The Interstate Trail System

Another hare-brained scheme

Enough about cars. I don’t want to write about them, I don’t want to hear about them, I don’t want to see them, I don’t want to ride in them. I just want to ride my bike.

Okay, so Bozeman’s covered in snow and it’s not the easiest thing to do. Ah, well. A few years back I drilled machine screws into my tires, creating studded snow tires for my bike. They worked well on the ice, but they added a good deal of rolling resistance overall. Nowadays I just say winter is for cars, the rest of the year is for bikes.

Bozeman, with its university and masses of adrenaline-dripping outdoor recreationists, never seems to have a shortage of bicyclists plying its streets, even in winter. I’ve even seen a few extra-hardy souls panting their way sixteen miles up Bridger Canyon, a snowboard strapped to their backs. Clearly, some people are insane.

But it’s not like that in other parts of the country. Most notably California, where it’s warm and sunny much of the year (not to mention pancake flat in the places I’ve been). Despite ideal conditions, riders are hard to find. Well, not too hard. They’re all on the bike paths.

I suppose it’s not unreasonable that bicyclists are afraid of riding on streets. The streets are designed for cars, not bikes, and when faced with timed stop lights and turn lanes at every intersection, cyclists are clearly at a disadvantage. Would you want your small children riding around on busy streets? Probably not. Many kids grow up not knowing how to ride in traffic, so never do.

Despite given a great deal of lip service to how everybody ought to ride bikes to work and school and everywhere else, with modern traffic systems it’s highly impractical and unsafe. “Oh, take the bike path,” they say… but where does the bike path go? Quite possibly not where you want to go. Most bike paths seem to be almost exclusively for recreation, and not for commuting. Although there’s been heightened awareness in recent years, rarely do bike paths link communities.

So what’s my hare-brained scheme? An interstate trail system, just for bikes and hikers. It’s based on the idea that there are people who’d be perfectly happy not driving anywhere, if only they could do it safely and conveniently.

My original inspiration for this was the Appalachian Trail, a hiking trail extending from Georgia to Maine. While it’s certainly possible to hike bits and pieces of the trail, every year a few hundred hike the entire distance. I’ve been on parts of this trail, and it’s not easy. Brutal comes to mind, especially considering the size packs people carry with them.

So at first I was just thinking along the lines of an easier A-Trail, one that you could take a mountain bike on — following along the foothills, perhaps, and traveling through the middle of towns when appropriate. Naturally I wanted my trail, which I dubbed the “Bee-Line” (as an acknowledgement of the A-Trail’s superiority, as well as “B” for “Bikes”), to go all the way from Key West to the border of Maine and Canada. Someone suggested using old railroad right-of-ways… which totally makes sense, as the Rails-to-Trails program is already well underway across the nation.

There’s two keys to the Bee-Line: The first is tentatively mapping a desired route, but having a de facto route using existing roads that can be used immediately. It could take decades to obtain rights to the land and build trails, but as long as alternatives exist and people use them, it’ll provide impetus to carrying out the plan.

The second is that dirt is okay. In Calfornia every bike path I ever set wheels on was paved. Why is this necessary? Bozeman has a huge bike/hike trail system that’s completely unpaved, and there doesn’t seem to be any protest at all. Most bikes have tires fat enough to be right at home on dirt. The exceptions are the fancy pants skinny-tired road bikes, but those things go too fast for bike paths, anyway. They’re more at home on streets and highways. Plus, part of this concept is the natural experience, and asphalt takes away from that.

I chose Key West as a starting point specifically because there’s an old road that runs alongside the current highway, which goes the entire length from the mainland to Key West. Originally build as the part of the Flagler railroad, the rails were converted to a highway after hurricane damage. The current road replaced it in the early 80s, but it’s still there. And a lot of it is now used for a bike path, but the old bridges are in pieces — literally, chunks of them are missing.

It would be no small expense to repair these bridges to be adequate for bike and pedestrian travel. But when I think about the Interstate Highway System and the amount of money we put into our automobile roads and bridges, it strikes me as a double standard. Don’t we want people to get around in ways other than cars?

Right now I’m seeing a lot of interest in bike paths and trails covering short distances — which is great. But long distance bike/hike trails could spawn an industry unto itself, perhaps even revitalizing depressed small towns that are on the route. Along with the Bee-Line, there could be routes crisscrossing the nation, just like the Interstate Highway System. That was a bold, monumental idea for its time; I don’t see why this should be thought of any differently.

