Day 22 landed us back where we started—with Lucy. We had breakfast together, thrifted, and poked our heads into an open house. Because we're always looking for that next good investment. Unfortunately, I think we missed that boat when we didn't buy a rental when our first child went to BYU back in 2009 and three more followed over the next 15 years.
When we said goodbye, there were no tears this time. Lucy has officially adjusted to college life. With our parental hearts warmed, we decided to squeeze in one last bike ride during the drive home: a 10-mile climb to Garnet ghost town. The numbers looked relatively innocent on paper—10 miles, 2,000 feet of climbing. Unfortunately, the last 3 miles the road turned into a rock-strewn goat path. I walked parts of it because I like my collarbone intact. However, I must give George kudos—he rode the whole thing. We did some quick math using our ride tracking data (when I say we, I mean George) and confirmed those three miles were a 7.2% grade. Then George tried to teach me how to find slope. As he learned, riding a 7.2% grade is waaaay more doable.
At mile 10, sweaty and triumphant, we expected to see the ghost town. Instead… nothing. Just more rocky, uphill misery stretching into the horizon. Apparently, the original road washed out years ago, and the “alternate” route—clearly marked with fresh, cheerful signs—adds an extra four miles. Meanwhile, the intro sign at the start of the ride still insists it’s only 10 miles. Thanks for nothing, Montana Department of Lies. With daylight fading and our legs wobbling like Jell-O, we did the smart thing: turned around before the ghosts could claim us.
The descent wasn't much easier than the ascent. I lowered my seat, stuck my butt off the back, and rode the brakes the entire way as I bounced over rocks. I didn't walk any of it. At the bottom my collarbone was still intact, but everything hurt--hands, elbows, wrists... Ghost town: 1. Us: 0.
Our grand plan was to make it home that night. But by 11 p.m., I was weaving on the road like a drunk raccoon, so we pulled off in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Only 2.5 hours from home, but too far when your eyelids weigh as much as your bike.
Day 23 was mercifully short: just a hop to home. When we rolled in, the trip odometer read 7,300 miles. And with that, our so-called “pre-trip trip” was complete. We celebrated by going to church, visiting with friends, and reminding ourselves that, unbelievably, the real trip hasn’t even started yet.
Every story has a soundtrack. In honor of Garnet ghost town, here's a song from one of my favorite artists, Benson Boone. Who I have met in person. While wearing a red binkini (a tankini really, but how does that add to the story).
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