Mile 2180: MOORHEAD, MN
After the difficulties, delays, and delights at the
borderlands between Montana and North Dakota, both Wes and I are worried about
time slipping by. We plan to leave our
lovely room in Medora around 6 am. We
climb out of the bottom of the badlands and travel about 12 miles to the
incredible view at the Painted Desert viewpoint, when we hear a
beep.beep.beeping of a car. We turn to
look and it is Terrie and Ricki, our original benefactors, coming to say
goodbye and wish us well. We exchange
numbers and emails and hugs. They drive
off and we press on.
The route has us riding Interstate 94, which is both fast
and kind of hateful. The shoulder is
very wide, but there is lots of debris. It is amazing what we see along the
sides of the road. More cans and bottles
that you can imagine. All manner of dead
animals, especially deer, raccoons, and countless birds. I have been keeping count of the number of single
shoes I see: 38 thus far. As we pass the
fields of corn, soybeans, and wheat, we are also crossing fields of
grasshoppers. Some seem suicidal,
jumping into our rolling wheels. We note
that grasshoppers are cannibals and can be seen eating the carcasses of their
brethren. There are clothes, and bags,
and innumerable cell phone bits.
At Dickinson, ND, a rapidly growing boomtown with a giant
plastic land on its outskirts, we hang out in various fast food joints while we
wait for the temperature to drop below 90 degrees. We agonize whether to stay on the interstate
or take the route through the farmland.
At around 5pm, with temperature still over 90 degrees, we come to a
crossroads. Do we stay on the somewhat
hateful but fast interstate, or do take the scenic backroads which are more
beautiful and interesting, but much more difficult. As the founders of a theatre dedicated to
the creation of new work, which do you think we take? The unofficial motto of Matrix Theatre
Company, as we jokingly say, is “We do
it the hard way.” You know we took the
scenic route, though we were tempted by the fast and ugly route.
We head out, over hill and dale. It is Sunday, and we did not pick up any food
in Dickinson, assuming we can stop in the little town of Taylor when we get
there. By the time we are ten miles out
of Taylor, we are out of energy. We
count the miles to the little town. When we get the town itself, everything is
closed. It is still another 15 miles to
the next stop, where we plan to stay.
Running on empty is a damn good way to lose weight. As we approach the little town of
Richardton, we see for miles a beautiful double spired granite church
building. It is a Benedictine Abbey,
tall and elegant against the evening sky.
It seems out of place in this land of corn and sunflowers. We find out later, much later, that the Abbey
takes guests. (We are jealous when we
hear this.) We get to Richardton on a wing and prayer and pull into the only
thing open in town: the local tavern.
The only food is frozen pizza, which tastes damn fine at this point in
the game.
When we pull up to our motel, we are happy to note that it
is next door to the Hamburger Butcher Shop.
It is not what you think. The
name of the family is Hamburger. We were
lucky enough to have dinner with them in a crowded restaurant back in
Medora. This was three generations of a
family who described themselves as German Russians. The wife’s family name was Gaab and they come
from land now considered part of the Ukraine.
Apparently, this part of North Dakota attracted many people from that
part of the world. There are four people
in this group, mother, daughter and husband, and their son, Truman
Hamburger. Truman is all of 9 years old,
bright and verbal well beyond his years.
He tells us of his entomology classes and his day being a bat boy for
the Minnesota Twins. He is fascinated by
our trip and asks more questions than his parents and grandmother would
like.
Right after we make our payment, we open the door and there
is Truman. He saw us ride by and came running out to greet us. He runs back to tell his parents, who stop by
and who treat us to coffee the next morning.
As luck would have it, both times the Hamburgers come to visit, I am in
the processing of changing clothes. Wes
has to do all the relationship building. We exchange emails and promise to be Truman’s
pen pal.
After Richardton, we cycle through ups and downs, mostly
facing a pretty stiff wind. We see an
outcropping of phragmites near a railroad crossing, the first view of this
invasive species we have seen since leaving Michigan. At the next restaurant, we warn the locals
about this bane of a giant reed, but they don’t have the slightest idea what we
are talking about. I still feel I should
write the North Dakota Department of Environment.
