True to his word, Ian woke me up at 6:30. Damn, that sucked. I packed up and went over to Bubba's cabin, where I said goobye to the big man, Maggie, Ian and Monte (who had chipped in for the fourth bunk in their cabin).

I was on the road at an unprecendented 7:10, and I headed off to climb the Rockies. The climb over Togwotee Pass -- at 9,658 feet -- was about 30 miles long. The grades were pretty easy, though I didn't get to rest much. I wanted to make sure I would be in the Tetons at 5:00, when I had agreed to meet my family.


I stopped briefly to eat lunch, but the dining room of the little restaurant was filled by a mullet family (Mullet: "Business up front, party in the back" -- G. Walsh). Not wanting to listen to their conversation, I got back on the bike. As I hit the road again, I saw Jim pull up to the restaurant and yell that he'd see me at the top. Riiiiight.

I kept climbing higher into the mountains, and summited Togwotee at around noon. It was a bit disappointing, because Wyoming hasn't bothered to put a sign there. I had to settle for a continental divide sign. For those of you who don't know what the divide is, it's the boundary between the Pacific and Atlantic watersheds. Water on one side of the divide eventually flows into the Pacific, while water on the other side flows .. well, you figure it out. All you really need to know is this: the divide is always at the top of a ridge, so when you cross it, you've climbed really high. You also get to go downhill for a while.

After crossing the top, I zipped down a nice downhill and got my first view of the Teton range. I almost didn't recognize them at first, so light was the snow on the tops of the mountains. I had been warned that the Tetons hadn't gotten much snow over the winter, but this was a little ridiculous.

I stopped for lunch at a resort bar, the Red Fox Tavern -- it was a lot nicer than the Redd Foxx Tavern, which I went to once in Tennessee. I had a burger. The End.

By the way, this is George. George is riding from Seattle to Annapolis. By coincidence, I have been considering skipping Glacier National Park (which will take me back east a bit) and riding up to Seattle instead. We'll see.

Here's a shot of me entering the park itself. A passing car stopped and the driver asked if he could take a picture of me. He said it was for an activist group that was advocating more cycler-friendly roads in the national parks. Either that or he's a goddamned pervert. Either way, I think I made his day.

So I roll into the park and head north toward Flagg Ranch campground, where my parents are staying. As I ride along, I notice a black Ford parked next to the side of the road. A few minutes later, the Ford passes me, my mother hanging out of the window with a camera and my father chanting "Pedal, pedal, pedal" from the driver's seat.

I stop and load my bike into the car, and we head off to pick up my brother Brett. For you whiners who are already complaining that I've cheated on my route: relax. When I get back on the bike, I'll be in Jackson Hole, 30 miles to the south. I'll have to ride this whole stretch again, so it's not like I'm skipping or hitching. Okay, Ted?