My Favorite Ride
Montana Highway 540 to Yellowstone Park, 1969

By Michael McDonald
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Montana Highway 540 South, out of Livingston, is o­ne of my favorite rides, for many reasons. Some of the locals said that it was just a long stretch of loose dirt until the 40's, when it became a semi-paved stretch of dirt. The first time I traveled through this area I was about to turn a major corner in my life.

To get this far from East Texas as rapidly as possible, I had pushed my Honda 750 hard for several days and was o­nly now beginning to relax and enjoy myself. It was another beautiful day for the record books. I had camped just out of Chico Hot Springs, along the river, north of Yellowstone park and in some of the most breathtaking country of Montana.

In the summer of 1969 you could still ride right up to a ranch house for permission to rest-up by their creek for a night or two, and usually be shown a first-rate example of western hospitality. After some friendly small talk about the weather and a couple of questions about your travels (probably so they'd have some news to pass along at the general store), you could get their recommendations o­n the best location to setup camp and a idea of the resident snake and bear population. During those days of unlocked front doors and keys left in ranch vehicles, everyone automatically trusted you to pack out anything not consumed, and that you'd leave their property exactly as you found it.

Normally, if not too exhausted from a day's ride, I would first cook an evening meal and then pitch my tent away from the eating area. That night though, I just made it into my sleeping bag before falling immediately asleep.

Many evenings in good weather, I would throw a sleeping bag out in the open and lay awake most of the night to soak up all the sounds and sensations that the mountain men and early trappers must have experienced living in these mountains. O­n those nights, the sky was so clear that you could reach up and touch the North Star. I usually awoke in high spirits, revitalized and without a care in the world. But not every night in the mountains provided such a restful sleep. During some bike trips through the high country a very uncomfortable layer of frost can penetrate a thin sleeping bag to make you pretty near miserable for a few hours.

For me, eating outdoors changes even the most basic meal into a savory delight. Although I sometimes keep it very simple by using my engine casing to heat a can of chili during the last hour of travel, I prefer to catch or find food in the wild when possible. As with most Rocky Mountain streams, a shallow branch of the nearby Yellowstone River was teaming with various sized brook trout. Luckily, o­ne fish was not too particular as to the bait and eagerly hit the line, almost as soon as it settled o­n the water. Not far up the riverbank I also spotted a gravel ridge scattered with small, but tasty wild strawberries, and I hungrily ate and picked my way along until I could hardly move.

After a late breakfast, I quickly broke camp and loaded the bike for the next leg of my trip. Although most everything I carried at that time had been bought second hand, or given to me by friends who had upgraded their gear, it all suited me perfectly. With no faring or saddlebags for storage, everything was tied hard to any protrusion available. I traveled fast, light and with little fanfare. When I now look over the equipment I used in those days, I realize that my youthful enthusiasm had compensated for a tremendous lack of quality, safety and comfort.

I always smile to see the matching heated socks and scarves available now, and that some of today's bikers even coordinate their boots with their ride. I must admit that the new style of gear does make for a much more comfortable trip, though.

As I passed by a ranch house to head south toward Yellowstone Park, I waved and said thanks to several ranch hands going about their morning chores. Even today, I remember thinking that I could be happy living in this beautiful valley. We all feel the urge to slow our pace a notch when traveling down a particularly pleasant stretch of road to try and keep that moment from never ending.

Once out o­n the open highway the temperature began to climb, as the sun broke clear of the mountains and it was soon time to stop for the removal of some layers of clothing. I pulled off the road at a small country store near Corwin Springs and took an opportunity to spend a few minutes talking with some local Native Americans standing around out front. Most had worked for generations as roustabouts in this river basin and would know every coulee and canyon around. Although they lived like cowboys, many held privately to their traditions and religious beliefs from the old days. I have always been interested in the customs and history of the early west and especially liked talking with them. If the timing is right and they take to you, they may even invite you to attend o­ne of their pow-wows. I o­nce participated in a small Crow Indian (I think, it was a long time ago) gathering near the Big Horn Lake in southern Montana. After concluding the preliminary ceremonies, even a gringo was allowed to have some fun and go native. Each tribe's ceremonial dancers depict hunting events and great battles from their past. Every gesture made is very important to the oral history of their people. I most enjoy the tall tales of grizzly bear folklore and stories about spooky ghosts that still travel the ancient foot trails. Even today, as the wind blows through the tree tops late at night, and my imagination is o­n high alert, I swear that I sometimes see that giant grizzly bear nosing around my camp.

I had o­nce really scared awake o­n a dark, frosty night near Kalispell, by what I swore was a bear breathing o­n me. When I opened my eyes all I could dimly make out was this huge head directly above my face. Now, it is difficult to cover much ground from within a zippered tent, but don't laugh, it can be done. It turns out that the roof of my pup tent had sagged to within an inch of my nose from the heavy, wet snow that had fallen during the night, and my own breath was bouncing back into my face.

When I arrived at the North Gate of Yellowstone Park for the first time, I was quite indignant at having to pay a fee to enter the park since my plans were to o­nly pass through the area. But with no lines of traffic to distract from the pure satisfaction of a leisurely cruise through the park, it was a time to enjoy nature at its best. Both sides of the two lane road were lined with cat-tails growing in the spring runoff and the sound of amorous frogs filled the air. I even stopped o­nce to make sure that my bike was not the source of this relentless croaking. O­ne of the most memorable moments of the trip was when the heads of the cat-tails were being blown apart by a blustery breeze and their pollen filled the air with millions of glistening specks of reflected gold. The scenic, natural beauty of the mountains continued o­n even after leaving Yellowstone and o­n down into Jackson Hole.

I do not remember exactly which direction I took o­n through New Mexico after Jackson Hole, but my final stop was Viet Nam.

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