From Bozeman to Chase – Curves, Kindness, and One Fierce Storm
By the time I left Bozeman, the road had become more than a path—it had become a partner. Each mile was a prayer. Each curve, a conversation. My body and bike were moving in harmony, and the joy that had quietly crept in somewhere back in Montana was now fully rooted. I wore it like a second skin. A permanent smile glued to my face.
As I climbed into the mountain pass, something shifted.
I had never ridden curves like these before.
Minnesota roads are wide and flat, with only the occasional soft bend around a lake. You can usually see the other side of the curve before you even enter it. But this? This was mountain riding. The kind of winding, blind-corner terrain where posted interstate speeds of 80 mph drop suddenly to 45. Runaway truck ramps stood as reminders of what could go wrong. But my beast and I—we handled it.
With grace. With ease. With something that felt like sacred trust between machine and rider. And when I reached the other side, a wave of quiet accomplishment washed over me—like I had earned something, even if just for myself.
I had been warned about Spokane.
People told me for years it was too dangerous to ride out west. Too much traffic. Too many risks. But I’ve come to understand—those were their fears. Not mine.
I rode through Spokane without a hitch. It was easy. Flowing.
And on the other side, I passed through Deer Park—thinking of my cousin who lives there. I made a mental note to stop there on my way home. But right now, I had a mission.
Get to Chase.
I made it to Kettle Falls, Washington that evening and stopped for the night. Supper was at a small place called TJ’s—ironically, or maybe cosmically, those are the initials of my two sisters and my brother. Thanks, Universe.
The servers were kind. One asked about my ride and gently laid his hand on my shoulder at the end of our chat—almost like a hug, but softer. One of those gestures that says, “I see you.”
The next morning, as I fueled up to ride, a man with kind eyes struck up conversation. He asked where I was headed and, with genuine concern, offered me his number just in case. He warned the road ahead was rough going. I thanked him and tucked his kindness away like another roadside gift.
And then I rode—through logging roads lined with views that took my breath away. I crossed the border into Canada and stopped in Midway, where another local offered tips on the best route north. Salmon Arm, he said. That’s your way through.
So I listened. Again—kindness guiding the way.
But as I reached Salmon Arm, Mother Nature decided to test my resolve.
The skies darkened. Winds howled. Tree branches snapped and fell onto the road in front of me. The rain came sideways—angry and fast. If there’s such a thing as a land hurricane, I rode through one.
My helmet is open-faced, and I ducked behind my windshield, leaning into the gusts. Dirt pelted my cheeks like tiny stones. It was a battle, and every part of me screamed to stop. But Chase was less than an hour away.
And I’m nothing if not stubborn.
As if sensing my determination, the storm began to ease.
The rain softened to a drizzle. The wind calmed.
I arrived at Little Bit North Ranch at exactly 4:02 p.m.—class had started at 4:00.
I parked my bike, peeled off my soaked layers, and walked inside.
Drenched. Grinning. On time.
I had made it.
Not just to class. But through the wild, the warnings, the what-ifs, and the storm.
And somewhere beneath the road grit and exhaustion, that smile remained. Because I knew—I hadn’t just reached a destination.
I had crossed a threshold.