How did we—my trusty wife, who has endured countless painful challenges because of me—end up here? On a packed motorcycle, caught in a full-blown snow blizzard, scaling Bitterroot Pass. I couldn’t see the road anymore and fully expected a Yeti to lumber out of the snow-covered bushes to snatch us. The ice-encrusted wasteland from The Empire Strikes Back seemed like a warm, tropical retreat compared to this place.
Possibly—just possibly—this might have been ever so slightly my fault. As always.
Hamilton, Montana, May 10th, 2016
We—my wife, my bike, and I—were on a journey: coast to coast, east to west, from Manhattan to Malibu. Six thousand adventurous miles, braving the great land of the free.
So far, so good.
It feels like yesterday we were basking in a perfect day of 80-degree sunshine.
Probably because it was yesterday.
Even doing the laundry had been a joy, thanks to a swinging bench in front of the laundromat that lent a faint whiff of honeymoon nostalgia. The evening, spent at a campground by the fire with bagels and beer (as always), was an idyllic way to close out the day.
However, unbeknownst to us, this was the very moment when the course of events began to shift, subtly at first, and disaster started to unfold.
After a cheerful reunion with the campground host—who, judging by his demeanour, was either tipsy, stoned, or enthusiastically both—we set up our tent. This particular campground, nestled just two miles outside Hamilton in a lush forest, was a marvel. A picturesque little river meandered through the trees, completing the scene of serene perfection.
What we failed to realize, however, was that this idyllic spot had recently undergone a transformation. What was once a cozy, intimate retreat had morphed into a bustling hub of alternative commerce. A drug market of sorts, to put it bluntly.
Our misfortune became painfully apparent as the night wore on. Numerous times, potential "customers" approached our tent, eager to conduct transactions. Armed with nothing more than my oversized Bowie knife and a dwindling sense of humor, I managed to deter most intruders. The more persistent clientele, however, were unceremoniously dragged away by our hospitable campground host—who, as it turned out, was not only the manager but also a passionate purveyor of recreational substances.
Morning brought no relief. Any attempt to lodge a formal complaint was thwarted by the sight of the host sprawled on the ground in front of his battered trailer, snoring loudly and surrounded by what I could only assume were the remnants of last night’s quality control session. Apparently, he’d sampled a little too much of his own inventory and was now paying the price.
After confirming that he was still breathing and that immediate medical attention wasn’t necessary, we packed up the bike and rode off into the horizon—leaving behind what may well have been Montana’s most scenic black market.
A health-giving breakfast at McDonald’s—what better place to satisfy one’s craving for nourishing sustenance—was in order. After devouring stacks of pancakes alongside scrambled eggs that, I’m fairly certain, had never been within clucking distance of an actual chicken, we cheerfully set off south on Highway 93 toward Bitterroot Pass, straddling the border with Idaho.
The weather was still pleasant, though a few ominous clouds were beginning to gather in the distance. Naturally, I chose to ignore them. Drawing on my vast and questionably relevant experience as a bush pilot, I reassured my slightly concerned wife that there was absolutely, positively no cause for alarm. Rain? Unthinkable. My wife’s cautious suggestion to dig out the rain gear was, therefore, met with the same enthusiasm one usually reserves for extended tax audits.
Since we weren’t in any particular rush—likely because fatigue from last night’s unexpected stint at a campground drug bazaar had dulled our sense of urgency—we stopped for a quick coffee break in the little village of Darby. After all, caffeine is the closest thing to a cure for exhaustion when sleep is a distant memory.
Side note: It’s said that Darby’s sheriff enjoys a rather leisurely existence, often snoozing at his desk between donut runs. To combat his inertia, he supposedly installed hidden speed cameras around town, rigged to alert him whenever an unsuspecting commuter dares to exceed the speed limit. This jolts him awake just long enough to leap into his cruiser, issue a hefty fine, and return to his desk to resume his nap. I’ll avoid digressing further on the duties of peace officers, except to note that shaking down motorists probably wasn’t what people had in mind when they invented the phrase 'to serve and protect’.
But back to the story. Our coffee break passed uneventfully—because, really, how much can happen over a cup of mediocre brew—and we set off again. Unfortunately, the once-distant clouds above us had grown thicker, darker, and far more ominous. As they began to swirl into a foreboding ceiling of doom, my wife shot me an accusatory look, punctuated by a pointed finger toward the sky.
Naturally, I chose to ignore this too. My finely honed ability to downplay disaster was in full swing. But then, as if the weather gods had heard my cavalier dismissal, the heavens opened, and it began to rain.
Nothing to get worked up about, but the sun had definitely called it a day. It was high time, however, to dig out the rain gear I had so optimistically dismissed earlier.
We pressed on to the tiny one-horse town of Sula—essentially a gas station and a restaurant pretending to be a settlement. Here, we refuelled both our bike and ourselves, deciding another coffee break was in order to warm up and—mysteriously—dry our clothes, which had somehow become thoroughly soaked. (A true meteorological enigma.)
The restaurant owner, noticing our subtle signs of discomfort—like shivering uncontrollably—took pity and offered a lifeline:
“Throw your wet stuff in my dryer, folks. Don’t want you catching pneumonia. And, you know, you might want to rent a room with us—it’s snowing up there on the pass where you’re headed… just saying.”
Sitting by the window, clutching steaming coffee mugs, we watched as the rain transformed into delicate, swirling snowflakes.
“Eh, no problem,” I declared, ever the optimist. “We’ve got rain gear, and as long as it’s not real snow, we’re good.”
An hour later, back on the bike and now thoroughly armoured in full rain gear, I was mentally prepared for anything short of the apocalypse. Only nine miles to the pass. Nine. A leisurely stroll.
What could possibly go wrong?
