on me. I was on a scouting mission to find potential camp spots for our upcoming Unplugged field trip. Frustrated that I wasn’t making progress on the route, my eyes scoured the roadside. After three hours and what felt like the fiftieth dissection of my entire vehicle, I suspended my search.
The trip is ten days away, I had a GPS unit with me that also had the route so I was determined to finish scouting the route, sans cellular device. Heavy rain had trenched the road and before long, I reached a section that was impassable in my station wagon. After what felt like a fifteen-point turnaround, I retraced my route back toward Helena.
I was determined to finish driving the second half of our planned route and to find our layover camp spot. I drove straight through town and climbed up to Macdonald Pass before turning off the highway onto a small mountain road. The dirt was now mud which was slippery and rutted. After a few miles, I came up on a group of five bike packers and rolled down my window.
“Where are you headed?” I asked the guy in the back.
“The Lama Farm,” he said smiling back at me. Having no idea what that was, I smiled back at him and wished his group a good ride.
The rain had stopped. The rolling green meadows were filled with yellow and lavender-colored flowers. It was around eight pm but there was still plenty of sunlight. My plan was to drive until dark and then to sleep in the back of my car before continuing on with the route. I banked around a soft left turn, aiming to miss a large rut when my wheels got off to the side of the road. Suddenly, I was stuck.
With only about a foot of clearance, I had high-centered the car in the mud. The front right tire was hissing. Upon further inspection, I could see that I had driven over the corner of a storm drain which punctured the tire. It quietly hissed as I looked around somewhat helplessly.
I put sticks under the wheels in an effort to get some traction on the slippery mud road. With one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the ground, I tried to rock the car backward but it wouldn’t budge. I got the spare wheel and jack out of the trunk, but the jack only sunk into the soft spongy earth. That’s when the group of five cyclists showed up.
“Need a hand?” One of them asked.
They all pushed while I attempted to reverse but the car wouldn’t move. Then one of the riders picked up a log and worked at prying the car from multiple angles. After several attempts, he was able to get some good leverage and we all lowered our shoulders into the back quarter of the car. After three or four tries, we were able to get the rear of the car onto the road.
Just then a 4x4 rolled up. I asked if they had a tow rope. They didn’t but said the guys behind might. The next 4x4, waving Let’s Go Brandon flags had a rope and hooked it to the back of my car. A few moments later, the car was free. After a thanks and fist bump, the ‘brappers took off.
“Why don’t you join us?” One of the riders had seen my bike in the back of the car. “What’s your plan? I asked.
“We're headed to Barbra and John’s place. They’re this couple with some land and a spot we can stay at.” I looked around. I had my camping stuff, and my bike, and couldn’t see myself driving the rest of the muddy route on the car’s spare tire.
“Fuck it, sure!”
I got my bike and started to grab my sleeping setup when one of them stopped me. “You don’t need your camping stuff, they have beds,” he said.
Not wanting to take too much time by asking more questions, I stuffed my toothbrush, jacket, and wallet in my backpack that had my laptop in it and we were off.
The guys seemed to be around my age, I learned that three of them worked at a bike shop in Helena. The dirt road pointed us upwards and we mostly climbed in silence. I had my backpack, a bottle of water, and no idea where we were going.
After regrouping at the summit, we pedaled through a clearing in the trees. What looked like water in the distance turned out to be a low-hanging fog over the valley. The sky was deep purple and pink towards the western skyline. “Let’s fucking go!” I shouted in glee. For the next ten miles, we blazed our bikes down, down, down. Each of us found lines as we bobbed, weaved, and bunny hopped around mud puddles, berms, and switchbacks.
When the grade became flat enough, we all pedaled flat out. I was breathing as hard as I could, a huge smile painted across my face.
It was almost eleven when we arrived at Barb and John’s place. Barb had seen our bike lights coming up the road and held the gate open for us as we pulled in. “Hey, guys!” Bard said enthusiastically. “Did you miss the rain? Is anyone hungry? We’ve got ham sandwiches and beer.”
