Singletrack/MTB
Gravel/All-road
Dirt-road Touring
Fat-bike
Jen Kelly was one of just a small handful of riders to take on the 2024 Montana Bike Odyssey earlier this month, and she put together this post-ride reflection on finding her rhythm while pedaling along the equally demanding and spectacular 1,750-mile route. Read her story here…
Words and photos by Jen Kelly, additional photos by Graham Goff
Numen (noun): the spirit or divine power presiding over a thing or place.
It started with a five. “Five days until the fifth annual Montana Bike Odyssey!” said the Instagram post, captioning a photo of a beautiful gravel road rolling gently off to meet the horizon. It was a Thursday. I’d finished the Big Sky Spectaculaire on Monday, driven home, and dropped my bike off for service. I was still full of the joy of the adventure, and not quite ready to see the summer end. This was my first season of bikepacking and bikepack racing, and I had fallen madly in love with both. Within a day, my attitude toward the Odyssey moved from curious to committed. I spent the weekend in a whirlwind of activity, acquiring a bigger seat bag and some fork bags so I could carry more thermal and camping gear, having learned on the Spectaculaire that a sleeping bag and/or puffy jacket makes late-summer Montana camping much cozier.
“1,750 total miles. 1,100 miles of gravel and dirt. 580 miles of pavement. 60 miles of paved bike path. 10 miles of single track.” That sounded doable. There was also 100,000+ feet of climbing, which seemed proportionate enough. The racer materials included a spreadsheet showing the services available in each town and the distance to the next town. It looked so much like the spreadsheets I make for myself that I figured I could more or less wing it and focused on gear acquisition and high-intensity ice cream and sofa intervals to get my body and mind ready.
Four racers rolled out from the Bozeman Public Library on Tuesday morning, September 3. We shared some excited and nervous chatter under clear skies and leapfrogged each other as the day turned overcast and drizzly. A serious hailstorm fell on Norris (mile 92) as lead rider Chase arrived and sheltered; the rest of us were left to marvel at the gumball-sized hailstones piled on the roadside. I rode with Graham for a while, climbing through misty sagebrush and pine-lined hills out of Norris. He remarked, “Can you believe Montana is only about 25 percent forested?!” I didn’t find that surprising at all since my recent week on the Spectaculaire involved around that ratio of forests breaking up the vast prairie expanses. I might’ve realized then that I was in for a trip that I hadn’t expected, through undeveloped, forested mountain landscapes, the likes of which I’d never seen before.
All four of us spent that night in motels in Ennis. The next night, after climbing over the Gravelly Mountains, I continued on from Dillon at sunset and camped just before Elkhorn Hot Springs, relieved and satisfied that my bulky new camping gear made for a solid night’s sleep. The next day, I unwittingly rolled up to the first and biggest challenge of the trip.
Despite my minimal route research, I knew that making my way up Fleecer Ridge was going to be some sort of adventure. Friends who knew more than me were sending texts expressing curiosity and mild anxiety about it, mentioning numbers like “30-percent gradient.” My notes from the pre-race meeting showed that Graham had described it as “horrible.” I was marveling at the new shade of purple on my Wahoo’s elevation profile, indicating a pitch even steeper than the red grades I almost always walk up. After some miles of fun and sometimes-raucous doubletrack, I came to a little 15-foot bit that was almost that steep. Dragging my bike up that short pitch was a serious chore, my feet slipping in the loose gravel and moondust. A few turns later, I was confronted with Fleecer Ridge, consisting of around a quarter mile of the kind of gradient that I’d just struggled on a few feet of. I stared at it and chatted with some other folks out there on motorbikes and side-by-sides. I had a sinking feeling as I realized I was almost certain I couldn’t get my bike up this thing.
With nothing to do but try, I started trying. I would drag my bike between three and ten steps, then lean on the handlebars for a rest. For the first time, I regretted my steel-frame bike and my tendency to fill my three-liter water bladder at every faucet. It was incredibly slow going, but it was still going. I was grateful for my experience setting a record carrying a 94-pound boulder a quarter mile around a grass field in Florida. The hump up Fleecer Ridge felt at least as hard as that, but I kept reminding myself that I could rest as often as I needed and that surely I would eventually finish. Sure enough, after about two and a half hours, I did. I’ve been blessed not to have too many encounters with Type-2 fun, and going up Fleecer Ridge was an immersion course in it. I’ve felt my thoughts on the Ridge shift, as time has passed, from “never again!” to “okay, maaaybe….” I bet by next summer, I’d be looking forward to it.
The next day, I caught up with Graham and Falcon at Sven’s Bicycles in Anaconda and again at the spring-fed fountains in the woods on the other side of town. Graham mentioned that some people shuttle their gear up Fleecer Ridge separately from their bikes, which seems like an obvious improvement over my strategy. Next time. Chase withdrew from the race, having derailleur problems that would delay him too much to complete the route during his time off work. This was the last I’d see of my fellow riders and the beginning of my true immersion in the Odyssey.
Fires in Skalkaho Pass forced us to detour around the Bitterroot Valley, instead taking the breathtaking and entertaining Rock Creek Road for a 100-mile descent through Lolo National Forest, with a river on one side, scree cliffs on the other, and frequent forays through pine groves. I tried camping on the side of a no-traffic dirt road in the woods by the Clark Fork River and got so scared by the noises of unknown critters that I broke camp and rode to Alberton for a nap in the high school yard. I rode dirt roads up and down many different mountains, in awe of the views and the feeling of isolation. I continued one dominant theme of my summer, testing my limits, putting in big days with limited rest, and continued to be gratefully surprised by my own capabilities. I cowboy camped in the city park in Whitefish after finding the whole town booked up due to a concert and talked my way into peace with the local cops who shined a flashlight in my face in the wee hours.
On day nine, in Bigfork, I took a spa day. I’d only ridden 47 miles after morning errands in Whitefish, but I was facing a 100-mile segment of remote gravel mountains and a forecast of rain and possible thunderstorms. So, I spent the afternoon buying and eating a massive pile of groceries and lounging in the bathtub, not venturing out until 4 a.m. This was one of several occasions where I developed some anxiety looking at the numbers for the next day. More than 100 miles with 10,000 feet of gravel climbs and descents?!
I would begin to doubt that I could do this, and the next day’s task would threaten and loom like some awful punishment to get through. The reality was never even nearly that bleak. Once I was on my bike, looking around at the plants, animals, and landscapes around me, heart full of the joy of being in Montana’s spectacular wilderness, the sun came out (metaphorically and usually literally), and I had the time of my life. On the second big climb out of Bigfork, I rounded a corner near the top of the mountain and found Red Meadow, an absolutely stunning lake ringed by road and campground on one side and a steep mountain on the other. I fell in love with it and hope to go back and to bring my loved ones there. Spectacular.
I saw so many animals. Five bears (probably mostly black?), countless pronghorn, whitetail and mule deer, bighorn sheep, majestic birds of prey, mountain bluebirds, various grouse, sandhill cranes, lots of skunks, possibly a marmot, a roadkill badger, and much more. I crossed two ferries and enjoyed many meals at remote country bars, where I got to chat with friendly folks. I cried lots of tears of joy, wonder, and exhaustion. I said a few times that I might not have shown up at the starting line if I’d been more diligent in studying the course. I’m so glad I made it. I got to spend two weeks bathing in the beauty of wild Montana and learned that I’m capable of more than I thought.
Further Reading
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