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FALL 2018 ISSUE 02 / VOL . 03
Going-to-the-Sun Road hangs precariously on the side of a mountain with only a low rock wall separating asphalt from thin air .
down . At that moment a sudden gust of wind hit me from the left . And , well , let ’ s just say that I “ nearly ” had to change my undies . Quite the thrill , quite the rush , the rider ’ s equivalent of being dealt a natural full house . Aces and eights , dead man ’ s hand .
More motorcycles than cars crawled up the narrow strip of asphalt between Lake McDonald and Logan Pass . BMWs appeared to be the most common brand , though a healthy number of Harley-Davidsons were engaged in conquering the pass also . The people sealed inside of cars looked at us longingly . Anyone could see this road is a motorcyclist ’ s run for the roses .
Camped at Rising Sun that evening on St . Mary Lake , I was busily slicing sausage onto crackers when I looked up to see a black bear less than 40 feet away . He was moving along the fringe of the campground . I like to see creatures in the wild , especially when they appear to have something better to do than paw through my food . This little guy