I still couldn’t understand what was going on. “What is this place?” I asked one of the guys. “It’s Barb and John’s place!” he said in a jokingly unhelpful way.
“Places like this, they restore your faith in humanity,” said Erik, a different bike packer who, after days of rain, hike-a-bike, mosquitos, and a run-in with a grizzly, was ready to throw in the towel on his trip until he came to the oasis that is Barb and John’s lama farm.
There’s a covered wagon, a few small sheds, a teepee, and an old trappers cabin- all converted into shelters for bike packers in the back pasture. There’s no fee to stay, just a request that riders ‘pay it forward’ with acts of kindness in their future endeavors.
My group got set up in the old trapper’s cabin and made a campfire outside. Beers were passed around and we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning laughing and joking like we’d known each other for years, not hours.
The next day we slept in. Taking our time, we brewed several rounds of coffee and soaked up the morning sun. Barb walked over with fresh rhubarb muffins and my mind continued to melt.
“What is this place???”
Later in the morning, John invited me to stay over another night to watch the leaders of the Great Divide bike event which is a self-supported backcountry ride that starts in Banff, Alberta, goes all the way to Mexico, and passes right by their driveway.
I was so curious to learn about their story. Having lived here for ten years, Barb started setting out water and other goodies for passing bike packers. Then she started offering them places to stay. That was nearly twenty years ago.
Then seven years ago, John was bike-packing the Divide route. He stopped at Barb’s for refreshments, the two got to talking and yeah, the rest is history.
Fact: You do not know what is going to happen.
“In any situation, there is always a next best step. This next best step is not always clear or obvious, but it is always within reach. There are invisible doorways around us at every moment, and each doorway is a threshold to a possible future. Possibilities must be found, invented, created, coaxed, manifested, discovered.” -School of the Possible
There was a fork in the road, so I stopped to check the map. That’s when I realized that my phone was missing. I went about checking underneath the car’s seats. I emptied my bags and searched my stuff. No phone. Shit.
It was pouring rain, I was in an unfamiliar mountain range southwest of Helena about fifteen miles from a paved road. I turned around and retraced my route. I had gotten out of the car a few times while poking up side roads but didn’t remember having the phone on me. I was on a scouting mission to find potential camp spots for our upcoming Unplugged field trip. Frustrated that I wasn’t making progress on the route, my eyes scoured the roadside. After three hours and what felt like the fiftieth dissection of my entire vehicle, I suspended my search.
The trip is ten days away, I had a GPS unit with me that also had the route so I was determined to finish scouting the route, sans cellular device. Heavy rain had trenched the road and before long, I reached a section that was impassable in my station wagon. After what felt like a fifteen-point turnaround, I retraced my route back toward Helena.
I was determined to finish driving the second half of our planned route and to find our layover camp spot. I drove straight through town and climbed up to Macdonald Pass before turning off the highway onto a small mountain road. The dirt was now mud which was slippery and rutted. After a few miles, I came up on a group of five bike packers and rolled down my window.
“Where are you headed?” I asked the guy in the back.
“The Lama Farm,” he said smiling back at me. Having no idea what that was, I smiled back at him and wished his group a good ride.
The rain had stopped. The rolling green meadows were filled with yellow and lavender-colored flowers. It was around eight pm but there was still plenty of sunlight. My plan was to drive until dark and then to sleep in the back of my car before continuing on with the route. I banked around a soft left turn, aiming to miss a large rut when my wheels got off to the side of the road. Suddenly, I was stuck.
With only about a foot of clearance, I had high-centered the car in the mud. The front right tire was hissing. Upon further inspection, I could see that I had driven over the corner of a storm drain which punctured the tire. It quietly hissed as I looked around somewhat helplessly.
I put sticks under the wheels in an effort to get some traction on the slippery mud road. With one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the ground, I tried to rock the car backward but it wouldn’t budge. I got the spare wheel and jack out of the trunk, but the jack only sunk into the soft spongy earth. That’s when the group of five cyclists showed up.
“Need a hand?” One of them asked.