A Hike in The Narrows

October 2006


For years I've been thinking about The Narrows, the slender cleft of the Virgin River in Utah's Zion National Park. It's supposed to be one of the nicest hikes in America... of course, it's not exactly a hiking on a trail as it is just wading through the waist-deep water of the river, sandstone cliffs towering over you on both sides.

And finally, it was going to happen! Susan and I had a road trip planned to Southern Utah for a friend's wedding, and Zion was only a couple of hours away. Everything was set. Sunday, October 15 would be the day.

Of course, on a trip like this, one should expect the unexpected. But rain in the desert? I mean, I know it rains in the desert from time to time. A little sprinkle here, a little sprinkle there. But in Escalante, where the wedding took place, it rained for three days straight -- hard, pouring rain. Definitely not the kind of conditions you want to be wending through a narrow slot canyon in. Drowning in a flash flood is not my idea of a good time.

The morning of the 15th looked just as dreary as the day before. Dejected, Susan and I took our time over breakfast, realizing we'd just have to do it another year. We decided to take in Bryce Canyon instead. But when we saw that canyon's pink and orange hoodoo towers, we saw something else, too: blue sky peeking through the clouds. We inquired at the visitor's center, and got a phone number for Zion's backcountry office. It wasn't raining at all in Zion! The ranger said the water temperature was 56 degrees and the river was flowing at 98 cubic feet per second. We had no idea what that meant. But other people were going for it, so we decided we'd go for it, too.

Of course, Zion wasn't as close as it looked on the map. Windy roads abounded, plus we decided to stop for lunch at perhaps the slowest restaurant in Southwestern Utah. On top of that, in order to alleviate traffic in Zion Canyon, the park has a mandatory shuttle bus service -- which worked great, but it didn't get us to the Temple of Sinawava trailhead any faster. It was 4 p.m. when we finally got to the river's edge. With the sun setting around 7, we wouldn't have time for much of a hike.

Susan and I hadn't come all this way for nothing. We had come prepared for action: shorts over thermal long johns, telescoping ski poles, and I had gone so far as to glue carpet remnents to our hiking shoes for better traction on the slippery rocks.

What? You've never glued carpet remnents to your hiking shoes? Okay, so it was new to me, too, but a guy in the fishing store in Bozeman said fishermen did it all the time. Well, some fishermen did it some of the time, anyway. It sounded like a cool project to me, so I went to the carpet store, got some nice brownish swatches of low-level wool, cut out the outline of our shoes, and glued them on with Barge cement. Did the people on the shuttle bus eye us strangely? You bet. But hey, I had read that walking in The Narrows was like walking on greased bowling balls. Looking a little dorky on the bus wasn't much of a trade-off if it meant our ankles would be spared.

We planned to do a "bottom-up" hike, wading upstream as far as we could get before turning around and heading back to the beginning (some hikers take a shuttle to Chamberlain's Ranch and do a 16-mile, one-way hike). As soon as we waded across the first stretch of the Virging River our big questions were answered. Is 56 degrees cold? Yes, but it's possible to walk from one little canyon bank to the next where you can warm up before the next plunge. Is 98 cubic feet per second swift? It is at certain river crossing points. After a couple of inelegant crossings we taught ourselves the best way: me taking both ski poles and taking the lead, with Susan holding on to me with both hands from behind.

The result was one of the most unique and exciting hiking experiences I've ever had. Wading up to your waist through a river may sound like hell, but it's a fully-involving event. You're wet. You're cold. The current is trying to push you down. Fun! Plus, the canyon is spectacular. You're hiking in a place only the most courageous dare to tread. Pockets of other stick-wielding, soaking wet hikers waded downstream as we waded up. No one was crying in agony; most of them even had smiles on.

We hiked a little ways past the junction of Orderville Canyon into the Virgin River. Not much of a distance -- we averaged about one mile an hour -- but hey, we're hiking upstream in a river, for crying out loud! We had a bite to eat before turning back. Downstream was noticeably easier traveling, and we had gained valuable greased bowling ball technique in our short experience.

Oh, yes. The shoe carpeting. It worked! Well, it sort of worked. The outer wooly layer of carpeting wore off in the water in the first half mile or so, but the base layer stuck on relatively well. It helped a little bit with traction -- I know, because my base layer eventually wore completely off one shoe but not the other, so I could compare. And, by the end of the hike only the faintest sheen of carpet base remained. A worthwhile experiment, but I can't say I recommend it. I don't know how the rangers would feel about huge clumps of carpet residue floating down the Virgin River. Until they make river shoes with built in carpet bottoms, I'd recommend just going without.