Thunder Roads Magazine of Oklahoma/Arkansas April 2014 Volume 12 Issue 9 | Page 22

FEATURES

coming through the gates, was
incredible! On we rode across
Utah and into Wyoming toward
Jackson Hole where we entered
the amazing Teton Mountains.
I know this must be where the
writer of America, the Beautiful
got the phrase “purple mountain
majesties.” The mountains are
made of purple granite that
gives them the color. I’ve never
seen that color on a mountain
anywhere else! We decided to
camp out in the Teton Mountains
that night.
Ed led us 5.1
miles down a loose rock, dirt,
washboard road not meant to
be traveled on a motorcycle—so
far in the wilderness that steel
boxes were put out to keep your
food from the bears. We found a
short bluff above the Snake River
right on a bend with rapids and a
deep hole, where we pitched our
tents for the night. “Pitched” is
a relative word. Ed pitched his
tent, but Larry and I were pitched
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Thunder Roads Magazine of OK/AR

by ours! With a few pointers
from Ed, we got ours to at least
stand upright, and then Ed and
Larry braved the cold water to
take a bath. I stood and thought,
“I’m glad I can’t get down there.”
Back on the road, we
moved from Teton to Yellowstone
Park where the wondrous sights
are so famous I won’t even go
into them, except for our stop at
Old Faithful. Three older women
traveling with their nephew
thought we were part of the
entertainment and wanted their
pictures taken with us and our
bikes. This was the thrill of their
lives I’m sure—not! Montana here
we come, driving so far north
we were just a few miles from
Canada. Though we’d heard so
much about the beauty of Glacier
National Park, nothing could
prepare us for what we saw.
We entered at West Glacier
and took Going to the Sun Road
to Logan’s Pass. Wow! The

mountains, with snow on top of
many, were so green and high
and the lakes were a deep blue,
as clear as glass. The streams
that ran along the road were
impossible to keep your eyes off.
Waterfalls cascaded from the
tops of mountains everywhere
you looked and passed under the
road through built-in ducts. We
stayed in Kalispell, Montana that
night at the Hilltop Inn which was
an old style motor court inn where
all the rooms opened to a central
courtyard. Because everyone
staying there were bikers, we
stayed up late meeting new
friends from Canada, Michigan,
Nevada and other states. It was
like our own little rally where
everyone swapped stories and
lies. We talked about bikes and
women back home—you know,
the usual guy thing.
We had talked about maybe
going to the west coast if we
were still in good health and had