Article and photos by Jessica Plance 

Montana spring is full of migrations and annual rituals. Cedar waxwings fly north; bears shake off their winter slumber, and us? We bike the Beartooth Pass. It’s a tradition that feels like summoning summer. As we climb, we trade the warmth of the valley for thinner air and lingering snowbanks. When we finally reach our limit, we turn on our heels and let gravity carry us back down, the air growing softer and warmer as we roll into a Red Lodge spring.  

There is a brief window in May when the pass begins to thaw and plows run, during which the pass is open to cyclists but still closed to cars. In the weeks leading up to Memorial Weekend, you will find cyclists and walkers alike taking in the sights of the Beartooth Highway without the traffic and the usual hum of the summer crowds. This allows for a better chance of witnessing moose foraging on your way in, marmots barking from the tops of boulders, and the sound of melting ice flowing through the mountainside. It’s a real pick-your-own-adventure experience. Some bikers start from town, and others start where the road is gated off to cars; we prefer the latter.  

We’re never alone up there. There’s always someone hiking in trail runners, someone towing kids bundled in blankets, or someone pedaling uphill with skis strapped awkwardly to their frame in hopes of stealing a few spring turns. Strangers hype each other up as they pass. Everyone understands that this window is fleeting. 

Depending on the snowpack, reaching the Wyoming border means gaining more than 2,500 feet over ten-plus miles. The beauty of it is simple: go as far as you like. When your legs give out, or the wind picks up, you turn around and coast all the way back down. Bring gloves, warm layers, double-check your brakes, and you’re in for the best kind of day. The kind of day that ends with a burger, debriefing with your companions with wind-swept hair, happy, glazed-over eyes, and tired legs.  

The ride is a bucket-list item for many. In my first year in Montana, a friend showed me a photo of her bike propped against the sweeping peaks of the Beartooths. I couldn’t believe something that wild was only a day’s drive from Billings. The next day, I walked into The Spoke Shop, bought my first bike in ten years, and convinced two friends to tackle the pass with me. They had a far more realistic sense of what the ride would demand. I, on the other hand, decided it was perfectly reasonable to buy a child carrier for my new bike with the intention of towing my dog to 10,947 feet.  

With plenty of pull-offs along the way, we made our way up turn by turn, switchback after switchback. I had never even driven up Beartooth Pass before that day, but my wheels kept turning, slowly but surely, bringing us closer to the top. Ten miles in, I remember thinking the views couldn’t possibly get any better than they already were, but my companions urged me on: just a little bit farther. When you finally reach the top, the perspective shifts. There’s something you experience on a bike that you could never get from a car. It’s not just the sound of tires gripping the ice-melt pavement or the ear-to-ear grins from your friends as you make the final push. It’s the feeling of being closer to the sun, exposed to the elements on all sides, and the way every other thought leaves your mind in that moment. 

That first trip, as wildly underinformed as I was, hooked me for good. There was something about the effort, the thin air, and the long descent home that felt like a rite of passage. Since that trip, we make a point to go every year. Sometimes with other friends and coworkers, sometimes with partners and family, but always with the shared anticipation of what the summer will bring. The climb to the top after the long winter is not only a humbling physical reminder that hiking season is upon us, but also that, like the ascent, winter comes to an end, and we all make it to the other side.  

We’re not serious cyclists. We ride whatever bikes we have on hand, stuff garbage bags over our toes as makeshift wind blocks, and don’t always make it to the summit. But the reward of the downhill never disappoints. It’s less about conquering the pass and more about stepping outside to enjoy our backyard and to welcome, in our own small way, the return of summer. 

Originally printed in the May 2026 issue of Simply Local Magazine

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