Before the sky was black, it was a million shades of red.

In the following three days we wouldn’t see the sun again, except masked behind the cold veil of rain clouds.

That’s why we were there in the first place, in Glacier National Park, at 6 p.m., climbing over 3,600 feet in elevation, with 28 miles on our day already, beginning the climb over Logan Pass.

We were nearly 1,000 miles from the start of our trip. We’d spent the past three weeks getting to this point, to the park, the eastern terminus of our trip. Here we planned to spend a few days not-biking, enjoying the park, then heading south to Bozeman. With impending rain, snow, ice, and advice from some local bike shop workers in Whitefish, we decided to leave town early, taking on an 80 mile day. We started at 1 p.m. and worked toward a trek over Logan Pass at 6,647 feet, followed by an 18 mile ride to our resting place for the night. We never doubted we could do it, and that’s why we made it, but we had some odds stacked against us.

As the giant peaks rapidly melted away into the sky, I tried to piece together what my eyes we’re seeing: the massive Garden Wall, the Continental Divide, doused in golden light, slowly being enveloped by a cloud. (The confrontation my memory experiences when revisiting places.) The cars were maneuvering down the Going-to-the-Sun Road, marked by their firefly head lights cascading down the road we’d soon climb.

The mountains became the sky and the stars came out right as we started the steepest part of the climb. But I could still sense the giants — the pavement rising beneath our wheels, the car lights still floating above us in the distance, the wind moving up the rock face next to us. Sheer cliffs are more intimidating when filled with darkness.

Each time we stopped to drink water, my body shook with adrenaline — or fear — maybe they were the same. Getting back on the bike we became shadows again, my pedal strokes cast shadows in front of me from Jackson’s bike light. Pedaling in low gear, strokes in groups of four. Look up, see stars, breathe.

A thousand miles was a long way to bike to sit in the rain; so here we were, out-pedaling the weather. Those few daylight hours in the park were already starting to feel like a brief dream you wake from to find you can’t recall. Pulling at the images or sounds like wisps of wind to hold on to — the color, the mountains, the feeling.

We passed wind tunnel after wind tunnel, big bend, after big bend. “Was this the one right before the pass?” I asked myself, trying to trace over my memories of the place, but in its night time form.

It doesn’t matter. Look at the stars. Keep biking.

We made it to Logan Pass at 6,647 feet elevation. I’d tell you the time, but I purposely didn’t check.

We put on warmer clothes, ate a snack, and put on our speaker to scare away any animals that might be in the foggy road ahead of us.

If I could have stopped here, crawled into my sleeping bag and gone to bed or hopped in a car, I would have. I would have taken the other option, but when you don’t have any other choices you find out how far your body and mind can take you.

So we stayed positive, as we descended into a cloud on the eastern side of Logan Pass. The Dr. Dog blaring from our speakers didn’t scare away the Bighorn Sheep that stood in the road in front of us. All of the ram’s body dissolved into the fog, except for it’s antlers.

We passed below the cloud, the road flattened, and 18 miles later we made it to our campsite. Before eating or setting up the tent, we laid on the ground, startled by our own strength. It was 1 a.m. We thanked each other, our bodies, our minds, the weather. There were still stars above our heads. We weren’t pedaling any more. We went to bed.

It’s been four days now since we did the pass and I still can’t quite grasp what to make of it, besides that it changed me. The experience feels like a dream you can’t interpret.

I should stress that biking the pass is a totally safe thing to do, if you are in shape to do it. We learned from three locals in Whitefish that biking the pass at night is safe if you’re prepared, which we were. The other options we had for biking during the day in bad weather were more dangerous than biking the pass at night, on dry roads with less traffic. However, we added a lot of extra miles to our average daily total, after a few long days in a row. We pushed ourselves past our comfort levels and gained a great deal in the process. We made a choice and accepted the potential consequences of it.

Doing the pass was a testament to our minds and our bodies. I don’t feel invincible, but I do feel more in tune with my own capabilities and my body’s strength — and fragility. Since that night I have a new mental clarity I didn’t have before. I’m not going to try and capture it here, because I’m not yet sure how. It was an amazing experience we are thankful for nonetheless.

Now pictures!

A good tent spot outside of Sandpoint, ID.

Jackson inside a giant dead cedar in Ross Creek Old Growth Cedars.

Me with a 500 year old cedar in Ross Creek Old Growth Cedars.

A pit stop at Kootenai Falls in MT.

Jackson sitting on the Wire Bridge over Kootenai Falls. I promise I walked across.

Montanta we like you a lot! Taken in the Kootenai National Forest near the old growth cedars.

Rewarded with a beautiful morning on Lake Koocanusa after a day of rain.

Beautiful biking along Lake Koocanusa all day but I need to point out it’s called Koocanusa because it’s the Kootenai River damed and controlled by Canada and the U.S.A. thus “Koo” + “Can” + U.S.A.” …..

Almost at the entrance of Glacier National Park.

Eating apples, chocolate covered espresso beans, and beef jerky in West Glacier before going up the pass.

At Lake McDonald before we got on the Going-to-the-Sun Road.

After the rain cleared we got some good views leaving East Glacier.

This photo is to show how far we biked in one day (something you usually can’t show with a picture). The furthest mountains you can barely make out are East Glacier and this picture was taken about 55 miles away just outside of Dupuyer.

Dinos in Bynum