They all pushed while I attempted to reverse but the car wouldn’t move. Then one of the riders picked up a log and worked at prying the car from multiple angles. After several attempts, he was able to get some good leverage and we all lowered our shoulders into the back quarter of the car. After three or four tries, we were able to get the rear of the car onto the road.
Just then a 4x4 rolled up. I asked if they had a tow rope. They didn’t but said the guys behind might. The next 4x4, waving Let’s Go Brandon flags had a rope and hooked it to the back of my car. A few moments later, the car was free. After a thanks and fist bump, the ‘brappers took off.
“Why don’t you join us?” One of the riders had seen my bike in the back of the car. “What’s your plan? I asked.
“We're headed to Barbra and John’s place. They’re this couple with some land and a spot we can stay at.” I looked around. I had my camping stuff, and my bike, and couldn’t see myself driving the rest of the muddy route on the car’s spare tire.
“Fuck it, sure!”
I got my bike and started to grab my sleeping setup when one of them stopped me. “You don’t need your camping stuff, they have beds,” he said.
Not wanting to take too much time by asking more questions, I stuffed my toothbrush, jacket, and wallet in my backpack that had my laptop in it and we were off.
The guys seemed to be around my age, I learned that three of them worked at a bike shop in Helena. The dirt road pointed us upwards and we mostly climbed in silence. I had my backpack, a bottle of water, and no idea where we were going.
After regrouping at the summit, we pedaled through a clearing in the trees. What looked like water in the distance turned out to be a low-hanging fog over the valley. The sky was deep purple and pink towards the western skyline. “Let’s fucking go!” I shouted in glee. For the next ten miles, we blazed our bikes down, down, down. Each of us found lines as we bobbed, weaved, and bunny hopped around mud puddles, berms, and switchbacks.
When the grade became flat enough, we all pedaled flat out. I was breathing as hard as I could, a huge smile painted across my face.
It was almost eleven when we arrived at Barb and John’s place. Barb had seen our bike lights coming up the road and held the gate open for us as we pulled in. “Hey, guys!” Bard said enthusiastically. “Did you miss the rain? Is anyone hungry? We’ve got ham sandwiches and beer.”
I still couldn’t understand what was going on. “What is this place?” I asked one of the guys. “It’s Barb and John’s place!” he said in a jokingly unhelpful way.
“Places like this, they restore your faith in humanity,” said Erik, a different bike packer who, after days of rain, hike-a-bike, mosquitos, and a run-in with a grizzly, was ready to throw in the towel on his trip until he came to the oasis that is Barb and John’s lama farm.
There’s a covered wagon, a few small sheds, a teepee, and an old trappers cabin- all converted into shelters for bike packers in the back pasture. There’s no fee to stay, just a request that riders ‘pay it forward’ with acts of kindness in their future endeavors.
My group got set up in the old trapper’s cabin and made a campfire outside. Beers were passed around and we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning laughing and joking like we’d known each other for years, not hours.
The next day we slept in. Taking our time, we brewed several rounds of coffee and soaked up the morning sun. Barb walked over with fresh rhubarb muffins and my mind continued to melt.
“What is this place???”
Later in the morning, John invited me to stay over another night to watch the leaders of the Great Divide bike event which is a self-supported backcountry ride that starts in Banff, Alberta, goes all the way to Mexico, and passes right by their driveway.
I was so curious to learn about their story. Having lived here for ten years, Barb started setting out water and other goodies for passing bike packers. Then she started offering them places to stay. That was nearly twenty years ago.
Then seven years ago, John was bike-packing the Divide route. He stopped at Barb’s for refreshments, the two got to talking and yeah, the rest is history.
Fact: You do not know what is going to happen.
“In any situation, there is always a next best step. This next best step is not always clear or obvious, but it is always within reach. There are invisible doorways around us at every moment, and each doorway is a threshold to a possible future. Possibilities must be found, invented, created, coaxed, manifested, discovered.” -School of the Possible
There was a fork in the road, so I stopped to check the map. That’s when I realized that my phone was missing. I went about checking underneath the car’s seats. I emptied my bags and searched my stuff. No phone. Shit.
