We were rolling east, salt still in the air from the coast, already bracing for the cold slap of Missoula winter when Lewiston waved us off the highway. Hellsgate State Park looked friendly enough, and the weather was behaving, so we did what we always do. One more ride. Fat bikes unloaded, legs still loose, daylight pretending it had somewhere better to be.
The path along the leve just kept going. Smooth, wide, forgiving. The kind of ride where your brain turns the volume down and your body takes over. We followed it past quiet stretches, past the river doing its steady thing, until Locomotive Park appeared like a small, wonderful accident. And then night showed up with zero subtlety. Suddenly there were lights everywhere. Trains outlined in color, trees glowing like they had opinions, arches pulling us forward. We were grinning, rolling slow, taking it in, already calling it a win.
The only surprise waited until the very end. Somewhere between awe and exhaustion, a dog owner had made a bold decision to not bend over. Tires met reality. Thick reality. We stood there in the dark, scraping fat bike treads, silently thankful Hellsgate kept the water on and loudly judging humanity in general.
Still, it did not matter. The ride was perfect anyway.
