On Monday, July 18th, I started afresh, hoping to put in a lot of miles. Zooming down a grade on my way to West Thumb, I hit a barricade dead on. It was one of those A-frame folders, weighted down with sandbags. I smashed into it at considerable speed, and in fact, bounced back about five feet. Incredibly, I didn’t fall off the bike. My front wheel was still true. The only thing that had happened was the frame of my bike was bent so that the front wheel was closer to the down tube. I had always wanted a shorter wheel base, anyway.

Upon closer examination, I saw that the barricade had been put there to warn motorists of a small pothole there, about the size of a pot pie. That was my first incident on the road.

As I left Yellowstone, I noticed a fire. My journal recorded, “1724. Saw what looked like a forest fire on the far side of Lewis Lake.” This later developed into the great fire of 1988.

My stop that night was Flagg Ranch, just outside the park border. It was undoubtedly the worst park I’d ever stayed in. I suppose that I had no grounds for complaint. They were technically full, but offered to take me on “overflow.” Translated, this meant that I paid the regular price of over ten dollars to pitch my tent in a parched area next to the sign, without a picnic table, campfire, or water of my own. They even beat KOA for worst deal.

The showers were fun. Since the campground was so full, the toilets were flushing almost constantly as I was showering. As a result, the water was too scalding to bear, even on maximum cold. I couldn’t even reach under the water to turn it off — it was that hot. Then, the toilets stopped flushing. All of a sudden, the water turned glacial. Everybody in the showers was constantly screaming.

Since I had no picnic table, I went over to ask my neighbors if I could share their table. Jerry and Liz were a wonderful young couple from Nebraska. I enjoyed their company for dinner. They were friendly, simple folks, who heated their beef stew right in the can over the fire.