Ghosts at the River
The Tent Was Here, I Swear
Fourteen years is a long time to stay away from a place, but the Clark Fork doesn’t really care about your absence. The Tura fishing access site just sits there, doing its thing, indifferent to the fact that it once hosted two slightly unhinged bikepackers who thought hiding in the trees and pitching a tent at a public fishing access was a perfectly reasonable life decision.
That was 2011. The RMVQ bikepacking edition. Snuggles and I had stumbled out of the cafe in Bonner sometime in the dark hours, headlights cutting through the valley, legs already cooked, still grinning. We found the spot, tucked the tent into the treeline like we were fugitives, and called it a night.
Then morning came with full-volume rain. The kind that laughs at you. She thought it was hilarious. I thought it was on-brand. There was still so far to go, and we went anyway, because that’s what you do when you’re deep in something like that.
Recently I stopped there on a ride. No reason, just did. The place was ghost-quiet. No one fishing, no one camped, no drama whatsoever. I walked around for a minute, took it in, thought about the tent that once lived briefly in those trees, the rain, the mileage still ahead of us that morning.
Then I got back on the bike and rode on.
Some places hold things for you without asking. You show up years later and the feeling is just sitting there, patient, a little damp, waiting to see what you’ll do with it.
March 8th’s Greatest Hits
Twenty-two years of March 8th entries reveal a consistent pattern of chasing adventure, battling technology, and learning lessons the hard way. From snow-buried Montana to loose handlebars mid-race to the eternal quest for simpler web hosting, some things never change.
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