When we cross the freeway, both Wes and I decide we have had
it, and that expeditious and easy has its purposes. The ride on interstate 94 is tedious and
noisy. However, the long hills are
moderated and evened out for truck traffic.
North Dakota is an ocean frozen in time.
The waves rise to the west in north/south undulations. We pull up a big hill, scoot down the other
side, over and over.
It starts to rain.
Interstate bicycle riding is even less pleasant when being splashed by
giant eighteen wheelers. We are very
happy to stop at New Salem, where the most remarkable feature is a 30 foot tall
plastic dairy cow on a bluff. The room
is great; we have a nice visit with touring motorcyclists. 
The next day is an epic run through deep valleys in sharper
and sharper undulations as we enter the Missouri River valley. The river is massive at this point. The bike route takes us through a series of
parks, golf courses, and wetlands. We
are so happy to be in shade, real shade from real trees, the first in many,
many miles.
We have ridden 40 miles
before breakfast (truly lunch by that point), so we decide to stay, despite the
relatively short distance covered. We need to do some re-supplying. We visit the local mall (a complete shock); I
get new shoes. We get a room at one of
Bismarck’s landmark motels, The Ramkota.
This is a big fancy motel, circa 1968.
We enjoyed our stay immensely and wondered if it was being outcompeted
by the plastic-land motels and suites that have grown up around it.
The next day is one of the most difficult of the bicycle
trip. It is HOT. We leave Bismarck early and have fun for the
first few hours. The landscape is
challenging and there are few services.
There will not be a place to get anything until the little town of
Hazelton, some 45 miles from Bismarck.
When we turn on to highway 89, also known as the Lawrence Welk highway,
the sun is blazing, we have drunk most of our water and we still have 12 miles
to go. We going south, facing directly into the sun and hot wind. I can barely
go and Wes is getting further and further ahead of me. At one point, he looks back and cannot even
see me. He circles back to see me
struggling along the highway, plugging away, but moving slowly. It is tough going, but what is the
choice? All we can do is plug away.
We have dreams of a sandwich and cold drink dancing in our
heads. We make it to town completely
beat and find out Little’s Joe restaurant is closed. At the grocery store, we drink several juices
and eat ice cream and are thrilled to find out they make smoothies. (They make
the best orange crème smoothies in the world.) All sorts of people come over and check on
us. They ask about our trip, but really,
I think they are worried about the two red-faced and sweaty bicyclists in their
midst.
I am done in. I feel
dizzy and need to lay down. I go outside to rest on a bench. A paunchy fellow with shorts pulled up well
over his capacious belly comes and sits by me.
He is a retired earth science teacher. He tells us that North Dakota is quite
anomalous, both geographically and hydrologically. For one thing, much of this state’s water
drains, not to the Mississippi, but to Hudson Bay. When we leave the high perch that is
Hazelton, we leave the Missouri River drainage.
We will come across an ever increasing number of ponds, pools, and small
lakes, many of which are not fed by surface water. In fact, Devil’s Lake, in north central North
Dakota, is completely fed by underground waters and even so, has risen several
feet in the past few years. The town is
now below the surface of the lake, which is held back by dykes. North Dakota, by rainfall alone, should be a
desert, unable to grow wheat, much less corn and soybeans. However, it sits on a layer of clay which
holds the water and which is fed by underground waters. This is what makes the miles and miles of
cropland possible…and why North Dakota is so much more lush and green than
South Dakota.
He tells us that the Bakken Field, the source of the huge
boom on the west side of the state, has enough oil for 75 years and when that
is done, they have discovered another pool of oil beneath that one. He has no patience for wind or solar energy. When we point out that this would be prime
territory for both, he laughs and asks, “And what good would that do me in the
middle of winter, eh? Without batteries,
the whole thing won’t work.” About that
time, an elderly neighbor interrupts our conversation and requests his
assistance to back up her car. Even
though we have learned a lot, we are relieved when he goes to help her.
To Be Continued…
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