T+70: We’ve Come this Far by Grace, Part 2

Mile 2180: MOORHEAD, MN

Note the bag on my handlebars

The amazing story continues….

Out the next day, we are really looking forward to leaving Montana and entering North Dakota.  We stop at the “Welcome to North Dakota Sign” and take pictures.  Leaving Montana feels like a victory.  It is such a big state, it is fully 1/7^th of our trip.  Passing motorcyclists stop, and offer to take pictures of us in front of the sign.  They tell us they are also going to Maine.  When we compare routes and suggest they go by way of Canada, they tell us they can’t go into Canada because they are carrying guns.  They must have seen the shock on our faces because they quickly add, “We are retired law enforcement, we always carry guns.”

We make it to the little town on Beach, ND, just over the border.  We have been riding on the freeway most of the day and make our way to the grain town about a mile and half away.  It has the inevitable grain elevator and railroad tracks, which we note are pretty rough.  We stop at a Mexican restaurant which is closing at 3pm on a Friday, because they can’t find any help. We will be there last customers of the day.

Wes wants to stay at the homegrown motel.  When we get there, there is a note to call a number for service.  The door to the office is wide open.  We call, and are told the manager won’t return until later that evening.  We should go look in Room 1 and if we like it, make ourselves at home.  Well, it is none too fancy, but has a pleasantly Ma and Pa Kettle vibe, so we decide to settle in.  A few hours later, Wes wants to go get a beer.  As I get ready to go, I cannot find my handlebar bag which has my purse, my phone, my little Veer phone, which I have been using as a camera.  We look high and low.  It is not in the room.

I must have left it at the restaurant.  Let’s go to the bar and see if they can help us locate the restaurant owners.  At the bar, they are very helpful.  We call the Cantina owners, who come open the building.  We look everywhere.  No bag.  Where could it be?   I go and get Wes from the Backyard Brewery.   I am really concerned now and want to completely retrace my steps.

On the way out of the bar, in the dark, we see a cyclist coming into town, pulling a BOB.  We note how late it is and how big a load he is carrying. 

Back at the room, we realize the last time we have memory of the bag is back at the Welcome to North Dakota Sign.  Even though it is pitch black, Wes decides he has to go look.  He enlists the aid of a fellow traveler named John, who takes him in his pickup truck up to the sign.  With flashlights, they look all around the sign to no avail.  At this bad news, I try using the search function on my Windows phone.  No luck.  It is time to face the inevitable.  The purse, credit cards, our current bike map, and worst of all, my phones with all contacts, trip journal, passwords, and photos is gone.   

I call to cancel all the cards and cannot sleep.  Wes is upset with me and can’t understand why I can’t sleep. All throughout the night and into the next morning, I am praying like crazy, especially to St. Anthony, the patron saint of all things lost.  (The child’s version of this I remember from my Catholic school days: “St. Anthony, St Anthony, please look around, my bag and phone must be found.  If God’s will and my good it shall be, then in your gratitude I’ll be bound.”

The next morning is mournful.  We retrace our steps one more time, fruitlessly.  I leave a message with the Sheriff, just in case anyone turns in the bag.  This is a big blow.   We push on, but definitely feel as though the air has gone out of the trip.

This becomes an actuality about 4 miles from Medora.  I cannot believe it, but I have another flat.  We pull off into the desert, fix the flat in the blazing sun, and resume our travels.  A mile down the road, the bike is flat again.  What the hell?  We pump it up.  This time, it won’t even take the air.  This is great.  We are 3 miles from Medora, my bike tire won’t even re-fill, I have lost my phone, photos, and wallet.  Are we having fun yet? 

We decide that Wes should cycle into Medora to get help. I should start walking my bike towards town.  I am gamely walking my wounded bike down the freeway.  There is a big section under construction and it is rough going.  I pick my way across shell of a bridge when I am joined by the heavily laden cyclist we saw the night before.  We talk about our travels, and I tell him of our string of bad luck.  He says, out of the blue, “Are you Shaun?  Are you traveling with Wes?  They found your bicycle bag.  It’s at the Backyard Brewery.  I was there last night when someone brought it in.”

This is great news, which I never would have received had not my bike tire flatted again.  His name is Wade and he is traveling from Portland to Portland.  He is carrying an epic load which weighs 200 pounds including his bike.  He has never heard of Adventure Cycling maps and has been making his way as he might.   After he cycles off, I muddle on toward town.  It is not long before Wes arrives, along with the savior Jennifer Morlock, again, to pick me up from the highway.   I tell them that the bag has been found and is at the Backyard Brewery.  Immediately Jennifer gets on the phone to her husband Loren at home, to see if he will go to the tavern and get my bag.  Even though it is out of his way by 20 miles, he readily agrees.  Back at Dakota Cyclery, Jennifer’s pregnant daughter and son-in-law go about restoring my bike while I go about tracking down the tale Wade has just told me.

There are two messages on Wes’ phone: one from Jackie Lindberg, the other from the Golden Valley Sheriff.  The first says she and her boyfriend found the bag, and to please call her.  The other says that the sheriff’s department now has the bag.  I immediately call both. 

Jackie tells me that her son and boyfriend spotted the bag near the railroad tracks as she was shopping in the grocery store in Beach.  Apparently, the bag bounced off my bike as we jounced over the rough tracks.  I still don’t know how I didn’t notice it.  My Windows phone is password protected, but my little Veer phone, is not.  She finds phone numbers and starts making calls.  One of them is to Wes’ cell phone, which he barely turns on. They look at the bike map and start following the route…all the way over to Medora and back!....looking for cyclists on the road.  They spot a bike at the Backyard Brewery and go in.  This is the bike of Wade, the cyclist we see coming into town, just after we have left the tavern.   They tell Wade if he sees us to let us know the bag has been found.  The next morning, they return to the bar and take the bag to the sheriff’s office.

