While flying down the western side of Glacier National Park, Raphael and I locked eyes. No words needed. This park was the most beautiful place we had ever seen.
Snowbound peaks. A craggy rock face jutting up thousands of feet; a glacier beneath it.
The 90+ degree sun was tempered with cool mists drifting off roadside waterfalls
Raphael and I took a shower in this glacial melt-water. It would been several days since our last shower, so cold as it was, it was welcome. People driving by stared at us from within their heated cars stared at us as we walked into the frigid waterfall. A cute girl stopped and jumped in as Raphael and I were finishing up. Coincidence? Perhaps.
We ascended to Logan pass, at 6,647 feet.
We met people at the top who had passed us as they went up in cars. Everyone figured we had driven to the park, and then biked to the pass. They were surprised, to say the least, when we told them we’d ridden from New York – 3,000 miles – to get here.
And then down we went. Flying, it seemed. We descended into the West Glacier valley at 30 miles an hour, down all the elevation we had just gained. Past the weeping wall: a series of misty waterfalls that spilled over the road. Raphael turned his head skyward as we rode underneath them and screamed around a corner at top speed. Our strong tires had no trouble keeping us in line through the soaked tarmack stretch, even after three thousand miles on the same set.
We arrived in Apgar Village, West Glacier, after fifty miles of the most incredible riding of our lives.