An Ode to the Wild West
Words by Ryan Hitzel | Photography by Dylan Gordon & Drew Smith
In partnership with Roark
It’s hard to imagine the American experience without the West. It doesn’t come without complications, but it remains something we still chase. We’ve been after it since the 1800s. Independence, romanticism, hardship, opportunity, and solitude all point West and come and go with the sun. Many of the inhabitants who still reside in the rugged, wide open spaces of the West bear the same wear and tear as the Tetons—stout, proven, majestic, and dare I say, weathered. An adventure here is almost the same as it was just over a hundred years ago, only we have replaced horses with motorcycles. Regardless of the steed you ride, it offers the same rewards and punishments as it did for generations before us.
With a global pandemic raging and international travel limited, the past year and a half has been one of a rekindled romance with America’s backyard. This inspired the crew from Roark to retrace a section of the Continental Divide through Yellowstone National Park up to a ranch in Montana’s Lewis & Clark National Forest on a ragtag pack of dual-sport bikes. Our ailing carburetors were the only thing attempting to keep us on the rails as we faced the onslaught of winter, COVID and the allure of the West pulling us forward. Our crew was made up of professional skateboarder Jamie Thomas; photographers and adventurers Jeff Johnson, Drew Smith, Jacob Gerhard and Dylan Gordon; motorcycle rider Austin Dixon; and myself, the person who wrangled this whole mess together. We’re a tight-knit group of guys who have traveled the world together many times, riding in various locales like India, Vietnam, Jamaica and Scotland.
You might be wondering why we’d plan a trip that began at Grant Visitor Center at the South entrance of Yellowstone? Or, why the federally mandated maximum speed limit of 45 mph and the no off-road riding law, or the generally motorcycle-unfriendly hawkish memorandum was enticing? Well, because we had to get from Jackson to Helena, and the Yellowstone stretch should be on your bucket list, as long as you tour by motorcycle in the fall. By this time of year, the tourists have cleared out and the lodges have all closed. Our mission for this stretch was to fly by Old Faithful, find some bison (not buffalo; those are in Southeast Asia), and not get into any trouble with the rangers along the way. Smooth tarmac roads and beautiful scenery guided us through the mostly empty park. This stretch was easygoing, but I had a feeling we’d pay the piper later on.
Shortly after reaching the Continental Divide, we arrived at Lamar Valley and found the bison we had been seeking. As we dismounted our bikes I could feel my body shaking from the dropping temperatures that were now dipping into the 40s. I had a feeling the challenges of this adventure would surface eventually, and it was only going to get colder from here. So, with our tails between our legs, we continued north toward Helena, Montana.
We made a few detours into small towns like Wilsall, Montana, where we stopped for a quick beer at The Bank, and stumbled onto a local country band covering Nirvana and crushing High Lifes. Jamie identified a handful of skate spots, too, which inevitably landed us in Livingston for a few days, tied down by weather and great people. These pitstops became mandatory—just to connect with the locals and a bit of serendipity, if it was afforded to us.
Our final destination was the 100-square-mile ranch that Drew Smith grew up on. His father was the foreman in the late ’90s, and the owners had graciously invited us back to lend a helping hand and rip around a bit. The ranch is 45 miles or so outside of Cascade, Montana—a town with a population of 712. It’s a diverse landscape that transitions from sprawling fields to rugged mountains, buttes, fish-filled lakes, and rolling hills. A little of everything. It hosts cattle and sheep, all reared with modern ranching and grazing techniques that limit environmental impact and boost organically raised credentials.
Each day began with some work. Drew, Dylan and Jacob all grew up on ranches, so naturally, they put in the time sorting sheep, dumping feed, and even rounding up cattle on horseback. They worked alongside the ranch hands and Drew’s childhood friend who now runs that ranch for the family full-time. No hard work ended without a reward: Local cider, suds, target practice, and an epic gluttony of ranch-raised steaks with the crew topped the list, aside from a few wide-open rides on our metal steeds.
The seasons transitioned from fall to winter in the blink of an eye with no regard for our agenda. On the third day we awoke to snowfall and with no work to do on the ranch after 2 p.m., we packed up some guns and headed out to a remote hunting shed 12 miles from our cabin. If you’ve ridden in snow with standard knobbies, it’s somewhere between sand and mud, but everything happens a lot faster. Controlled chaos ensued as we skated across the frozen landscape. But as luck would have it, we found the shed, and 15 minutes later, our tracks were fully erased. We were left alone with a pistol and a revolver, and I brought some cider and errant beers to shoot up. It’s amazing what a little freedom burns off a foggy mind.
The haul back was predictably sketchy as the gray light faded to black. The falling snow and sound of the bikes was a fitting sonnet to end our journey. The pandemic had certainly confined us all, and in some cases, pitted us against each other over our beliefs. Our trip along the Continental Divide highlighted the commonality we share in the search for freedom and concern for the good of our neighbors—a common creed in the Wild West. And, one that spoke to us in every small town, at every bar, and on every lonely ranch.