It was pouring rain, I was in an unfamiliar mountain range southwest of Helena about fifteen miles from a paved road. I turned around and retraced my route. I had gotten out of the car a few times while poking up side roads but didn’t remember having the phone on me. I was on a scouting mission to find potential camp spots for our upcoming Unplugged field trip. Frustrated that I wasn’t making progress on the route, my eyes scoured the roadside. After three hours and what felt like the fiftieth dissection of my entire vehicle, I suspended my search.
The trip is ten days away, I had a GPS unit with me that also had the route so I was determined to finish scouting the route, sans cellular device. Heavy rain had trenched the road and before long, I reached a section that was impassable in my station wagon. After what felt like a fifteen-point turnaround, I retraced my route back toward Helena.
I was determined to finish driving the second half of our planned route and to find our layover camp spot. I drove straight through town and climbed up to Macdonald Pass before turning off the highway onto a small mountain road. The dirt was now mud which was slippery and rutted. After a few miles, I came up on a group of five bike packers and rolled down my window.
“Where are you headed?” I asked the guy in the back.
“The Lama Farm,” he said smiling back at me. Having no idea what that was, I smiled back at him and wished his group a good ride.
The rain had stopped. The rolling green meadows were filled with yellow and lavender-colored flowers. It was around eight pm but there was still plenty of sunlight. My plan was to drive until dark and then to sleep in the back of my car before continuing on with the route. I banked around a soft left turn, aiming to miss a large rut when my wheels got off to the side of the road. Suddenly, I was stuck.
With only about a foot of clearance, I had high-centered the car in the mud. The front right tire was hissing. Upon further inspection, I could see that I had driven over the corner of a storm drain which punctured the tire. It quietly hissed as I looked around somewhat helplessly.
I put sticks under the wheels in an effort to get some traction on the slippery mud road. With one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the ground, I tried to rock the car backward but it wouldn’t budge. I got the spare wheel and jack out of the trunk, but the jack only sunk into the soft spongy earth. That’s when the group of five cyclists showed up.
“Need a hand?” One of them asked.
They all pushed while I attempted to reverse but the car wouldn’t move. Then one of the riders picked up a log and worked at prying the car from multiple angles. After several attempts, he was able to get some good leverage and we all lowered our shoulders into the back quarter of the car. After three or four tries, we were able to get the rear of the car onto the road.
Just then a 4x4 rolled up. I asked if they had a tow rope. They didn’t but said the guys behind might. The next 4x4, waving Let’s Go Brandon flags had a rope and hooked it to the back of my car. A few moments later, the car was free. After a thanks and fist bump, the ‘brappers took off.
“Why don’t you join us?” One of the riders had seen my bike in the back of the car. “What’s your plan? I asked.
“We're headed to Barbra and John’s place. They’re this couple with some land and a spot we can stay at.” I looked around. I had my camping stuff, and my bike, and couldn’t see myself driving the rest of the muddy route on the car’s spare tire.
“Fuck it, sure!”
I got my bike and started to grab my sleeping setup when one of them stopped me. “You don’t need your camping stuff, they have beds,” he said.
Not wanting to take too much time by asking more questions, I stuffed my toothbrush, jacket, and wallet in my backpack that had my laptop in it and we were off.
The guys seemed to be around my age, I learned that three of them worked at a bike shop in Helena. The dirt road pointed us upwards and we mostly climbed in silence. I had my backpack, a bottle of water, and no idea where we were going.
After regrouping at the summit, we pedaled through a clearing in the trees. What looked like water in the distance turned out to be a low-hanging fog over the valley. The sky was deep purple and pink towards the western skyline. “Let’s fucking go!” I shouted in glee. For the next ten miles, we blazed our bikes down, down, down. Each of us found lines as we bobbed, weaved, and bunny hopped around mud puddles, berms, and switchbacks.
When the grade became flat enough, we all pedaled flat out. I was breathing as hard as I could, a huge smile painted across my face.