We call the sheriff, but get an answering machine that says no one will be in the office until Monday.  It is Saturday. If we need immediate assistance, please call 911 or the state police network.  

All this is great news, but we have to pull Loren off from going to Beach and we have to find a way to get in touch with the Sheriff’s office.  While I try to round up the Sheriff, Wes goes back to Dakota Cyclery.  Too late.  Loren has already gone to Beach to no avail.  Drat! 

It is clear that this is going to take some time and that I am not leaving Medora without my bag.  We better get a room.  It is late on Saturday afternoon in a busy tourist town.  Most signs says “No Vacancy”.  We finally try the fanciest place in town, the Rough Riders Inn.  It is beautiful.  Our chances are slight.  While we are waiting, two dark haired women engage us.  “Would you like tickets to the Medora Musical and Pitchfork Fondue?....You can have them for free.  We bought six, but one of our group didn’t show up.”

I say, “We have had a string of bad luck, your kindness is a blessing, thank you so much.”  Their names are Terrie Romine and Ricki Woods, and they immediately take us to heart.  They give us hugs and hand us the tickets.  We are stunned by their generosity, but so befuddled at this point, we should have realized that a) we still didn’t have a place to stay b) a steak fondue is not the best choice for people who don’t eat red meat; and c) with all the losses we are facing, we may not be able to afford to buy second tickets.  But we don’t.  We just take the blessing as it comes, and somehow it turns the tide.

At the desk, Wes asks if there are rooms.  The desk clerk starts to tell us no, but is interrupted by a phone call.  She then announces, “I have just had a cancellation.  Do you want it?”  She names a pretty high price, but at this point, what else is the option?  The room is a little restored house, just around the corner.  When Wes and I open the door, we grab each other’s hands and practically leap for joy.  It is beautiful, full of real Mission furniture, actual paintings, hand-woven rugs.  The bathroom is huge and plush.  It is cool; there are real glass coffee cups and wine glasses.  How long has it been since we had such simple luxuries?

While I find a way to contact the Gold Valley Sheriff, Wes goes over to check on my bike repairs.  I call the State Police, who calls the dispatcher, who calls the sheriff, who calls the deputy, who calls me.  Just as Jackie Lindberg told me, I ask if he could deliver the bag to Medora.  Well, no, it is in a different county, but he guesses he could deliver it to the exit to Medora if we could meet him there.  He will call us when he leaves Beach in a little while.

While waiting for the call and Wes to come back, I read about the town and the park.  While it is true that Theodore Roosevelt had his life changed by his time hunting, traveling, and ranching in the Badlands of North Dakota, it is likely those few years would have been forgotten had not the North Dakota entrepreneur Harold Shafer (of Mr. Bubbles and Snowy Bleach fame) not thrown his effort and money into its restoration and promotion.  I compared it to the awful and inauthentic efforts in Winthrop, WA.

I get the call from the deputy, but Wes has not returned.  I wait and wonder what to do because he has the only key to our lodging and I still don’t have a bike.  It will take the deputy about 25 minutes to get from Beach.  At about 15 minutes out, I have to find Wes, whether or not I am locked out.    I go out the door, only to find Wes wheeling my newly restored bike to me.  I tell him of the deputy’s phone call.  He rushes back to get his bike and takes off, lickety-split.  I cannot keep up with him as he powers away on the bike trail.  Close to the highway exit, the bike trail veers away from the road.  I can no longer see Wes, and decide I better go to the highway to get the purse. 

I go up to the top of the exit the wrong way, (always a dodgy proposition).  There is no sign of Wes anywhere.  There is no sign of the deputy.  I wait, dutifully, for fifteen minutes, to no avail, then make my way back to town and hope I find Wes and can get back in the room.  I still don’t know if the bag has been recovered.   I knock on the door and Wes answers it with MY BAG! In hand.   He had zoomed up the bike path, and got to the bottom of the exit at the exact moment the deputy arrived.  The bag was handed over with the bag with the admonition, “Tell your wife she to keep better track of her things.”

I am over the moon.  I call Jackie to let her know the bag is back safe and sound and to thank her again for her kindness.  The little Veer phone, which I almost didn’t bring is now dubbed the “Dear Little Veer” because it saved the day.  We are in a celebratory mood.  We go and offer thanks for the incredible grace shown to us in this entire incident.  After these prayers in the oldest operating Catholic Church in North Dakota, we chance to have dinner with the lovely Hamburger family (a story for another day), then meet Terrie and Ricki at the amphitheatre on the top of the hill for the Medora Musical.

There is one last piece of grace to end this saga.  The theatre is up a high, steep hill with numerous switchbacks.  We ride our bikes part the way, then lock them to a stubbly little cottonwood before beginning the hard walk to the top.  Cars are groaning as they climb.  As we turn one switchback, a SUV stops.  Out pops Teddy Roosevelt, who offers us a ride to the show.  Actually it is Joe Wiegand, in full Teddy character and costume, on his way to promote his afternoon show to the teeming crowds on top.  When he finds out we are theatre people, he gives us his card and tells us where he would like to be booked in Michigan.

The view is incredible, the crowd is big, and show is silly.  But we are so relieved, so loved, so lucky.  A day before, our trip was nearly ruined.  Tonight, through the most improbable series of encounters and kindnesses, we are well fed, well housed, entertained, and restored.   Such grace, such grace.