When we woke up, Jeff and Gary had already packed up and vanished, probably putting in 10 miles before we had our teeth brushed. We broke camp and headed across the street to Sonic where we got deep fried french toast which was... frighteningly delicious. We then wound our way through the edges of town on a few bike paths before starting a gnarly steep climb that turned into gravel pretty early. We rose about 3,000 feet outside of town in 10ish miles and had many steep gravel sections that we had to grind up. At the top we sat under a tree and ate some cookies before crossing over the cattle guard that signified the next county. The descent was not very fun, sporting rutted red dirt roads that had unexpected obstacles. I almost slid out once and saw my life flash before my eyes as I bounced around a crazy rut that did not present itself until I was a foot away. Happy to be done with the climb but upset that our hard work had not paid off with a lovely descent, we entered a flat, wide open hilly field that went on for hours. It felt like we had been plopped into a Ohio simulator or something. We trundled around for a while before RVs and trailers started to pop up, spread around the land at regular intervals and increasing our feeling of being in a simulation.

We went up and down and up and down some very washboarded rolling hills all afternoon before hitting a highway and popping over half a mile to Hartsel. We had heard that the bar owners would let bikers camp in their back parking area and boy did everyone else get word of that as well. As we pulled up, we saw about 10 riders and their 10 tents crammed into the space between patrons’ cars, the propane tank, some decrepit picnic tables, and a portapotty. Ziven did not seem keen to stay there and, though I staked a claim for the last campable spot, the rest of the bikers, including Jeff and Gary, quickly recommended we check out the bike hostel nearby, which they said they would go to if they hadn't already pitched a tent. We went to get the deets on the hostel and met the owner, who made it clear that it was a chill place with “him and his hippy wife” with plenty of space and weed. We decided we would check it out (he told us it was right off the route…) and got food at the bar. It took a while to order from the bartender who was a grizzled woman that likely hated bikers. She refused to take our milkshake order, sending us to the other cash register in the next room over, which apparently was their ice cream store though the exact same menu and employees were there. We sat with Jeff and Gary for a while and chatted, drinking my butterscotch milkshake and eating my BLT. We then painfully got geared up again, said goodbye and went off in search of the “nearby” hostel.

Several downhill highway miles later, with cars passing us very closely at 80 mph, we turned off onto a bumpy gravel road, unclear of where we were going. The RV and trailer population was growing a bit more dense but everyone still had their allotted acre of buffer zone to protect prying eyes from whatever was going on inside. Another mile or so later, we pulled up at a property not unlike the rest of the white trash looking neighborhood and spoke with the owner again. We pitched a tent on the gravel pad and leaned our bikes against the fence. The property consisted of a few tent pads, one glamping tent already set up, a kitchen trailer, a bathroom composting toilet trailer, several old cars, and a trailer that presumably the owner, his wife, and their new baby lived in. The couple was quite kind and despite the weirdness of the situation we settled in and cooked, used their Starlink to watch TV, learned how an RV toilet worked, filled up on clean water, and enjoyed the quiet that the folks stuck behind the bar in Hartsel were not getting (later we were told there was some sort of meth/drug stuff going on in town and it was creepy and loud to sleep behind the bar). It wasn’t the fanciest of accommodations, but we slept quite well.