“I’d sure like a piece of pie, so why don’t we take a little ride in the Mustang to see if we can find some?” the cowboy said to me on Saturday morning. Just another adventure, I thought, recalling the baseball game, submarine races, and now apple pie.
“Sure,” I answered, shrugging, “why not?”
He continued, “Besides, I want you to see the second half of the Beartooth Highway and we can kill two birds with one stone. Bring a jacket, though, and the down comforter you brought from Idaho.” We had traveled the first half of the Beartooth last fall and risen to nine thousand feet. It was a nice drive, not too many miles, and the view was out of this world. Mountains and trees and a few animals, and a parade of cars, motorcycles, and people rubbernecking the beauty, just as we were. Trips in his Mustang were always fun, and it seemed like a good way to spend a half day and a slice of apple pie sounded mighty tasty.
I wondered what the second half of the Beartooth would be like. Would it be another nine thousand feet, meaning eighteen thousand feet, higher than I had ever been before? “How tall is that mountain?” I asked, trying to read his mind.
“It’s only two thousand more feet, so eleven thousand feet.” That seemed reasonable, so I agreed. We ate a lovely lunch, no dessert, and left Red Lodge to start on our adventure. He drove about three miles and suddenly turned around, “We need more gas, we’ve only got a half tank and we need to go to Cooke City.” I was a little apprehensive, I didn’t think that a two-thousand-foot climb would need more than a half tank of fuel. The road was paved and in good condition, it seemed.
The first sign we saw read, “Road closes at 7:00 pm.” It was about 2:00 pm, so that also felt reasonable, but I have never been on a road that closed every night. A few miles later we saw a sign, “Road closes without warning when weather requires it.” Uh-oh, that could be trouble, but the sky was blue, and we trekked on, chitchatting about this and that. The next sign we saw read, “Cooke City, 63 miles Yellowstone National Park, 69 miles.” An easy hour, I thought. Within a few minutes, we saw another sign reading, “Maximum speed next fifty miles: 25 miles per hour.” The following sign read, “Open Range, Watch for Cows.” Oh, great.
The switchbacks started and the guard rails grew sparser, and the ones that we saw looked like they had been busted out by a car flying off the highway into the air. I later learned they were busted out by the snowplows sliding around in the twelve feet of snow. Maybe getting a piece of pie was not a good idea. I tried to look down but had second thoughts when saw nothing but air.
My quick brain calculated the time to Cooke City at two and a half hours. We could reach Cooke City at about 5:00. Oh, wait, we have to return, but the road closes at 7:00 or without warning, whichever.
Cowboy Bob started talking about a trip with his parents and a horse trailer with four horses. I’m eyeing the switchbacks, wondering how a trailer and a pickup would be able to navigate the countless backs and forths. The pie seemed less and less such a good idea, but he talked of making this trip to drive to Cooke City to have a piece of pie as an annual pilgrimage after Memorial Day. He told of some cowboys driving to town, partying with the dude-ranch girls in Cooke City, then returning home to go to work the next days. “Those were the good old days,” he said with a wry smile. Hmm. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t imbibe in alcohol.
We had a great adventure and arrived home safely, through a different route, the Chief Joseph Highway, equally scenic with fewer switchbacks. Hands down, the Cooke City apple pie was the best apple pie I have ever eaten, maybe because it was, or maybe it was because I was secretly celebrating my finely tuned sense of adventure.
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