My wife, I could tell, was not even remotely convinced. She could probably summon a laundry list of potential catastrophes to derail our ascent, but she said nothing. Not yet.
Two miles later, however, my ever-observant wife pointed out—ever so politely—that the light snow had now evolved into bona fide snowflakes.
“Meeehhh, not to worry!” I replied with my trademark bravado. “As long as the snow doesn’t stick to the road, we’ll be just fine. Besides, only seven miles to go to the pass!”
Three miles into our increasingly treacherous climb, I felt the faintest tap—a love tap, really—on my kidneys, courtesy of my now slightly less optimistic passenger. She suggested, with nervous laughter, that perhaps we trade our bike for a sled dog team to complete the journey.
"I’ll be damned," I thought as I squinted through the snow, but she had a point. The flakes were sticking to the road now, turning our adventure into something resembling an ice-skating competition, minus the skates and grace. My wife, clearly not loving the odds, suggested we might consider turning around.
“Meeehhh, worry not!” I reassured her, still clutching my delusions of control. “All is well as long as I can see the road! And look—only four miles to the top!”
But another two miles into our increasingly precarious crawl—down to second gear now—her encouragement escalated to a sharper jab in the ribcage. Begrudgingly, I admitted that she might, just might, have a point. The road was no longer visible. A fine layer of snow, no more than half an inch, blanketed the asphalt, giving the scene an oddly festive appearance. It looked a lot like Christmas—minus the gifts and holiday cheer.
“Should we… maybe… consider retreating?” she muttered, her confidence—as opposed to the snow around us—starting to melt quickly.
“Meeehhh, trust me, I’m a pilot! Anything less than an inch barely qualifies as snow. What are we? Pussies? I’ve seen worse.”
“Perhaps you have,” my wife shot back, her tone razor-sharp, “but I certainly have not.”
Unfazed, I informed her that turning around now would be a reckless waste of precious energy. “Besides,” I added, squinting ahead, “I can almost see the pass…”
One mile later, I found myself in a world of regret—and several inches of snow. Somehow, the powder had multiplied to three inches, and the road had vanished entirely beneath it. Hell, I could barely make out my wife in the mirror through the blizzard. If a colony of penguins had shuffled by, I wouldn’t have batted an eye—though, admittedly, it was probably too cold for them up here.
But honestly, who could have known?
There were no tracks to guide us—neither behind nor ahead—because, naturally, no one else was idiotic enough to attempt this pass in these conditions. Finally, I surrendered to reason—or at least to survival. “You might want to hop off the bike, darling,” I muttered sheepishly. “The rear tire is spinning, and I’d better try turning us around somehow…”
I threw in a bribe for good measure: “Perhaps we can roll back down the mountain, ever so slowly, and I’ll treat you to coffee and warm clothes at the beautiful Sula restaurant?”
Now, anyone remotely familiar with motorcycles—or simply more intelligent than me—knows that manhandling an 1,100-pound bike in the snow on a downhill incline is roughly as fun as trying to wrestle a polar bear. Once you lose balance, that’s it. You might as well leave the bike there until next summer—or forever.
Somehow, miraculously, the turnaround manoeuvre worked. But even heading downhill, we couldn’t gain much traction. If this wasn’t stressful enough, it was now bone-chillingly cold. Before long, we’d be frozen solid—two human popsicles atop a stationary hunk of metal.
It occurred to me that now would be an excellent time for a saviour to appear—a truck, a trailer, even an angelic spirit on a snowplow—to rescue us from certain doom, be it by grip of gravity, a pack of opportunistic wolves, or the merciless laws of thermodynamics.
So, we did what any sensible couple in our situation would do.
We started praying...
Sooner than expected, a car descended the pass, nearly sliding past us in its desperate attempt to brake. The driver rolled down the window, offering in rapid succession to either take both of us, just my wife, or just me down to safety. The bike, they pointed out, would likely have to remain here until the glaciers receded...sometime next year.
We politely declined. After all the calamities we’d endured together, abandoning our trusted companion to the snow was not only impractical but morally unthinkable. The kind folks stared at us, a mix of confusion and pity etched on their faces, before reluctantly driving off. They clearly thought we were complete idiots.
“Saviour, where are you? We’re freezing…” I muttered as we shivered in the relentless cold. Clearly, another prayer was in order. But this time, I decided, we needed to be more specific:
“Please, Lord, send a cowboy. With a truck. And a trailer. Amen.”
Five minutes later—because apparently, divine timing is impeccable—our prayer was answered. A cowboy in a Ford F-350 heavy-duty truck with a massive trailer appeared, descending the mountain. It took him 200 yards to stop on the slippery road, at which point he peered out of his truck, his face a mix of disbelief and resignation.
“You guys sure look like you need a hitch,” he said, his tone suggesting he’d seen a lot of stupidity in his life but had never encountered anything quite as brainless as us.
“My name’s John.”
We wholeheartedly agreed. With John’s help, we hoisted our frozen motorcycle onto his trailer. Soon, we were back on our way to Hamilton where—because irony is a cruel mistress—it was merely raining.
John dropped us off at the McDonald’s in Hamilton, the very place where this ill-fated adventure had begun not too long ago. After a nourishing meal of regret and processed carbs (on me, of course), we reluctantly climbed back into our cold, wet gear. Battling the rain, we trudged northward to the nearest hotel, dreaming of a hot shower and a chance to forget this entire fiasco.
During the ride, I had plenty of time for some self-reflection. Perhaps if I’d exercised even a shred of common sense—checked the weather report, heeded the advice of the kind restaurant owner in Sula, or just listened to my wife—this debacle might have been avoided.
Then again...
Meeehhh…
Marcel Romdane, frozen stiff…
John, the saviour hoisting up our frozen motorcycle. Me wondering, what the hell went wrong?
