Nate Hegyi, rural reporter for the , is embarking on a
crisscrossing the continental divide in August and September, interviewing and listening to Americans ahead of the 2020 election. You can follow along on , an and this map.
September 5-7: Driggs, Idaho to Dubois, Wyoming, 48 miles
An important note here: These are my first-glance takeaways. Think of this as a reporter's notebook. A mosaic of voices over the next few weeks, cycling 900 miles across four states and dozens of small towns.
I鈥檓 being chased by a cold front, which threatens to bring snow and freezing temperatures across the northern Rockies. Winter is coming and I鈥檓 in the high country. Alpine meadows and tall, green pine are smudged by wildfire smoke drifting in from nearby Yellowstone National Park.
But I have a stiff tailwind and my legs feel good 鈥� I took two days off from reporting over Labor Day weekend to spend some time driving around the parks with my fiance, Christine, who came down from Missoula with our three-legged dog, Gilly.
But now they are headed home and I鈥檓 riding 40 miles over the continental divide to reach Dubois, Wyoming before the storm hits mid-afternoon.
The road has wide shoulders and great views of the mountains. It鈥檚 often traversed by bicycle tourists like myself because it鈥檚 part of the TransAmerica route, established by the nonprofit Adventure Cycling Association nearly five decades ago. Sure enough, as I鈥檓 cresting a hill I see a rider in the distance.
Lea Ritson鈥檚 tangled blonde hair peeks out from underneath her helmet. She鈥檚 sporting a bright pink shirt and is carrying only a few pieces of gear 鈥� just a tent, a sleeping bag and a couple of other camping supplies. She likes to travel light and has been on the road for nearly two months.
鈥淭his is my first time out West,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 feel so little. It鈥檚 so humbling and the landscape is just dramatic.鈥�
Ritson grew up in Baltimore, Maryland. She was serving in the Peace Corps when her term was cut short by the pandemic. She spent some time at home with her parents, watching the news and feeling terrible. The country was torn apart politically. So, adrift from her job, she set out on a bicycle to ride from Norfolk, Virginia to Astoria, Oregon. It restored her faith in America.
鈥淭he people have been the greatest part. I call them my trail angels,鈥� she says. 鈥淧eople that go out of their way to make sure I鈥檓 comfortable and well-fed. The kindness of strangers has gotten me this far.鈥�
As we鈥檙e chatting, another cross-country rider, Matteo Schlitz, pulls over. He鈥檚 a recent college graduate with a friendly grin and a mop full of curly black hair. He also grew up out East and says bicycling across America has allowed him to have conversations with people that have more conservative political persuasions than his own.
鈥淏ack in D.C., if you were a supporter of Trump you were evil,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 been cool to meet Trump supporters that I don鈥檛 necessarily agree with but have been very, very good people with good hearts.鈥�
I tell them about my recent theory that there are a million different Americas, and maybe that鈥檚 why we are at odds with each other. We understand our own communities but we struggle to empathize with other communities outside of our bubble.
Some rural, conservative folks I鈥檝e met struggle to grasp why some people in cities are advocating to defund the police, for example, while progressive urbanites might shake their heads at a Wyomingite who champions limited government and self-sufficiency. Schlitz says the 鈥渕illion Americas鈥� theory rings true for him.
鈥淵ou realize, riding, how each state has their own needs and how they live very different lives,鈥� he says. 鈥淪o you can understand why everyone is having such disagreements.鈥�
Our understanding of other Americans, it appears, often comes from the media, television or the internet. When we travel, we regularly do so in cars or airplanes, staying at hotels and sampling other regions like they are cheeses on an appetizer tray. We go to that one great barbeque spot, or the gateway community near a national park, or maybe we鈥檙e just hurtling through a state on our way to some other destination.
Bicycling allows you to see the 鈥渃ontours of the country,鈥� as the writer Ernest Hemingway once said. Your speed is similar to that of someone on horseback. It was the way we experienced the world for centuries before the invention of the automobile. Maybe we鈥檝e lost something by moving so fast.
As the winter storm creeps in and the sky shifts from hazy into a mean-looking gray, we say our goodbyes. They ride towards Grand Teton National Park and I huff up the 9,600-foot Togwotee Pass, crossing the continental divide for the first time on this trip.
This is the spine of the continent. In the early years of America鈥檚 creation, it was viewed as insurmountable and the founding fathers believed there would be two Americas 鈥� a country on the eastern side of the Rockies and a country on the western side 鈥� which shared values but did not share a government. Ingenuity, railroads and waves of settlement that displaced the land鈥檚 first people put that belief into the grave. Now I can cross the divide on a two-lane highway with wide shoulders.
But as I鈥檓 beginning my descent, my bicycle wobbles. That鈥檚 strange. I stop, reach around and squeeze the back tire. It鈥檚 soft. I鈥檓 hoping the change in elevation messed with the tire pressure so I pump it up and continue cruising down. Fifteen minutes later, however, the tire is losing air again. Definitely a flat.
I鈥檓 about 25 miles from Dubois. The cold front is chasing my tail and I don鈥檛 want to be surrounded by snow, with freezing fingers, trying to fix the tire. I鈥檓 pretty good at fixing my bike but those kinds of jobs take time.
So I limp along, pausing to repump the tire every few miles. I鈥檓 lucky it鈥檚 a slow leak. The landscape shifts from alpine forests into red rock badlands as I finally pull into town. The wind is picking up and blowing dirt and sand across the street. I grab a room at a bear-themed motel just as the tire loses its form and goes flat.
As the storm is rolling in, I discover a small, sharp wire lodged in my tire. It鈥檚 a pretty easy job to switch out tubes and put the bicycle back together.
As I鈥檓 doing this, snow begins to fall on Dubois. By nightfall, summer has given up the ghost and winter has arrived. We lose power around midnight. I fall asleep hoping the room won鈥檛 get too cold.
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