It was almost eleven when we arrived at Barb and John’s place. Barb had seen our bike lights coming up the road and held the gate open for us as we pulled in. “Hey, guys!” Bard said enthusiastically. “Did you miss the rain? Is anyone hungry? We’ve got ham sandwiches and beer.”
I still couldn’t understand what was going on. “What is this place?” I asked one of the guys. “It’s Barb and John’s place!” he said in a jokingly unhelpful way.
“Places like this, they restore your faith in humanity,” said Erik, a different bike packer who, after days of rain, hike-a-bike, mosquitos, and a run-in with a grizzly, was ready to throw in the towel on his trip until he came to the oasis that is Barb and John’s lama farm.
There’s a covered wagon, a few small sheds, a teepee, and an old trappers cabin- all converted into shelters for bike packers in the back pasture. There’s no fee to stay, just a request that riders ‘pay it forward’ with acts of kindness in their future endeavors.
My group got set up in the old trapper’s cabin and made a campfire outside. Beers were passed around and we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning laughing and joking like we’d known each other for years, not hours.
The next day we slept in. Taking our time, we brewed several rounds of coffee and soaked up the morning sun. Barb walked over with fresh rhubarb muffins and my mind continued to melt.
“What is this place???”
Later in the morning, John invited me to stay over another night to watch the leaders of the Great Divide bike event which is a self-supported backcountry ride that starts in Banff, Alberta, goes all the way to Mexico, and passes right by their driveway.
I was so curious to learn about their story. Having lived here for ten years, Barb started setting out water and other goodies for passing bike packers. Then she started offering them places to stay. That was nearly twenty years ago.
Then seven years ago, John was bike-packing the Divide route. He stopped at Barb’s for refreshments, the two got to talking and yeah, the rest is history.
Fact: You do not know what is going to happen.
“In any situation, there is always a next best step. This next best step is not always clear or obvious, but it is always within reach. There are invisible doorways around us at every moment, and each doorway is a threshold to a possible future. Possibilities must be found, invented, created, coaxed, manifested, discovered.” -School of the Possible
There was a fork in the road, so I stopped to check the map. That’s when I realized that my phone was missing. I went about checking underneath the car’s seats. I emptied my bags and searched my stuff. No phone. Shit.
It was pouring rain, I was in an unfamiliar mountain range southwest of Helena about fifteen miles from a paved road. I turned around and retraced my route. I had gotten out of the car a few times while poking up side roads but didn’t remember having the phone on me. I was on a scouting mission to find potential camp spots for our upcoming Unplugged field trip. Frustrated that I wasn’t making progress on the route, my eyes scoured the roadside. After three hours and what felt like the fiftieth dissection of my entire vehicle, I suspended my search.
The trip is ten days away, I had a GPS unit with me that also had the route so I was determined to finish scouting the route, sans cellular device. Heavy rain had trenched the road and before long, I reached a section that was impassable in my station wagon. After what felt like a fifteen-point turnaround, I retraced my route back toward Helena.
I was determined to finish driving the second half of our planned route and to find our layover camp spot. I drove straight through town and climbed up to Macdonald Pass before turning off the highway onto a small mountain road. The dirt was now mud which was slippery and rutted. After a few miles, I came up on a group of five bike packers and rolled down my window.
“Where are you headed?” I asked the guy in the back.
“The Lama Farm,” he said smiling back at me. Having no idea what that was, I smiled back at him and wished his group a good ride.
The rain had stopped. The rolling green meadows were filled with yellow and lavender-colored flowers. It was around eight pm but there was still plenty of sunlight. My plan was to drive until dark and then to sleep in the back of my car before continuing on with the route. I banked around a soft left turn, aiming to miss a large rut when my wheels got off to the side of the road. Suddenly, I was stuck.
With only about a foot of clearance, I had high-centered the car in the mud. The front right tire was hissing. Upon further inspection, I could see that I had driven over the corner of a storm drain which punctured the tire. It quietly hissed as I looked around somewhat helplessly.
I put sticks under the wheels in an effort to get some traction on the slippery mud road. With one foot on the gas pedal and the other on the ground, I tried to rock the car backward but it wouldn’t budge. I got the spare wheel and jack out of the trunk, but the jack only sunk into the soft spongy earth. That’s when the group of five cyclists showed up.
“Need a hand?” One of them asked.
They all pushed while I attempted to reverse but the car wouldn’t move. Then one of the riders picked up a log and worked at prying the car from multiple angles. After several attempts, he was able to get some good leverage and we all lowered our shoulders into the back quarter of the car. After three or four tries, we were able to get the rear of the car onto the road.
Just then a 4x4 rolled up. I asked if they had a tow rope. They didn’t but said the guys behind might. The next 4x4, waving Let’s Go Brandon flags had a rope and hooked it to the back of my car. A few moments later, the car was free. After a thanks and fist bump, the ‘brappers took off.
“Why don’t you join us?” One of the riders had seen my bike in the back of the car. “What’s your plan? I asked.
“We're headed to Barbra and John’s place. They’re this couple with some land and a spot we can stay at.” I looked around. I had my camping stuff, and my bike, and couldn’t see myself driving the rest of the muddy route on the car’s spare tire.
“Fuck it, sure!”
I got my bike and started to grab my sleeping setup when one of them stopped me. “You don’t need your camping stuff, they have beds,” he said.
Not wanting to take too much time by asking more questions, I stuffed my toothbrush, jacket, and wallet in my backpack that had my laptop in it and we were off.
The guys seemed to be around my age, I learned that three of them worked at a bike shop in Helena. The dirt road pointed us upwards and we mostly climbed in silence. I had my backpack, a bottle of water, and no idea where we were going.
After regrouping at the summit, we pedaled through a clearing in the trees. What looked like water in the distance turned out to be a low-hanging fog over the valley. The sky was deep purple and pink towards the western skyline. “Let’s fucking go!” I shouted in glee. For the next ten miles, we blazed our bikes down, down, down. Each of us found lines as we bobbed, weaved, and bunny hopped around mud puddles, berms, and switchbacks.
When the grade became flat enough, we all pedaled flat out. I was breathing as hard as I could, a huge smile painted across my face.
It was almost eleven when we arrived at Barb and John’s place. Barb had seen our bike lights coming up the road and held the gate open for us as we pulled in. “Hey, guys!” Bard said enthusiastically. “Did you miss the rain? Is anyone hungry? We’ve got ham sandwiches and beer.”
I still couldn’t understand what was going on. “What is this place?” I asked one of the guys. “It’s Barb and John’s place!” he said in a jokingly unhelpful way.
“Places like this, they restore your faith in humanity,” said Erik, a different bike packer who, after days of rain, hike-a-bike, mosquitos, and a run-in with a grizzly, was ready to throw in the towel on his trip until he came to the oasis that is Barb and John’s lama farm.
There’s a covered wagon, a few small sheds, a teepee, and an old trappers cabin- all converted into shelters for bike packers in the back pasture. There’s no fee to stay, just a request that riders ‘pay it forward’ with acts of kindness in their future endeavors.
My group got set up in the old trapper’s cabin and made a campfire outside. Beers were passed around and we stayed up until the wee hours of the morning laughing and joking like we’d known each other for years, not hours.
The next day we slept in. Taking our time, we brewed several rounds of coffee and soaked up the morning sun. Barb walked over with fresh rhubarb muffins and my mind continued to melt.
“What is this place???”
Later in the morning, John invited me to stay over another night to watch the leaders of the Great Divide bike event which is a self-supported backcountry ride that starts in Banff, Alberta, goes all the way to Mexico, and passes right by their driveway.
I was so curious to learn about their story. Having lived here for ten years, Barb started setting out water and other goodies for passing bike packers. Then she started offering them places to stay. That was nearly twenty years ago.
Then seven years ago, John was bike-packing the Divide route. He stopped at Barb’s for refreshments, the two got to talking and yeah, the rest is history.
Fact: You do not know what is going to happen.